#If I DO end up blocking anyone by mistake I'll say something

[lady-zephyrine]

Almost blocked a mutual and had a mini heart attack.

[korkorali]

I think the worst bit for me about all Those Sorts (you know the type) of fics is that they always take Della extremely out of character in order to make her the 'antagonist.'

And that sucks because it's just not necessary! It's the worst because you can have Della & Louie angst where Della's the 'antagonist,' and it's in-character.

You just have to have Louie be wrong in the end (kind of).

The reason why Della and Louie clash in Timephoon and Glomtales! isn't because Della 'disapproves of scheming in entirety' or something, it's because she's done the same goddamn thing as him.

(And side note- Timephoon is honestly an amazing piece of storytelling, because it allows us to see Della's thought process for taking the Spear of Selene by showing us Louie doing pretty much the same thing.)

She's been through it all before, and she knows how it ends.

And that fucking terrifies her! The idea that one of her kids is making the same mistakes as her, could go through the same thing as she did, and she's the only one who can see it, is terrifying.

The way to start out a story like this is simple; have an adventure go wrong. Not in a deadly way, not in a way that's caused by Louie (at least, not that anyone but him notices), not in a way that costs anyone their life- but in a way that causes them to lose the treasure. The adventure is a failure, and they have to come back empty handed, like New Gods on the Block.

Maybe some people get hurt, maybe it's vaguely Louie's fault (and even then- it'd be better if it wasn't even his fault, it's just his brain connecting patterns where there aren't any), but the most important part is that they don't get the treasure, and it's like- one of those ones that can only be found once every hundred years or something.

Louie feels responsible (I mean all of the kids do, but as it'd be a Louie story he'd be the one focused on) and upset that they want to all that trouble and don't have anything to show for it, so he tries to figure out some way to go on the adventure again.

Turns out, after a bit of research, there is a way to get to the treasure again! Louie brings it to Scrooge's attention excitedly- but Scrooge turns it down. Says it's too dangerous, that they're not doing it, end of story.

...Not end of story- everyone's still obviously miserable. So Louie decides that 'okay, if it's 'too dangerous,' then I'll just go in secret. It'll be fine, Scrooge is just overreacting.'

So he starts trying to put a plan into place to get the treasure in secret- but Della, somehow, seems to know what he's doing (hint: it's because she knows what she'd do if she was in Louie's shoes). And is consistently getting in his way.

And there you go- a perfect setup to have Della consistently and purposefully stepping on Louie's toes, getting in his way, trying to stop him from doing things, and it's even in-character! It'd probably start out with the two acting like everything's perfectly hunky-dory, even though both of them know that the other knows that they know that the other knows why they did this one thing.

As plans get deeper, it'd escalate to Della trying to actively call Louie out, but he always manages to just barely weasel his way out of it, and eventually commence his plan.

It obviously goes wrong. But Della's there to help. And finally she'd actually explain why the fuck she's been something of a thorn in his side for the past few weeks, why it seems like she knows what he's thinking: because she does.

Because she's been through the same thing.

Because she fucked up, and left her stranded on the moon for ten years, and she does not want that for her kid. (And of course everything could've been solved if she'd just sat down and talked to Louie about that at the onset, but it's Della- she only likes to bring up the moon when it's funny. She would've thought 'nah it's fine, I can handle this, I don't need to bare my soul, I shouldn't burden anyone with that' without realizing that oh yeah, no, that's the exact same thought process she doesn't want Louie to think)

And of course they'd argue, because it'd be a high-stress situation and neither of them would have the composure to pretend that everything's alright and they haven't been sniping at each other for the past week or so, and eventually it'd finally come up; eventually, they'd finally bring up that they thought the exact same thing when Louie did this, when Louie took the Timetub, when Della took the Spear.

'...And if anything goes wrong, at least I'm the only one who'll get hurt.' (Because you cannot tell me that that was not the last thought running through both of their heads when they took the timetub/Spear of Selene, you cannot convince me that they didn't think they were doing right by their families in that moment, that they hadn't done their due diligence and minimized risk down to one person.)

And Louie wouldn't understand, because he did the right thing. He minimized risk, he made sure nobody else would get hurt. But that's wrong- because if he got hurt, then Della (Donald, Scrooge, their family, her kids) would get hurt too. That they could fly into a vacuum all they wanted, but at the end of the day, they still didn't exist in one.

Eventually, they'd get out of there and abandon the mission again. Maybe they'd succeed, but probably not. But that's not important- what'd be important is that they were both safe and alive and okay.

There- a Della & Louie thing, extremely angsty, well Della as the 'antagonist,' and it's all in-character. Easy.

[who-do-i-know-this-man]

I made a mistake. Several actually. Several very severe mistakes. And this post isn't meant to make it all ok, I have accepted that many are rightfully mad at me, but I do hope that I can at least have some context to the mistakes I made and why I made them.

First let me say that I am privileged. That much is true. I am a white man in the american suburbs. I have the luxury of not only not being personally affected by many social issues but not even having to witness them. But I still want to be a good person. And part of that is learning about these social issues by talking and interacting with people online. But I'm still not perfect. I'm barely an adult and I have a lot of growing to do as a person. And hopefully with this in mind it will make some of the mistakes I will go over just a bit more understandable.

Back in mid march I made the submissions post for this blog, and did not expect to get as many as I did. I then spent a month taking as many submissions as I could and putting them in a list. All in all I ended up with over 2000 characters. From that alone it should be understandable why I couldn't research every one before releasing the bracket. I even ended up with many mistakes like incorrect labeling and duplicate characters.

However the first true mistake came later. I was making the poll posts themselves and I got to Lance. I knew I should have done something at the time but I didn't exactly know what. It was one poll and I was doing 16 polls per day minimum, but ideally double that so that I could have a backlog of posts. So I didn't spend as much time thinking about the issue as I should have and the conclusion I came to was that at the end of the day it was a fictional character, and if I properly content warning it it will be fine. Anyone who is sensitive to that imagery can block it. This is largely where my ignorance came in. While it may sound improbable to those who do know more I promise you I genuinely thought that I was doing no harm. And while I won't lie and say I am now a master in the topic now I do have a better understanding of the harm that this decision caused. Additionally my pride got to me. I am very proud of having "the biggest bracket on tumblr" but I had already had quite a few be disqualified for being duplicates or real people, so I didn't want to make the bracket any smaller and lose prestige. This was far from the main reason I kept him in, but it was morally wrong.

People's response to the original poll was mixed. There were people who immediately asked me to remove him, but others were on my side in saying that he should stay since he's a fictional character and his morals don't matter. So I defaulted to the stance I already had, and did nothing. This was a mistake. Above all else I should have prioritized everyone feeling safe and comfortable on my blog.

But the last night it was about an hour later then I should have been asleep and my brain was incredibly stupid, and things started to go down hill. I got the first ask in a while about Lance, and I decided to put an end to the issue. My way of doing this was doing a poll. In my mind this was my way of accounting for my ignorance. I don't know much about how severe this issue is, so I'll put it in the hands of people who did.

This poll also got mixed results. Some said I should just have the conviction to eliminate him myself, but others brought up things about that character I didn't know, like how he apparently has a character arc of learning fascism is bad, or that he has other visuals where he's wearing different outfits. I also got messages from fans of the series who thanked me for giving the character a chance. This made me feel comfortable in being a "neutral party". However with the notes I felt that I should "do this right" which unfortunately led to me doing the exact opposite.

I deleted the original poll, where 70% were in favor of disqualifying him. I didn't think it was a big deal since it had only been up a few minutes, but this was yet another mistake. I made a new poll, which included info that had been told to me since the previous poll. But the problem was that what I had actually written was not good. It was almost midnight at this point, so while I tried to remain a "neutral party" I ended up having the info show a very clear bias. And considering the character in question, people began to wonder why I was trying so hard to keep him in the poll. This led to many replies on the poll that began to overwhelm me. I was starting to realize the mistakes I had made and just how deep of a pit I had dug myself in. I panicked. I turned off replies and deleted all the ones on that were on the poll so that I could say everything I wanted to say interrupted. This backfired, and led to people going to the reblogs instead. And me deleting all the replies looked BAD. While I was trying to get the things I wanted to say out the post had spread. Spread even outside of the people who normally know this account. People who knew nothing of the history and structure of this blog, who thought that I had seen a character who was a Nazi and thought "sure come right in" and I was now trying desperately to keep him in.

This understandably made people very mad when that was their perception. Many many people were saying terrible hurtful things to me. Their heart was in the right place but even now I do not agree with the kind of harassment some stooped to. At this point I was in a full blown panic attack. Every bit of damage control dug me deeper into the pit. I decided that I needed to deal with this situation with a clear head so that I didn't make more mistakes in a panic. I deleted the poll about Lance's elimination and went to bed.

That brings us to this morning. I have announced that Lance is disqualified, and deleted the original poll containing him. I promise you all that I will try my hardest to prevent anything like this from happening again on my blog. I want to make things as right as I can. And I hope now you all will believe me when I say that I am not a Nazi, or an antisemite, I'm just a privileged idiot who made some dumb mistakes.

[halcyonnhood]

We Should Stick Together

Summary:

Kate spins around in her chair, meeting his mischievous expression with her own confusion, “Why are you still here?”

“For you,” He says. It's said so casually as if she should've known the answer.

Or Kate tries to face the traumas from her past and Javi keeps showing up. She accepts that he might be the missing puzzle piece to her story.

Pairing: Kate Carter/Javier "Javi" Rivera

Word Count: 2.7k

Rating: General

A/N: Just some little pre-canon and pre-slash angst. There will be another part about their hospital stay and injuries and all.

It's a little rushed at the end, but it also feels like a good point if I wanna do anything set after this part.

It's my first Twisters fic so please be kind, I have some ot3 (Kate/tyler/Javi) that i'll be working on soon too!

Cross posted on AO3: Here

“Kate, take me back to the morning after the tornado,”

Kate's eyes flutter back and forth under her shut eyelids. She subconsciously takes a deeper breath in, the feeling of the warm humid air seemingly sticking to her skin. It’s brighter out. The skies aren’t blue, the sun is still rising and there’s slight cloud coverage, nothing dangerous or concerning to be found. It’s just enough to make the environment feel and look hazy. Everywhere she looks is demolished, debris scattered as far as the eye can see. The road she had traveled with Jeb, Abby, and Praveen had been barren, spare a barn and a handful of signs that had been farther away from the underpass. She can’t seem to visualize if this is the same road they had started on or not. 

She raises a weak hand up to her pounding head. Her forehead is sticky and warm, her matted hair glued to her skin. When she brings the hand back down to eye level, it’s covered in deep darkened blood. Was it from her? Or was it from Jeb? Or when the sign impacted Abby, did the torrential winds splatter her blood back onto her and Jeb? She wipes it onto her shorts in a panicked huff, ignoring the sharp ache in her thigh. She already made the mistake of looking down into the deep wound when she woke up against the asphalt. She doesn’t know that her stomach can handle that sight again. 

“Kate?” A voice calls out to her, “Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” Kate responds. The voice doesn’t come from her, it feels as if it floats around her. 

“What do you see?”

She hears it before her eyes are able to focus on it. The sound of rocks and branches crunching beneath the tires as a car slowly approaches. It feels like all of the adrenaline melts out of her body. 

“It’s-It’s a car,”

“Who’s car is it?” 

“I’m not sure,” She sounds unsure of herself. When the car parks, blue and red lights flicker on. She sighs in relief, “It’s an officer”

“Is there anyone else with them?” 

Kate's deep brown eyes meet a pair of warm hazel eyes.

Kate's eyes fly open and she sits up unsteadily on the cream colored couch. The therapist looks at her with a calm and cool expression, despite her client's alarmed state.

“Kate, remember our deep breathing,” The therapist instructs. 

In, in, in, out, out, out. After a few moments, her heart rate settles back into comfortable ranges. 

“Kate, it seems as though we've hit a pretty strong mental block. We get through the tornado and the death of your friends, but something in your physical healing period seems to be triggering you. PTSD can be fickle, but I think we can get through this and find the memories,”

At that moment, Kate decides that she doesn't want to find the missing pieces anymore. She knows that's why she started therapy, specifically with this type of therapist. To find the chunk of memories that seemed to be wiped clean off of the slate. She only finds herself angry after each session. She rehashes the events before the tornado, lives through the terror and death over and over, but hardly knows anything about her recovery. This session was the first one that uncovered something new and all she found was hazel eyes.

It was enough. She has enough nightmares without reliving it through the full screen of her brain while awake too. 

So, she leaves. She leaves the therapist's office without a word, stops to get coffee at her favorite little shop, and heads to work.

The world keeps spinning. 

______________

She lost a shoe. She wore tennis shoes and tied the laces tightly around her ankles like she does for every storm chase. Still, one is missing. It feels silly to notice, especially when her friends were likely eviscerated. But as she steps on branches, glass, metal-it becomes hard to ignore with the stinging pain. 

When she hears the car approaching, the 

cracks of wood snapping and gravel kicking up, she stares with squinted eyes. She shifts her weight onto her uninjured leg, despite the feeling of rocks and glass shards slicing into the bottom of her foot. A door opens and slams shut, much faster than the second one echoing after it. She blinks in the early morning haze, confused and dazed. 

No one approaches her too closely. Feet apart, she meets a pair of misty hazel eyes. They're warm and familiar. The splattered freckles across honey shaded cheeks are a constellation of love. 

Javi. Javi is standing right in front of her, unscathed and breathing freely. He's alive. He's safe. Hes alive. The storm didn't take him away from her.

“Javier,” Kate's hoarse voice whispers. Even getting a breath of his name out feels like it takes every last wisp of her energy.

She doesn't miss the strong, stable arms catching her weakening body before everything fades to black. 

___________

Kate wakes with a start. She's alone in her own bed, surrounded by the safe beige walls of her apartment and the bustling hum of new york city. Nightmares aren't unusual for her, but she never dreams of the aftermath. She never dreams about Javi unless it's the sound of his floating voice screaming through the CB radio as they abandon the car. The whole dream rubs her in the wrong way and leaves a sour taste in her mouth and a sullen mood in its wake.

She washes the leftover soured fear down with bitter dark cold brew coffee and an exceptionally dry scone at work. It's usually easy to avoid the constant dreams and reminders when she's focused on keeping all of her brain power on the work at hand. She's tracking storms through Indiana and into Ohio, while taking notes about how unusually active their tornado season has been. She clicks her pen in annoyance, unsure if she should issue a warning or hold off. 

As new radar scans and developments load onto her screen, her mind circles back to the dream. Lesser so about the dream, but more so the person that appeared in it. Javi. She thinks about him often, she misses him. And when he showed up randomly in the meeting room of the NOAA office a week ago, she felt the world stop turning on its axis. Everything she had run away from five years ago stood right in front of her. She wonders if that's what triggered the dreams. Maybe in the rush of adrenaline and shock, her body confused thoughts of him with actual memories. She thinks that might be the case. 

“I would issue a warning for that one,”

There it is again. The feeling of the world screeching to a dead silent halt. Now, Kate wonders if simply thinking about Javi can make him appear out of thin air. Because here he is again, heavy hand on the back of her computer chair and finger wagging obnoxiously at a storm cell on her screen. 

“That cell weakened,” Kate says.

“The vertical wind shear says otherwise,” Javi argues. She ignores the huff of a muffled laugh while she issues a warning for the area. 

Kate spins around in her chair, meeting his mischievous expression with her own confusion, “Why are you still here?” 

“For you,” He says. It's said so casually as if she should've known the answer. 

 “I told you no,”

“I know that, I actually wanted to apologize for the way I went about asking you to join me. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have put pressure on you to do something that would hurt you,” 

“It's okay. Y’know, it's just a lot and it isn't you, I just-” She trails off. It's so hard to put her thoughts into words. 

“I wanted to spend time with you, that's why I stayed. No pressure, no feeling guilty if you reject the offer. I know you left for a reason, I did too. But I want you to know that there's still a line open here,” He explains. 

The words tumble out of Kate's mouth like a sigh of relief, “I'd love that,” 

“Yeah?” 

“You go explore the city. I'll call you when I'm off and we'll go out for dinner,” She grins.

Javi parts with a hug and she feels lighter inside. All of the despair and dread melts from her bones and she floats through the day. The promise to see him at the end of her day seems to bring color back to her lackluster life. 

It's brighter with him in it, especially when he's smiling softly at her between clinking wine glasses. She can't tell if the warmth soothing her soul is just the red wine or Javi fixing the cracks within her heart. She'd like to stay believing that it's simply the wine speaking. 

The honeyed freckled skin and warm hazel eyes seem to say otherwise. 

_____________

Kate invited Javi to sleep on her couch for the rest of his trip. It was the kind thing to do, despite living in one of the largest cities of the country, she still holds onto her southern hospitality. It's worked out well so far, in fact, she's enjoyed it much more than she had expected to.

They camped out in the living room together the first night, surrounded by snacks and his cool military gadgets and data. The warm buzz from the bottles of wine left them talkative and giggly into the wee hours of the morning. They finally fell asleep, legs intertwined and Kate still holding onto one of his text books. She overslept for work, but woke up well rested and nightmare free. She hadn't felt that relaxed in years. It was as if she had finally found a wonder drug to alleviate all of her tight wound terrors. 

The restful sleep followed her for the next few nights, even though they had slept in separate rooms and gave each other privacy at night. It was confusing at first, but Kate chalked it up to finally having a familiar safe person near her again. It makes sense that her body would fall out of its constant flight or fight mode. 

Tonight is no different. They cook dinner together and binge watch Yellowstone while whispering about nonsensical show theories. They finish the first season before deciding to call it a night and she retreats to her bedroom for some solitude. She falls asleep easily, just like every other night.

Until she's gasping for air and trying to scratch at the hands gripping her shoulders tightly. The wind howling in her ears and the shrill scream piercing her soul comes to a screeching halt. The pressure of the hands anchor her to the bed, just what she needs when she feels as if she's reeling. They bring her back to reality gently. 

“Kate,” Javi’s voice comes into focus. 

“Javi,” She whispers. She grasps onto his hand softer this time, her thumbs rubbing against his reddened skin. She doesn't miss the way he scans her face with concern, as if he's dealing with something delicate.

“You're okay. You're in your apartment with me. It'll be okay,” 

“I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to wake you, ”

Javi relaxes against her bed and their hands fall into his lap, “Don't worry about it. Are you okay?” 

“I'll be fine,” She murmurs, “Can you just stay here for the rest of the night?” 

“Of course I can,” 

Javi doesn't push her, doesn't question her. He just sits with her quietly, then falls asleep on top of her bed quilt while running a soothing hand through her hair.

_____________

It's the last day of Javi’s trip. He tells her repeatedly that he would push it off if he could, but with the strength in the storms being projected, he simply couldn't ignore it. 

“We should talk about the other night,” Javi says cooly. He's folding his clothes to pack tightly into his suitcase and she's folding a basket of clean laundry. She enjoys having someone to do humdrum tasks with her 

“I'm sorry about that. That happens sometimes, it isn't that big of a deal,”

“Kate,” He murmurs, “You were screaming,”

“It was a dream, Javi. That's it,” 

His head ducks a bit and he avoids the frantic ‘shut up’ look she's giving him, “You were screaming my name,”

“Javi, drop it. Please,” 

“I can't leave you alone like this,” Javi pleads. He silently pleads for her to show that she'll be okay.

“You didn't hesitate last time,” Kate bites back. 

She hates the venom that seeps through her mouth with the statement. It's hateful and she knows it. His eyebrows shoot up in confusion and then melting into an expression of hurt is just the nail in the coffin. It looks as if someone stuck a dagger in his chest and twisted it in deep. She looks away from him, tries to focus on folding her shorts, but with blurry eyes she can't seem to get the seams to match correctly. 

“Last time!?” Javi exclaims. 

“You left me. I lost everyone and you left,” She says weakly. 

“Is that the story you tell people?”

“Story? It's what happened! You couldn't handle what happened and ran off to Miami!” 

“You're leaving out the week I laid in a hospital bed beside yours. The two and a half weeks following that when I stayed for you and only you,” He sounds gruff when he says it. 

It feels like the world crashes and collapses on Kate all over again. It feels like missing pieces click into place when he says that. The dreams, the therapy, the blocking of memories all seem to solve themselves. She sets the pair of shorts down, abandoning all hope on being able to focus enough to fold them. When she looks up, she finds him staring back and there isn't anger or hatred gracing his features. There's nothing but hurt and confusion. 

“Kate,” 

“I quit therapy recently, because I couldn't get past some forgotten memories. Memories from right after the storm,” 

“So, you don't remember…” Javi trails off. 

“I was alone for an entire night and in the morning, I remember a police cruiser finding me. You were there, you helped them find me,” Kate explains with a frown. 

“I did,” He confirms. 

“Everything else is blurry. The only day I remember crystal clear is the day you left,” She ignores the strange sympathetic-pity expression Javi is donning. 

“My arm was shattered and I had a concussion. They did surgery and I was hospitalized for a week. I made sure we shared a room the entire time and after that, I stayed with you day and night. I didn't leave until you told me you were going to,” Javi murmurs. 

Kate reaches a hand towards him. She relaxes when she feels his warm skin against her own, “I'm sorry I said that,”

“If you forgot the rest, I can understand why it seemed that way for you,” Javi laughs lightly. 

She stares at their intertwined fingers for a long time and tries her best to process everything he's told her. She doesn't magically remember everything, but it makes the hazy memories a bit sharper. She squeezes his hand tightly.  

“Stay,” Kate says. She notices the way his thumb freezes while circling her skin. 

“You know I can't,” Javi tells her, “But you can come with me and I'll tell you everything,” 

“I hate that you always get what you want” Kate rolls her eyes. 

Kate follows him. She ends up back in Oklahoma in a fancy white storm par truck with her hand interlaced with Javi’s as they speed through the fields. He tells her everything about her recovery, the rough parts, the good parts…The things that caused her to repress it all.

The tornados tore her life to shreds, but they managed to repair her piece by piece as well. She likes to think that this is the reason they say rainbows tend to follow after storms. They have to survive the throws of the weather to get to something beautiful. 

Kate thinks that chasing with Javi might just be the rainbow part for her story. 

[poeticpains]

Does anyone else ever think about how fucked up it is that the setup of Escape the Night has us talking about who "deserved" it?

You see it in the fandom, and in the show itself, too — where there's discussions about who "pulled their weight" or who did the most for the team, with the implication that those who didn't deserve...what? A horrible, lonely death? To never see their families and loved ones again?

"I'm going to vote for [X], because they didn't pull their weight," is literally saying that someone being foolish, oblivious, and/or lazy is a mistake that should be punished by death.

Or the fandom, as they say that, "[X] wasn't doing very well, so they deserved to be put into that challenge."

And, look, I do not legitimately believe that anyone in the fandom or the show would ever be okay with someone dying because they couldn't figure out a riddle — I'm one of the ones screeching about how your fannish participation is not morality, and what you enjoy in fandom, or say about fictional characters (or fictional personas of real people) is not, in any way, reflective of your actual beliefs. Let me be abundantly clear: it doesn't matter to me who you think "deserved" to die, because nobody died, and at the end of the day, it's a fake web series.

...But that doesn't change that I think Escape the Night is a perfect encapsulation of the way that manipulation works on humans. As they say,

“1. Man is a MORAL animal. 2. You can get human beings to do anything — IF you convince them it is moral. 3. You can convince human beings anything is moral.” — Frank Bidart

In ETN, and especially in Season 3, the guests were convinced that voting people to die was the morally correct option. After all, world annihilation (and their own life) was on the line. Isn't that worth a little blood on your hands?

But it's hard to convince your average person that killing other people (or sentencing them to death, I suppose), if those people are otherwise innocent of severe crimes, is moral. So the situation sets it up using two things that are highly prized: merit and fear.

The fear is the easier option to discuss; it's the same point I made earlier regarding world annihilation and their own lives. (And, of course, it's easier to control scared people than it is to control people who have their wits about them. Manipulation 101.)

Merit, of course, is the entire point of this post. Many of us, I would hazard a guess, grew up with the American justice system, wherein death is an appropriate punishment for certain things. In ETN, that category is just stretched a little wider. Someone missed a clue? Well, they must be stupid — so they deserve to die.

And yes, I am defining voting someone in as tacitly saying that they deserve to die, because that is the unspoken consequence that could happen to anyone who was voted in.

Anyways, back to merit. Before every death challenge, barring the special ones, like the Witch's Challenge in S3, there's literally a discussion where the guests are supposed to defend themselves and prove that they helped. And if the court of public opinion decides you didn't? Well, off to the chopping block with you, my friend — your performance was unsatisfactory, and therefore you deserve to be beaten to death/buried alive/whatever terrible fate awaits them that episode.

But isn't that absurd, when you think about it like that? It's like having a shitty coworker that never responds to emails and takes 45 minute lunches. That's basically it. That's what these people are dying for.

Literally everyone on the show is guilty of this, even fan favorites like Matthew, so it's not like I'm trying to call guests out, or anything. I just think it's a really fascinating look into the way that humans can be manipulated into being willing to kill other humans.

Maybe someday I'll write something more in-depth on this.

[dayurno]

recently reread ur de-aged kevin fic and in the end notes you said you were thinking of doing a sequel w neilandrew being de-aged and just wanted to throw my hat in the ring to say yes pls! you genuinely have such incredible writing and characterization and would LOVE to see your take on it!

wawawa i plan to write it!!!!! i did start a little bit after finishing de-aged kevin and had to scrap it off because i didn't like it, so it might take a little longer. nonetheless i feel like i have no reason not to share it so i'll attach under the cut the scrapped version of kevin with de-aged andreil for your enjoyment :=) if its a little wonky i ask that you bear with me theres a reason why i didnt keep this version

//

There is a little garden behind Fox Tower where you could fit a dead body without any real effort.

Not that Kevin would know, of course. But he is sure that he has never seen anyone besides himself tend to the ground there — perhaps once in the past there was another athlete who enjoyed gardening, but such a character has not been around for at least a few years. It took Kevin almost an entire week to entirely weed out the square of dirt between Fox Tower’s backdoors and the fence where Palmetto State University property ends and Fox Perimeter starts. 

Despite the loneliness of it, the ground is quite fertile; as patches of earth left alone by humankind often are. No one ever comes with Kevin when he gardens — Andrew finding it too soft a hobby and Neil, too pointless —, so there is no worry about someone else intervening with his flowers. Worlds apart from Evermore, Kevin quite enjoys the alone time tending to this garden provides, so he makes a habit out of it. 

He’s not sure how well he is doing. His first attempt had been to plant daylilies, because the name had amused him and they were considered beginner plants, offending as the thought is. Daylilies, Kevin’s come to find, are low-maintenance, highly resistant and pest-free — three things Kevin cannot relate to, despite them sharing a surname. Those turned out fine, but one cannot go wrong with daylilies; they’re too easy. The only way Kevin could’ve killed them is if he was an absolute moron.

His second attempt — and the one he is currently keeping a close watch on — were tulips. They’re harder to care for than their predecessors, and take up more of Kevin’s time than he had previously imagined, though he doesn’t fault them for it. He’d gotten seeds from a shop a few blocks down to where Andrew usually buys his cigarettes in Columbia, and hadn’t bothered to ask for more information; Kevin’s first mistake, he realizes.

His tulips have… multiplied. Perhaps too much — hopeless, Kevin sits amidst the rows and rows of golden ladies, dainty-looking but quite surely outnumbering him, and wonders how many more of them could cause a natural imbalance in the area. For how they spread over the garden, Kevin is not sure he wants the answer. Their yellow bulbs seem to mock him. 

Deciding this is now above him, Kevin wipes the dirt from his knees and springs up. He breaks the stem of a few tulips that have already bloomed, mindful that they must reserve their energy for a future reblooming, and checks for rotten bulbs before leaving. Surely, with time, his little garden will recover well enough so that it is not fully covered in tulips. Surely he’ll be able to plant something else, then.

If anything, Kevin is at least happy they don’t have thorns. Gathering the handful of flowers he’d cut off, he returns to his dorm, mindlessly wondering to himself if they have a vase wide enough to fit all of these tulips. When their whiny door pushes open under his weight, Kevin announces his arrival by calling out, “Do we still have that big vase from last year?”

No reply. Frowning, Kevin settles his flowers on the kitchen counter and glances over to where Andrew’s wallet and keys sit at their coffee table, even his half-finished pack of cigarettes left untouched. It is highly unlikely for Andrew to leave without at least one of those three items, creature of habit he is. How weird.

Grabbing for his phone, Kevin sees a flash of motion from the corner of his eye, and is just quick enough to sidestep a little body hiding behind the back of their sofa. The idea of something as small as this just hanging around their dorm is so baffling Kevin can hardly compute it, communication between his eyes and his brain coming to a screeching stop as he takes in the sight in front of him.

There’s a child. There’s a — there’s a child. 

He is quite small. His hair, a gentle wheat-like thing, curls softly over his forehead, leading down to big, round brown eyes and a thin mouth. The child’s face is very tender, his cheeks flushed from exertion, but he does not meet Kevin’s stare with any such feeling — instead, his eyes widen slightly, and he stumbles back like he’s been hit.

For a moment, Kevin even worries he hasn’t sidestepped as well as he thought and indeed had hit this child on accident. Taking a few steps back himself, Kevin asks, “Who are you?”

It seems like the kind of question the child should ask him, instead of the opposite. The little boy tilts his head back to look at Kevin — and he does have to tilt it very far —, before steeling himself to answer, “I’m—I think I live here now?”

“That…” Kevin hesitates, “can’t be right.” The child’s eyes water slightly. Growing more and more panicked by the minute, Kevin immediately retracts it. “But I’m sure it is, if you’re saying it.”

The tears don’t fall, but they don’t quite recede either; the little boy's face is so fair it starts to look splotchy soon enough, red dusting his nose and cheeks. “Are you my new brother?” He asks, with all the certainty of someone who’s had many new brothers before. A nagging chill runs up Kevin’s spine.

“I don’t believe I am, since I don’t have any siblings,” Kevin limits himself to replying. He crouches down to meet the child’s stare, eyeing his tulips from above his head. Kevin really needs to get that vase soon; it’s not good for them to be out in the open like this. “Can you tell me your name? Why are you here? Where are your parents?”

The little boy eyes him suspiciously. He answers none of Kevin’s questions, but he informs, “There was another little boy too.”

“Right. Well,” Kevin stumbles a bit, unsure of what to say — and what to believe in, even. Children often see things that aren’t there for adults; he does not want to see any manner of spirit today. Or any other day. “Can you go get him for me? Then I can help you figure out what you’re doing here.”

“What else… can I be doing here?” The child asks, frowning lightly. “This is a new home. They—at the last one, they didn’t want me. And I have to be somewhere.”

Recognition shivers through Kevin. “I see,” he replies past the lump in his throat. “I think I might understand. The—the little boy that you mentioned, did he have blue eyes? And, and red hair?”

Andrew crinkles his little nose. “Was orange, not red.”

Oh. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. “I understand it now.” Kevin’s thighs tremble too much for him to hold his crouch, so he sits back on his heels, kneeling at Andrew’s height. “How old are you? If you don’t mind.”

Andrew blinks at him for a moment too long before showing Kevin his spread palm — it is unbearably small, chubby, and quite pale, too. “I’m five,” he says.

And he is. He is five years old. He is very five years old by the looks of it, which is not the age Andrew Minyard should be, because before Kevin left for his garden, he was pretty sure the Andrew he left behind was twenty-one. 

“You’re five. Okay. That makes sense. Of course,” Kevin babbles, having gone half-stupid from shock. That this could be happening to him — that it could be happening to them again, after Kevin had spent a week of last month being six years old and with no recollection of it. What kind of rotten cosmic joke is this? “I see. Okay, well, let me just—” He rubs a hand across his face. “Hello, I’m Kevin. I am a collegiate athlete. That means I play Exy for a university. Have you heard of it?”

“Exy is on the TV all the time,” Andrew counters, but it seems to be all that he knows. He looks a little hesitant before he nods; tight and anxious. “Hi. I’m Andrew Doe.”

Without a surname makes one a John Doe. Kevin’s heart squeezes. “Hello, Andrew,” he greets, trying to work his face into something gentler. “I understand what you mean now. You called it a new home, correct? It’s not like that. I think what happened here is…”

“Do you work for my father?” A small voice cuts Kevin’s sentence short. He whips his head around to meet a boy a good few inches taller than Andrew leaning against the doorway of their bedroom, his hair a light ginger. When Kevin’s eyes meet his, Neil — Nathaniel? — hunches in on himself in self-reproach, placing little hands in front of his head. “Sorry. I spoke out of turn.”

Kevin blinks. “No,” he answers, softening his voice. This is—this is not the time to doubt whether gentleness is achievable or not; this is the time to force it until it breaks, or until it gives. “I don’t work for your father. I’ve never even met him before.”

 Neil pales. Perhaps the idea that someone does not know his father seems outlandish when Neil has been raised under his dominion — Kevin is sure it feels that way, for Neil to look so stricken.  Often when you are this small and your parents are the overlords of your world, it feels strange to learn that they are not the end-all-be-all of everyone else’s.  

Like a little tour guide, Andrew steps forward to explain, “I think you might be here because your mom and dad went away and children have to live somewhere.” 

…Of course, being five years old, his understanding of the situation is about as good as Kevin had expected. Andrew’s explanation of the foster system is fairly good, all things considered, but too realistic for a child his age. He should, at least, still believe that they mean to find him a family instead of sending him from home to home because there is nowhere else for him to be.

Neil pales even further. “Is that true?”

“Is true. Is what happened to me.”

“Alright, alright,” Kevin intervenes at last, and two pairs of eyes turn to him; both hesitant in their own way. He coughs into his fist, deciding that honesty is the easiest route. “To be frank with both of you, I’m not sure why you’re here, either. But… thank you, Andrew, for trying to explain it.”

The little Andrew’s face does something unguarded and surprised before he looks away, blushing lightly.

Kevin keeps his eyes trained to his tulips. “I don’t know what happened for you to get here, but you’re welcome to stay until we can figure this out.”

He is eyed with suspicion from both sides. “I,” Neil shakily starts, the beginning of a meltdown creeping into his voice, “I want my mama. Where is she?”

“I’m sorry,” Kevin replies, and finds that he means it, “I don’t know. If I knew, I’d take you to her.”

He would do no such thing, but it is important to say it, anyway.

Springing upwards before Neil can bring out the waterworks, Kevin takes a few steps next to where he’d put aside his tulips and returns with one in each hand. “Here,” he says, kneeling to their height again. “Want a flower? I just got them from the garden.”

Andrew’s hand reaches for it, but does not bridge the distance, hesitant. Neil doesn’t even try to get it. “Flowers are for girls,” he tells Kevin. 

“Hm. Do I look like a girl to you?”

“Yes.”

Kevin supposes that was a mistake on his part. It’s always the hair with children. “Well, I’m not,” he argues — argues! — with five-year-old Neil. “It’s very rude to not accept a gift.”

Neil eyes him, squinting quietly. He takes a few steps closer, looking more relaxed now that he’s figured Kevin is not working for his father. Coaxingly, Kevin offers one of the tulips in his direction — the bigger one, standing proud and yellow and delicate. It took a great effort for them to look this healthy. “These are called golden ladies. They’re perennials — that means they grow no matter the season. I plant them myself.”

A little hand curls around the stem of the smallest of Kevin’s tulips, catching it with all the clumsy delicacy of children who have yet to learn a finer touch. Letting Andrew take it, Kevin's mouth twitches. “Don’t worry about thorns, there’s none.”

He doesn’t mention the eco-system smasher Kevin had accidentally become in the process. Hopefully, no one notices the terrifying increase of tulips in Palmetto for the upcoming springs. 

Andrew doesn’t answer him, eyes trained to the tulip. The yellow of the inner petals matches the pale of his hair; makes him look more flower than child. Sweet, sweet boy.

Kevin turns back to Neil. “Won’t you take it even if you don’t like them? I don’t have a vase yet. I’m afraid they’ll just rot if you don’t take them.” This is a lie — but it’s a fair one. Children shouldn’t be so restrained.

The idea of imminent destruction seems to convince Neil to walk the distance between himself and Kevin to take the flower in his little hand. He says nothing. Kevin can’t tell if he likes it at all — he’s so put-upon.

A little hand flutters in the general direction of Kevin’s head. “Why is your hair…” Andrew asks. 

“What? Long?” The child nods. “What’s wrong about it?”

“It shouldn’t be like this.”

Well, that’s rude. Kevin huffs softly under his breath, absent-mindedly combing his fingers through his hair. “When I was a little over your age, I had a friend — a brother — who liked my hair like this. I think I just grew used to it.” 

It’s not the full story, of course. He can’t tell them about Riko, and how much of his preferences Kevin had taken as law out of admiration, at first, then fear, later on. He can’t explain, either, that his hair staying this way is his own way of mourning — a childhood left unfinished, a little boy abused into the insanity of Riko’s final years, brotherhood yet to be tainted by blood and jealousy. Children this young can’t tell Kevin carries all the marks of the grieving. 

“Oh,” Andrew replies. He looks like he wants to ask some more, but he doesn’t. 

“I can teach you how to braid it later, if you want,” Kevin offers. He has not even a sliver of a clue about what children should do in their free time. In his time, his mother took him all around the world during her trips, which didn’t usually leave Kevin much time for playing; then, after she died, Exy consumed most of his time between little league and Tetsuji’s endurance bootcamp. “It’s a useful skill. You can impress your future wife with it.”

He knows well enough that Andrew is never, ever going to get a wife; still, Kevin knows no other way to frame the importance — or, rather, mask the lack thereof — of this to him.  

Andrew nods politely. He, for one, is taking this much better than Neil seems to be — for good reason, Kevin imagines. Already registered in the foster system, Andrew must be used to adapting to new homes, new siblings, new adults with an eccentric knack for gardening and haircare. He’s indulging Kevin. A five-year-old!

“Well,” Kevin clears his throat, suddenly a little embarrassed. “Are you hungry? It should be almost lunchtime.”

No answer. It’s almost like dealing with the adults Andrew and Neil again.

Lunch is bland and unimaginative; Kevin follows the recipe obsessively, unwilling to make children choke down trash. It’s one thing for their adult selves to indulge Kevin in his lack of culinary talent, but children don’t yet have the taste buds for experimental food, nor the desire to put up with their caretakers’ inability to cook. More than once he resists the urge to add more spice — or even more salt. 

While he cooks, Kevin allows Andrew and Neil to get acquainted with each other. They talk quietly, eyeing the other with no less suspicion they eyed Kevin with, and seem happy to do their own thing. Skittish, for sure: but can they be blamed for it? Kevin doesn’t expect them to hit it off immediately, especially with Neil’s under-socialization. In the week or so Kevin should have them, it is likely they’ll progress on that front. 

Polite like a trained dog, Andrew waits by the kitchen doorway to help Kevin with setting the table. He’s far too small for such a task — he’ll drop any glassware Kevin gives him. Still, unwilling to let the child feel useless, Kevin asks him to set some napkins and cutlery out. Yes, that should be enough.

“Thank you, Andrew,” he says when he is done finishing up on their plates. Looking at the portions, Kevin is inclined to think they are far too much for someone of their size, but he doubts either have had access to an unrestricted meal in quite a while. At their age, Kevin knows he hadn’t. “It is very kind of you to help with the table.”

Andrew tilts his head towards his food without comment. He is almost unnervingly polite. It’s not the Andrew Kevin knows, and the contrast feels scathing.

Despite the children’s best efforts, their meal is not quiet. Kevin is not good with children, but he likes to think he is good with Andrew and Neil — as good as one can be, anyway. He prompts them into conversation by asking questions about their interests, their lives, their routines; half of it is trying to figure out how to care for these two, and the other half is emulating a chewed-out memory of how Kayleigh used to talk to him. 

She was never the kind of parent who baby-talked to Kevin. As soon as he was able to, she tried to engage him in conversation — however loose that concept can be for a five-year-old. Kayleigh, from what he remembers of her, had the ability to make anyone feel listened to; Kevin doesn’t remember ever doubting she cared for his childish babbling about toys and daycare, even if nostalgia had colored the memory a soft mouth-pink. He only wishes he would’ve gotten at least half of her social adeptness. From Kayleigh, all Kevin got was green eyes, a gaping hunger for success and an inescapable attraction to troubled men.

“I play Exy and I like books,” Kevin offers in trade for information. It’s — well, he doesn’t have many hobbies. The gardening and the cooking are a late product of much of Dr. Betsy Dobson’s insistence that Kevin must make something out of himself that isn’t Exy-related. “I like cooking but I’m not good at it. And I like gardening but it takes a lot of work so I don’t do it all the time.”

“It’s not that bad,” Andrew tells him, motioning to his food with small movements. He finished his plate in record time, inhaling Kevin’s poor attempt at a caesar salad like it’s a five stars meal. On the other hand, Neil is halfway through with his and looks done already. “Your food.”

“Not that bad?” Kevin tilts his head slightly, amused. He’ll take it, he supposes. “Thank you, Andrew.”

Hesitant, like perhaps he fears Kevin will be angry at him for it, Neil picks up the conversation where he left off to say, “I like… horses. But, um, like toys.”

 “Horses, I see,” Kevin repeats, a bit hopeless. Children’s interests are so loose. “And what else?”

Neil flicks him a suspicious glare. “What else?”

“I gave you four of my interests. A conversation has to be equal.”

Looking as if Kevin had sprouted a second head right in front of him, Neil does not do as he is asked so much as he stares at Kevin, mouth open in a little o. Has no one asked this child what he likes before? It feels out of character for the Butcher of Baltimore, sure, but Neil’s mother had seemed to care for him, at least from what little Kevin had heard about her. 

“No?” Kevin tries after a few moments of silence. “I’m just trying to be friends.” 

“Why would you be my friend?” Neil asks, putting down his fork with surprising care; as if to ensure it makes no noise. Even his voice is small and unobtrusive, despite the words. “Adults and children aren’t friends. Adults want children to be quiet.”

Kevin hides a wince. He hadn’t imagined the Butcher of Baltimore, in all his serial killer glory, would have indulged his child in conversation — and by the way Neil acts, he could’ve guessed for himself that most of Neil’s childhood had been trying to stay out of his father’s way. But no one ever wants to assume the worst out of a loved one’s suffering;  Kevin had held out hope there’d be at least a silver lining in Neil’s horror stories.

It is not unlike how Kevin and Riko were raised in the Nest, anyway. Their private tutors were stern, and despite much of their trying, there was no place for childhood in Evermore: they were told to keep quiet or else. The Master would often say that they were not to act like children — it hadn’t occurred to him up until now how cruel it is to forbid a child from being childish.

“Well, if I’m asking you, don’t you think I want to know?” Kevin argues. “Not all adults think the same thing. Do you think the same thing as every other child?”

A pause. Neil shakes his head, looking somewhat green, as if he had just realized what he said. From Kevin’s other side, Andrew stares anxiously. 

Rubbing a hand through his face, Kevin slowly puts out, trying to enunciate his words as gentle as he can make them, “I am not angry that you spoke your mind. It makes sense, what you said.” He shakes his head a little. Only a few minutes in, and he’s already ruining it — Kevin’s no good for anything that doesn’t involve a racquet. “But I would not have asked if I didn’t want to know. Do you understand?”

A small, careful nod. Kevin will take whatever he can get. 

“Good.” Kevin starts to gather the empty plates — his and Andrew’s —, and motions towards Neil’s half-finished one. “Do you not like it? I can make you something else, if you want.”

The sudden shift in conversation visibly vexes Neil, but, politely, he replies, “...Not hungry.”

From beside Kevin, Andrew flinches. Hurrying to dispel it, Kevin says, “It’ll be in the fridge in case you want it later.” Piling the plates into one of his hands, Kevin offers the other one to Andrew. “Come on, you didn’t get to tell me what you like during lunch.”

The child watches Kevin’s hand — the right one, smooth and unscarred if a little crooked from the years of gripping racquets — warily before accepting it, threading his little fingers through Kevin’s. His hand feels unimaginably small; so fragile it is a wonder it even exists. Kevin is reminded of the first time he saw a baby bird, back in Dublin: he’d told his mom he couldn’t tell if it was super ugly or super cute. She’d laughed for what felt like an eternity after.

Still sitting politely at the table, Neil watches their joined hands, frowning. Kevin can’t tell what he’s thinking — wouldn’t be able to even with an adult Neil —, but the face he makes claws at his heart. “N—” not his name,  “ah, do you want to come with?” 

Thus invited, Neil follows them into the kitchen. Kevin washes the dishes and listens as Andrew tells him, a little shyly, that he likes Sesame Street, street cats (“Really?” Kevin asks. “Aren’t their claws a little scary?” to which Andrew seems to lose some respect for him on the spot), chocolate and amusement parks, when he is allowed to go. It's a fairly common list — Kevin didn’t know what he expected a five-year-old version of Andrew to like. Something a little more unorthodox, perhaps.

But children are the same everywhere, at any point. Andrew soaks up the attention Kevin gives him, happy to answer all questions, if a little insecure on why Kevin would be asking them. Knowing where Andrew was at this age, he doesn’t doubt it’s been a while an adult has actually spoken to him with some level of care for what he has to say: when was the last time Andrew has actually felt companionship? Someone who hears what he says and asks questions about it? 

It feels sacrilegious to stop now. Already out of dishes to clean, Kevin scrubs and re-scrubs their plates until his hands ache as he asks Andrew questions, not unaware of Neil’s watching eyes.

“And how is it? California?” Kevin asks. The next thing he says is a bold-faced lie, because he’s visited Jean before, but he still says it. “I’ve never been. I heard it’s beautiful.” 

He’s heard no such thing. Jean seems to think California is where meaningful art goes to die, but he can’t tell Andrew that.

“Is okay,” Andrew tells him, propped up on a stool next to Kevin. His little legs swing mindlessly. “The traffic — there’s traffic. And Disneyland.”

“You’ve been?” He asks again.

“Oh, um, no.”

It’s expected. “I have not either,” Kevin relates, making it sound like a bigger woe than it really is. His hands are rubbed raw at this point, and the soap pricks at the skin of his palms — soon, he’ll have to stop. Just a little more. “I don’t think I’d like it, either way.”

Andrew watches him curiously. “Why?”

“I don’t like crowds.” It’s not as easy as that, but Kevin leaves it as it is. The prickling sensation of the soap starts to crawl up his wrist, and he decides it is time to stop. Drying his hands off on a nearby cloth, Kevin prompts, “How about some dessert?”

It is the first time he’s ever said those words, and they horrify him, but the quickly-hidden flash of interest in Andrew’s face is worth breaking his streak for. From the stool beside Andrew, Neil frowns lightly. This child is too serious — Kevin tries to remember if he was like this back in little league, but his memory is not the best after so many hits to the head.

He rummages through their freezer. Andrew’s adult self is fond of indulging — there are a few half-eaten ice cream cartons tucked beneath frozen peas and other such vegetables, though most of them are flavored a cherry liqueur Kevin will most certainly not feed to children. Scavenging further he is able to retain a sealed chocolate carton, the frost covering it making his fingertips tingle. 

This has to be too frozen to eat. Helpless, Kevin turns to look at the two five-year-olds as if they have a better idea. It’s weird, now, to be the person Andrew and Neil look to for answers — Kevin is used to it being the other way around. He is caught thinking that he’ll probably struggle in the coming days, without his two little shadows making life easier for him. 

“I think if I microwave it a little bit, nothing’s going to happen,” Kevin mumbles to himself, aware that he is not inspiring much respect as an authority figure. He’s no Andrew, after all: Kevin’s still himself, despite all his best efforts to be someone else. 

The ice cream loses some of its original texture in the microwave, but, if anything, Andrew seems to enjoy it as Kevin passes him a bowl. Neil does not accept one himself, politely saying he doesn't like sweets, and the lack of attitude from him is disturbing. Kevin is used to Neil being a force of nature — seeing him this quiet, this contained, is not easy. It makes him think of the iron-shaped scar on his adult self’s chest. All that dead skin. 

Unwilling to let him be left out, Kevin cuts some slices of apple for him, which Neil takes with some degree of gratefulness. The little boys settle in front of the TV while Kevin manages to find a children’s channel, looking small on their ratty dorm carpet. Kevin isn’t sure children should be this small in the first place — he’s not sure if they are little because of genetics, or neglect. How much can you hurt a child until they disappear?

Kevin sits himself with them, cross-legged. He is too old to see the appeal of children’s television, so most of it is watching them from the corner of his eye and finding out what to say to Aaron to get him to come and help. 

You 14:36

Hello. I think whatever happened to me last month just happened to Andrew and Neil. 

As in, they have turned into five-year-olds. If you’ve forgotten. 

When there is no immediate response, Kevin huffs to himself and snatches a picture of their two little heads pending towards each other, deep in conversation about the show they are watching. Kevin is, at least, relieved to see them interacting at all: Andrew might have been to kindergarten already, but Neil has always been undersocialized, all tutors and nannies. If Kevin can’t be his friend, then at least Andrew can. 

The picture gets him a quicker answer.

Aaron 14:45

what the fuck what the fuck what the ufck

why doe sthis keep fucking happening to you 

Like it’s his fault!

You 14:45

This is not the kind of thing I can control. 

They are good children. Polite. Easier to deal with than I was, I wager. But  I need you to come and help. 

Aaron 14:47

why should i

what makes you think i could help you

You 14:49

Because he is your brother. 

Before Kevin can read Aaron’s answer, something hooks on his hair. Looking down, he finds Andrew’s hand hanging a few inches away from it, alarmed and wide-eyed at being caught. Behind him, Neil looks just as queasy, as if this had been their joint effort. 

“Can I help you?” Kevin asks, raising his eyebrow a little. When he gets no response, he concedes, "You can touch. Don’t tug or pull. And keep it away from your mouth.”

No response. Kevin doubles down, “It’s really fine. Here.” He pulls his hair out of its low ponytail, letting it curtain down his shoulders and back. It’s not often he lets his hair down like this — it can be too much of a hassle. Kevin ought to cut it one day, but the thought still makes him a little sick to think of. “As long as you’re careful.”

An hesitant little hand inches closer and closer, still warily watching out for Kevin’s reaction. When Andrew finds no resistance, he combs little fingers down the length of Kevin’s hair, faint and amazed. He’s not very gentle — children are too clumsy for it, still, and there is some tugging. It doesn’t hurt, though. Kevin allows it.

Resigning himself to being played with, Kevin gives them his back, leaning his elbow against the couch. Another pair of little hands clutches at a chunk of hair, and he knows Andrew has convinced Neil to get in on their impromptu hairdresser salon. At least they’re playing, Kevin consoles himself as he feels a pull on his scalp. At least they’re getting along. 

“I have hair ribbons on my desk,” he offers, knowing what he is setting himself up to and still going through with it. “Colorful ones. Satin. Would you like to see them?”

A pause on the tugging. “Really?” That was Neil.

“Yes. But I’ll have to get up to get them.”

“I can do it,” Andrew tells him, the ever-helpful little waiter. He’s so polite — Kevin wonders if they taught him there is a higher chance of getting adopted if you treat the foster parents with subservience. Probably. “Where is it?”

“Andrew, it’s fine—”

“I’ll do it. He’s still playing, so I’ll do it.”

So kind, giving Neil time to play by himself. Kevin, helplessly charmed, would allow him anything. “Okay. Thank you.” Motioning vaguely in the direction of their desks, he says, “It’s the one with the shelves on top of it. Yes, that one, with the books. Be careful not to hit your head!” Watching Andrew narrowly duck under a shelf gives Kevin half an aneurysm, but the child seems no less interested in his quest. “First drawer. There. Did you find it?”

“Yes,” Andrew replies, shoving a chubby fist into the drawer and pulling out a handful of hair ribbons, all different colors and sizes. There was an organization system to it, and his careless pulling has clearly ruined it. A little disheartened, Kevin doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “This?”

“Yes. Please keep the drawer closed.” 

The drawer snaps shut, and Andrew makes his way back to them, freshly acquired ribbons falling over his fingers and wrist in colorful flops. Kevin doesn’t see him sit back down, but he feels Andrew’s hand on his hair again. “Why do you have shelves?” Neil asks after a few moments of silence, their hands working ribbons in his hair via extremely clumsy braiding. “Um, just you, I mean. The others are empty.”

That he’s asking anything seems like a blessing, when the child is so quiet. “My—” Kevin hesitates. How to even describe it? “My… friend built them for me. The shelves. He got annoyed at me for leaving my books everywhere.”

 It’s true. Just as Kevin loathes Andrew’s habit of leaving his cigarettes anywhere, so does Andrew loathe Kevin’s astray book piles across the living room, left half-read or unfinished in his haste to get to class or practice. The shelves had been less of a compromise and more of a surprise: one day, they were simply sitting above his desk like they’ve always been there. Kevin never asked Andrew if he built them, but he figured the wood splinters on his fingers were reason enough. It took a lot of arguing for Andrew to take them out the right way, instead of just letting the splinters break on their own.

“Oh,” Andrew says, entirely unaware of the story being about his older self and focused on tying a bow on Kevin’s hair. “Where is he?”

“There’s two of them, actually. They’re away for work.” Kevin leans his head closer when the tugging starts to get a little painful. “What are you doing back there, anyway?”

“It’s pretty,” Neil murmurs, defending his work. Kevin doubts it is, but he’s happy to even have the little Neil’s attention at all. 

“You know how to braid?” He asks, trying to steal a look and getting his head gently moved back by Andrew. “By the way, what’s your name? You haven’t said.”

Neil hesitates, hands freezing. Kevin keeps talking, “Whatever you want to be called.”

 “Um,” Neil thinks on it for a moment. He seems to be rolling Kevin’s hair nervously around his fingers now; a nervous fidget. “My—my dad calls me Junior, but my mom calls me Nat—Nathaniel.”

 He doesn’t say it like he enjoys being called either.

“Hello, Nathaniel,” Kevin tilts his head in acknowledgement, because he wasn’t raised in a barn. “I’m Kevin. It’s nice to meet you.”

Shy little thing he is, Nathaniel doesn’t answer. 

The children play with Kevin’s hair for a few more minutes before losing interest, leaving him a mess of ribbons and tangles he decides not to deal with for now. He imagines they should be put to sleep soon — children this small sleep in the afternoon, do they not? At their age, Kevin is sure he had to be made to nap one way or another, what with his mother’s hectic schedule. It’s a bit of a parenting cop-out, he is aware, but… Kevin could use a nap himself. Sure the children do, too.

He makes a show out of yawning behind his palm. Two pairs of eyes turn to him, neither particularly moved by his display. Tough crowd. 

“Maybe we can all take a nap,” Kevin suggests. Nothing.

[frostgears]

art project

"Oh, that? Art project I've been messing with."

The glass vat takes up most of her kitchen table, filled with uniform muddy brown fluid that reeks of organic solvents, something like nail polish.

"Um… what kind of art?"

"It's kind of a work in progress, okay?"

She says it's easier if she shows you. The vat is wrapped with a half-dozen turns of copper wire; she screws the bare ends into terminal blocks on a messy proto board, plugs cables from that into an antique PC, types a command on a grubby keyboard.

The muddy brown fluid vibrates. Waves cross its surface, forming interference peaks and troughs. Simple patterns grow more and more complex, and then the stuff climbs out of the vat entirely.

Cubes and pentaprisms and planar hexagons hang in the air above churning liquid. You move your head and some of it, seen edge on, disappears. You move back; there it is again. The chemical miasma of nail polish intensifies, and something else.

"That's… how? I've never seen anything like it. Some kind of ferrofluid?" you ask.

"Uh, sure, something like that."

She kills the program. Her hand creeps onto yours, squeezing it gently but firmly. She says, "Shall we go upstairs?"

—

It's been three weeks. The sex has been incredible, the two of you practically joined at the genitals whenever you're together.

You tell her, incredibly full, that if she ever manages to get more of that strap inside you, you'll probably pass out. The next day, she shows up hefting a bigger one, and proves you right.

You're spending more and more time at her place. It's fine. It's really fine. You have roommates, she doesn't. But you'd like to use her kitchen, surprise her with something that isn't cheap takeout, and you can't, because that vat is in the way.

You ask her if she can move it? She can't. She shrugs. "I don't really cook much, so…"

"I do."

"Yeah… I need the table, though."

You're miffed, but she makes it up to you, by going slow enough that night that you don't immediately pass out. That leaves plenty of time for screaming.

You sleep over. You wake up in the middle of the night to piss, and find her gone. From the bathroom, you see the flicker of LEDs in the kitchen down the hall, smell acetone and… something else. Dusty rooms in empty houses?

You leave her alone. You're too tired; you don't want to fuck this up; you don't know what you'd say anyway. You go back to sleep.

—

It's been two months. You can't get enough of each other. You've gotten used to takeout, and her pelvis-endangering sexual appetites haven't let up; if anyone you knew saw you bent into the positions she likes to dick you down you in, they'd be shocked at your flexibility.

Most of your stuff is at her place now. (Just not the kitchen utensils.) It's easier that way. Less back and forth, and you're here basically every night anyway, have been for weeks. You want to ask her about moving in.

She can be… grumpy, sometimes. You can put up with it, moving around her moods like water. God knows you've had enough practice in your life. She's in a mood tonight, but you have to ask soon, because your lease is up in a month.

You've stacked the deck as much as you can. Her favorite noodle place for dinner; her favorite perfume dabbed behind your ears; a tight, low-cut minidress for easy access; your lips painted a smeary black, so she can see where they've been later.

"I'm gonna go out for a bit," she tells you, before you can make your play.

You were ready for a lot of things, but not this. Improvise. You put on your best disappointed pout, tug your bodice down a little more.

"Wait, weren't we going to…"

"Later, okay? A friend just texted me that he's got something I need for," she waves to the kitchen.

"Can't he just drop it off?" you beg.

"Nah. Fragile. I'll be back," she says. The door clicks solidly behind her.

Well, shit. There goes your plan for the night. And your… you hadn't worked up to "girlfriends" yet, which is a mistake on your part, you know. But she's out the door.

You give it a few minutes. You can wait patiently.

—

You've talked yourself into giving it a few hours when you really start to fume.

What the fuck is that godawful vat that's so important to her? How is it somehow a higher priority than you? Fuck it, fuck her, she needs to get this the right way around. She's going to come back to a scene she won't forget in a hurry.

You stomp into the kitchen and face down the vat. The smell is. Wow. Okay. That's a lot. But if it was really deadly toxic, she wouldn't leave it out like this, right?

You're going to drink it, throw it back up, splash some around, tell her she needs to choose because she apparently can't have both.

You're going to drink it, throw it back up, you tell yourself, as you dip a mug in and hold your nose.

Your throat spasms the minute the stuff is in your mouth, forcing it down. It's inside you in seconds, the whole mug.

You're not going to throw it up. You… need more. You scoop more out, lift it to your lips. Swallow. Again. Again.

—

She does come home to a scene.

"Oh fuck no, you didn't drink it, did you. You did."

"I," you tell her. You burp up a bit. "Absolutely. Did. You can't have." It spills down your chin and drips on your dress. "Both. Okay?"

"Yeah, no, here's the thing, I was going to break up with you. Gods. What a mess." She drops a paper bag down on the little kitchen counter, sits next to you, puts her head in her hands. "I was almost finished with it."

"So was I," you drool. You're so full. You can't get the stuff back out of you, though. You tried. You tried so hard. The vat is empty and it's all in you. Your eyes flutter closed and open and half-closed again.

"Oh, no, not by a long shot, you're not. I'm not wasting another year."

You hear the crinkle of paper. She's opening the bag. She forces a small hard thing into your mouth. It cracks and electricity crawls down all your limbs at once.

"Guess I'm stuck with you," she says, as you sink back to the floor.

You feel cold metal on your skin. She's taken the coils off the vat, she's wrapping them around you. You hear the clatter of the keyboard.

And then your skin starts to roil. The muddy brown fluid is in you, it's oozing out of everywhere, it is you, you're light and heavy at once, and you flow, and you're moving in ways that flesh and bone aren't supposed to move, and it seems like it should hurt,

And then you hear the familiar velcro noise as she tightens the harness of her strap. You don't remember her cock being this big. What the fuck. There's no way she expects you to take that… is there?

She stands over you, shoves it into you. And your new flesh flows to take her. As best you can, anyway. Her thrusts pushes the last dissolving, infiltrated bits of you out of you, the last pain, and now you're just you, and you pass out.

And then you wake up. And she's got a cock smeared with you, and a… smile? on her face. Like you're not what she wanted, but maybe, just maybe, she can work with this. So she starts again.

Later, you realize: You're moved in. So that's good, right? You want to find her and tell her, but you can't get outside the copper circle, and you can't quite form words yet, after what she's done to your throat. Okay. You can wait. You live here now anyway. □

[laura1633]

I have to start this by saying that I am primarily a Max fan but I really like and respect Charles as a racer. Also, these are random thoughts and I don’t have all the stats and stuff to back it up so if you are just going to angry and shout at me don’t bother, just block me or something - these are literally just my thoughts

But….. despite all that I’m still going to randomly shout into the internet because I have nowhere else to get these thoughts out of my head….. I'll put most of it below the cut.

I’ve not studied Charles’ race strategies etc but Ferrari really do seem to love to put him on some random tyre strategy. It’s like they are trying to make up for all the awful strategy calls of the past by trying to outsmart the other teams but just end up making more and more bizarre calls. I get that you can’t always get decisions right and when you don’t have the fastest car you have to take a chance but they seem to do it so often with Charles. Why can’t they just let him race?!!! He’s quick and talented but I feel like we don’t get to see his full potential in races because he’s always on some weird strategy that puts him wildly out of position 

Yes he has had lots of pole positions and often they don’t convert to wins. A lot of people see this as a negative rather than focusing on the fact that he is just able to get a lot out of the car in qualifying and often puts that car higher up than it should rightfully be. Would they just prefer him to qualify further down?! The car is not always capable of winning and there are a whole host of reasons why he hasn’t converted all those poles into wins and no its not because he isn’t good enough!

Maybe this is controversial and don’t come at me if you are a Carlos fan because this isn’t a rant against Carlos but I read so many comments from people saying Ferrari favour Charles. They didn’t even favour him when he was in the running for the championship so why on earth would they be favouring him now!! Even if they had have been favouring him (which I don’t think they have been) then I would understand it - he has shown that when the car is capable he can be in the running for the championship, he can drive a fast car really fast and Ferrari should be developing a car that can compete for the championship not fighting for runner up spots. I feel like Charles is the driver that could deliver them a WDC!

If I see one more person use pathetic nicknames like Charles Lecry I am going to scream!! If anyone should be crying about their team it is him but he doesn’t! From what I have seen he takes responsibility when he makes mistakes and is surprisingly calm given the amount of times Ferrari seem to screw him over. 

I don’t know what the point of this post was. I don’t know where else he could go at the moment and I know he is loyal to Ferrari so won’t want to move anyway but I feel like they aren’t showing him the same loyalty back. Ferrari have a young, super talented driver and they should be building a team around him for the future but instead they seem all over the place. I guess I just want him to be able to show his true potential, I am fed up of people saying he is overrated when we have seen what he is capable of with the right car. I just hate the idea of talent going to waste!!

I honestly doubt anyone has read this far but if you have thank you for listening! Like I said, I have no facts just feelings

Sorry for the rant

[fullofgutsndopamine]

i'll wake (with coffee in the morning)

Having a late night with hasan, where he breaks down about how much stress he is under with work and Amelie and stuff so you both go to bed super late. Letting hasan sleep in the next morning cause he doesn't have work or a morning skate and to be honest he doesn't get enough sleep. Him freaking out about trying to get breakfast together for amelie and him coming downstairs to you having made breakfast for both of them, just trying to do small things to help because you care about them both so much omg I'm so soft for this series sorry I'm rambling

tw/angst (genuinely, this is all angst), curing, mention of past abuse/toxic family,

FITPS verse, not necessary reading, but more in the same verse here if you're interested

"Hasan."

it's the third time he rolls over in bed with a huff, that you realize sleep won't be finding hasan tonight.

The light from the shitty convivence store the next block open with the fluorescent OPEN sign that blinks and hums in the dark shines in your eyes, no matter how you reposition yourself

He huffs, doesn't answer, scoots up in bed so his back is against the bedframe.

And you sit up, turn the light on and illuminate the small room, your hand on his chest, voice is borderline pleading: "hasan, talk to me."

this happens, ocassionaly.

it's been awhile, since he's been like this, when the anxiety hits and the sleepless nights find him.

But when they do find him, it's usually after a long week, him struggling to juggle Amelie, her school and hockey practice, and him-with his job; business has picked up, and while it's good for paychecks, you can't ignore the dark bags under his eyes and the groaning of his bones when he goes to pick Amelie up, throw her in the air, the missed dinners he's passed by, sleeping on the couch, too tired to even walk up the stairs-

he doesn't answer.

stares straight ahead, runs his hands through his hair, shaking, unsure of himself, his voice cracks, and he doesn't look at you, like this has been on the back of his mind for a while-

"What if all of this was a mistake?"

He laughs, but it's without humor, his eyes dark:

"Like, what if she's actually fucked by me raising her? What if she turns out like me?"

this is heavy, especially for a Thursday night, but you know this song and dance, are an expert in it-

"hasan, come on."

"No," He shakes his head, "You come on-"

He's spiraling, and there's only one fix.

You throw the old quilt off your body, wiggle your toes against the cold wood floors as you pad to his side, hold your hand out:

"hasan, come on-"

He doesn't say anything back, but allows you to tangle your hand into his, to pull him out of bed, and lead as you slowly lead down the creaking steps, to the couch where you let him fall onto, curl next to him:

"hasan," You try, your voice borders on pleading, "What's going on?"

You pull him closer, against his chest, your hands tangled into his hair, pulling at it gently, something he usually likes, finds comforting-

His voice is weak, like he's thought about this all week, tossed and turned, lost sleep over it-

"I don't want her to end up like me," His voice breaks somewhere in the middle, "Like, to be fucked up like me? Didn't even fucking finish school, working at a shop like a fucking loser. Maybe my Dad was right."

He snorts, but there's no humor, his eyes dark.

"hasan, come on. You just need some sleep." Your voice borders on pleading.

instead, his voice is dark: "Like, this is the kicker, right?" he snorts, "You grow up and your family is shit, dies early, leaves you alone to raise a kid, right?"

He laughs, shakes his head, "And the whole time, you're terrified you're going to fuck her up. Turn out like her Father, or even worse, like you, right? And you can't do a damn thing about it."

"hasan," You plead, "You aren't a fuck up-"

"And it's all going to be my fucking fault," He shakes his head, "I can't blame anyone but myself."

Sometimes, when he gets like this, there's no talking him off the ledge.

instead, it's laying against the couch, pulling him into you, gently ruffling his hair, letting him rant into your pajama shirt, goes from borderline yelling, to sobbing, whole body shaking weeping that leaves wet stains on your shirt that you both ignore, holding him close, praying for it to be over-

by the time he's exhausted, when his eyes are drooping and low, from lack of sleep, and from crying, he leads you by the hand up the creaking stairs, to the old bedroom-

the only saving grace, you can think of, as you lay in the bed, is that tomorrow is his only day off after a full week of working late, showing up to Amelie's practices just in time, peeling his grease stained shirt off in the parking lot, trying to look presentable after a long day, the world beating his ass day after day-

Birds outside the powerlines wake hasan up.

Which is unusual, since usually, his alarm has him up at 4am, when birds dare sing yet, still trying to sleep in for five more minutes-

this causes him to panic, naturally.

"Fuck!" he all but screams when he rolls over, the alarm clock says 10:06 in red, as if mocking him.

You aren't in his too small bed, and your spot on the mattress is long cold, which also worries him-

one thing at a time your voice comes through his head, the gentle voice you use on him when he's spiraling, when you hold either side of his face in your palm, making him look at you: one thing at a time, hasan. Just one-

a deep breathe and he nods, hops around on the floor as he gets into his old work jeans, worn with age and from working, covered in a mix of grease and who knows what fuck else-

he's buttoning his work shirt, which he's 90% sure smells and he'll need to Febreze, as he runs down the stairs, to the kitchen, yelling to Amelie:

"Aimes!" He yells, running his hands through his hair, is going to have to skip a shower since his alarm didn't go off, "sunshine, we got ten minutes, baby girl. You gotta get up!"

Breakfast will have to be quick, instant, something that will make the mothers in the pick up line clutch their necklaces and lean their heads in to whisper about that brother, the one who's raising his kid on a steady diet of store brand poptarts, instant oatmeal, and most days-pleading and begging with whatever god exists to stop making him a fucking joke for the love of god-

"hasan," Amelie giggles as he rounds the corner into the kitchen. "We're up already, silly."

she's giggling, a smile on her face as she wears one of his old shirts from marching band, far too big on her, down to her knees, is kneeling on an old mismatched stool as she helps you pour flour into a mixing bowl-

"We're-" he pauses, his shirt buttons fucked up, "Late?"

It's a question, not a satement.

"It's Sunday, honey." You smile warmly at him, walk over and fix his shirt for him, "Come on, breakfast will be ready soon."

"hasan," Amelie giggles, "We're making pancakes."

She giggles like it's a secret, when in reality, it's just a rare treat. Panckes are money and time consuming-and he has neither.

"I see, sunshine'." He smiles as he sits down next to you, "With chocolate chips?' He tickles her side, kisses the side of her face, fond on his face.

"Here." His head looks up, and he's immediately handed a warm mug of coffee into his hands. He inhales it deeply; smells perfect-

"You didn't have to do this." His voice is gentle, small, like he's scared, isn't use to this kind of treatment-

"I know," You shrug, as you grab the bowl of batter, "But it's what you do for people you love."

and you say it so simply, so matter of fact.

the first i love you he's ever gotten, that's ever meant something, isn't matched with the rug being pulled out from under him, without the kiss of a fist-

"Yeah," Amelie parrots, "For people you love."

and you ruffle her hair as she helps you pour the batter, the love is said with the same mocking siblings do, but the smile says she loves having you around, another parental figure, someone to help hasan-

Your eyes slowly drag up, as you realize what you said, afraid he'll be upset, or not feel the same, will yell or kick you out, scare him off-

instead, he comes into the kitchen, drags his finger through the bowl to taste it, another dip to touch it to the tip of Amelie's nose, before his hands go around your waist, his chin on your shoulder-

"Yeah," he says gently, into your ear, before he nuzzles his nose into your neck, his voice is low and deep, how you know he means it: "I love you too."

[bydragonfireandblood]

Honestly, best part about watching HotD was that it gave me a free blocklist to weed out any jonsas (because ridiculous number of the green stans seem to be jonsas!) I might've missed the first time around with GoT. But what's absolutely baffling is how many claim to be feminists. I'll go to their blog to block them and their bio will be something like "She/her, feminist" and it's just like... what kind of mental acrobatics do you have to be doing to believe that??

Let's see, shall we? Just off the top of my head, jonsas (and fairly often Sansa's more... "special" stans) like to

Put down Dany and Arya for not being "feminine enough" (i.e. their ideal femininity, which ig means women can't be anything else). As if expecting women to conform to a standard of what's "feminine enough" isn't part of the problem :/

Constantly claim Sansa can't be held accountable for her mistakes because she's a child, but then regularly claim another child is unforgivable for her mistakes and should die for it

Imply (and sometimes even say) that Dany shouldn't be breaking the wheel. You mean the patriarchy? You, an alleged feminist, don't think the patriarchal system ASoIaF has is awful and dumb??

Suggest that Jon is actually going to politically manipulate Dany by pretending to love her but really he's doing it for Sansa. That is... disgusting on more levels than I could count, but I'll simplify it to "wanting to see an ending where a woman is manipulated sexually and then murdered by her male lover when she's no longer useful is gross and you should feel gross" because apparently they can't read at more than a 2nd grade level

Ignore the fact that this already-misogynistic plotline would be, in their dreams, so the man can get together with their favorite woman instead. Because putting down a woman like a dog in favor of another woman isn't bad, apparently

Absolutely hate the fact that Dany is a subversion of the prophecied hero trope because she's the "Princess who was promised". This would be a wonderful twist on the trope instead of the sexist "but actually it was the man all along!" one, which has been done to death already

Crack jokes about Dany being infertile and how that would "make Sansa a better wife for Jon, bc she can give him an heir". Ah yes, implying it's a woman's duty and purpose to have kids and that anyone who can't is broken. Wonderful example of feminist rhetoric, you guys

And this very much extends to the green stans too! Little wonder so many stansas seem to love Alicent, since they're both "women who have to suffer through the patriarchy". Let's see what our precious, definitely-feminist Alicent has done, shall we?

The big one: actively trying to prevent a woman from rising to the Throne so she can be replaced by her son, a man

The son, I should add, being utterly unfit to rule and she knows it (unless she's absolutely fucking stupid, there's no way she could not know Aegon would be a bad king). I mean, he assaulted serving staff, disappears to the slums to watch his bastards fight to the death, and when he was supposed to be king he fled. Rulership material indeed :/ But Alicent seems to think a penis makes him suited to rule despite all that

Straight-up admits that Viserys was less suited to rule than Rhaenys on account of temperament... but then in the next breath ask Rhaenys to help her uphold the male succession that fucked her over, in favor of a man even less suitable for kingship than Viserys was

And on the note of the serving girl... silencing rape victims is not feminist. At all. I recognize HotD's societal standards are different, but idk, they sure like to apply modern standards like war crimes to Dany and Rhaenyra so I think I'll do the same here

Resents Rhaenyra for finding happiness in her own relationships. Look, what happened to her was awful and I felt bad for her, but once she turned around and started putting other women down for not suffering like she did, instead of trying to see the system that caused her suffering ended... that's where she went wrong. (Also I feel like reminding everyone Laenor was gay. Did greens want Nyra to maritally rape her husband?? How dare a woman have an enjoyable sex life)

Book Alicent legitimately hoped that "mayhaps the whore will die in childbirth" because that's absolutely a feminist girlboss thing to say

Look, I have no problem with people liking or even defending either character for some of their actions. Even I'd admit the Greens are fun to watch despite being in the wrong, and that Sansa's bullying means her arc has potential for character growth towards realizing her ideal femininity is wrong. But when their stans start attacking other women for not accepting and conforming to the system? That's why I usually see urls/lots of posts about these characters as a red flag

If you're one of these people and I somehow haven't already blocked you? Please go outside and work on the internalized misogyny a bit before you claim to be feminist

[localsharkcryptid]

I usually do my best to not post about intense CC drama in this fandom but I do want to say something about my blog and my plans.

As I have stated numerous times: This blog is exclusively focused on the DSMP characters, not their writers/actors. So with that I have no plans to change anything about CWilbur for my aus, nor anyone else. If you have a problem with that just block character tags, as I'll do my best to always tag my work correctly.

My opinions on the CCs themselves are something I've kept to myself for numerous reasons - and I will continue to do that but I do have a message for people in general about the situations going around and how I feel about it.

People can grow and change, even the worst people can learn to be better and should be ALLOWED to do so, and their victims do not need to ever forgive them or interact with them either. The idea of supporting victims AND that people can become better CAN coexist despite what people say. Nothing that's happened justifies death threats or any of the aggressive behavior that has been shown by the vast majority of fans, not to mention that innocent people have gotten hurt thanks to this absolutely abhorrent behavior. Some of this stuff also happened years ago, people are not who they were 2-3 years ago and I hope some people can recognize that.

While I do support victims and believe that they deserve the right to talk about their stories, I also believe that the world is not morally black and white, everything is messy and confusing and at the end of the day nothing justifies the mass mob mentality that a lot of fans subscribe to. The only way to truly stop cycles of abuse is to HELP people and to let them become better individuals. Damnation for all eternity is not the response you should have. After all we are all human, and humans make mistakes and unfortunately sometimes these mistakes hurt people but that doesn't mean it has to be the end.

I hope to one day be able to talk about this on a much larger scale as it is one of the most concerning things in this fandom but for now this will do.

I kindly ask that people who do believe all this hate and violence promoting behavior is justified due to someone being an abuser leave my blog. I do not want people who believe that death is the only option when people majorly fuck up around me or my content.

[transmothergoddess]

"Better to reign in Hell, than to serve in Heaven" - The Devil, Paradise Lost by John Milton

This blog will feature kinks such as:

Pleasure-domming

Incest

Cult-play

Cannibalism

Trans Supremacy

Consensual non consent

Impregnation

And more. This is your content warning. If things of this nature in fiction are not to your liking then you should not be viewing this blog. Minors dni, don't be a dick, etc.

As for turn offs:

Bathroom kinks and diapers

Furry/anthro/scalie and things of that nature

Bothering me without permission

Baby talk or uwu writing styles

Hyper proportions

Men in dominant roles.

Raceplay

If you run a blog that includes one of my turn offs, feel free to follow and interact, but just respect that I'm not interested in that personally and I won't be looking at your blog. I block with enthusiasm, so respect my rules on my own blog and we'll get along.

Rules: For my own mental health and emotional well-being, as well as to suit my tastes, I'll keep a simple list of things I expect from anyone who chooses to interact with me personally, but not with simple likes or reblogs/comments/tags on my posts.

1) Don't take these rules way too seriously. This is for fun and fantasy, these rules are a guideline for my own enjoyment and to get me in the mood and fuel my desires. At the end of the day I'm a normal person that has a lot on her mind, and I can't pay attention to everyone.

2) Uphold a basic standard of literacy with as few spelling mistakes or grammar deviations as possible. I like when people I interact with have a good grasp of writing.

3) Don't beg for tasks, ask politely and with humility. If I am in the mood, I will deign to grace you with my attention.

4) Don't pester me with multiple asks or messages. I don't mind spam likes/reblogs or tons of asks/messages, but when it starts venturing into self-deprecating or begging for attention, I'm liable to block and move on.

5) Respect my privacy and boundaries. I work hard irl and just want to have a fun relaxing time. I also deal with mental illness so sometimes I'll go inactive for awhile for my own sake. If I say I'm dealing with something for instance, give me a bit of breathing room and assume if we were using the red/yellow/green light system that I just invoked a yellow or red light.

6) I primarily soft-domme. I'll do harder stuff if I like you, but it's emotionally taxing and if we do that, I need aftercare. If you don't think a domme should ask for aftercare, just don't bother speaking with me.

7) Irl I struggle with body image issues that I'm trying to work on. Don't ask me about my height, my weight, my size, or just anything about my real body. If you want a picture, and I really enjoy your company, I may send something. But for fucks sake I am sensitive about my appearance and it drives me up the wall when people demand pictures.

8) My preferred honorifics are: Mother, Goddess, Mistress, Queen, or anything that conveys a sort of maternal or holy authority. Mommy doesn't convey the sense of knowing acknowledgement that I like. Fellow tops, dommes, or casual visitors to my blog can instead use "My Lady" or "Your Grace" if it pleases them.

9) If you want more of my attention, think of me as a queen or cult leader with tons of sycophants and menials I deal with on a daily basis. I like intelligent, independent people that show enthusiasm and respect. I like *interesting* people. You aren't just preening for my attention, you should be trying to court me or curry my favor. I tell everyone they're my favorite, but if you actually want to be more than a tool for my pleasure then you have to show me or teach me something interesting.

10) Anyone identifying as a man, he/him pronouns, or masculine honorifics should first show respect and submission to me before sending asks or dms.

With this all in mind, welcome to the Courts of Love, and the Cult of Pleasure~

[elishortforelliott]

IF YOU ARE SUPPORTING ISRAEL LEAVE MY BLOG AND DO YOUR RESEARCH. FREE PALESTINE 🇵🇸 🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸

Ok! Hello!! I'm making an introduction page and i dont know how to do introductions that well so I'm going with the flow so sorry if this is confusing!!! Also I have Bolded all the important text so if you want to skim just read the bolded text! :D ALSO if you follow me and you look like a bot (you have nothing on your profile have the default profile picture etc.) I will block you.

WARNINGS AND DNI UNDER THE CUT LOOK AT THEM.

THE INTRODUCTION 👋

Credit: @/burntoutuserboxes

Hi! My name is Eli or you can call me Elliott I do not care!! Either one is fine!! My pronouns are he/they and I think I'm either trans masc or bigender but I'm still figuring thing out! :D I'm bisexual and ace! and I am a minor. I'm working on improving my art so alot of my posts will probably be fanart or just random doodles. I will be working on anatomy so expect me to post huminoids with sub par anatomy and procrastinating by drawing landscapes and I am SHIT at finishing projects so if I say I'm doing something expect it to be posted in a year/hj I'm also learning ceramics!! and I'll take drawing requests!! :D (but if I dont want to do them you have to respect that.) Also be prepared for alot of me screeching about random things.

THE WARNINGS ⚠️

I am in alot of horror/thriller fandoms!! So on my blog you will see: teeth, gore, worms, insects, child murder, murder, eye imagery, clowns, animatronics, manikins, weapons, and so on if you are uncomfortable with any of these things I will be doing my best to add warnings to all of my posts that have the above topics but if you don't want to take any chances please leave.(also if there are anyways where I could improve/add any warnings please tell me.)

ALSO I may or may not reblog/post about political topics or religion (specifically Christianity) i will be putting warnings on these posts but please be careful and leave this blog if it will be harmful for you!

MY BOUNDARIES/DNIs 🛑

Okay! So these are my boundaries please respect them!

Please do not interact if you are: racist, homophobic, transphobic, abilest, proshipper, p*rn bot, pedophile, fatphobic, etc.

Please do not talk about Christianity (I have religious trama) unless I have brought the topic up. anyone who is Christian please do not interact with this blog even if you support lgbtq+ and are not just a total asshole please dont interact im sure your a great person just please do not interact.

DO NOT steal my art if you do repost it please make sure to ask for my permission first and to give me credit and if you don't ill steal your knee caps

Please be patient with me and spelling. I absolutely suck at it and auto correct is my life line. You can totally point out spelling/ Grammar mistakes I make but please don't be rude about it.

And please tell me if I have said/done/rebloged anything harmful, offensive, misinformed, annoying, or rude.

THE FANDOM/INTERESTS LIST 👁

Credit: @/burntoutuserboxes

There are alot of fandoms that I am in so this list is very big and ever expanding!!!

The Penumbra Podcast (i am still on season 3 please no spoilers!)

SIAMÉS

Fools gold DnD campaign

Nimona

Barbie

Hollow knight

Sonic

Teenage mutant ninja turtles (most shows and comics i haven't seen all of them.)

Lego monkie kid

The magnus archives (I have been spoiled on like the whole thing so spoilers are fine!)

Welcome to nightvale (I have not finished year 3 please no spoilers!)

Hello from the hallowoods( I have just started so no spoilers please!)

Malevolent (i have also just started!)

Minecraft

Stray

Last of us

The owl house

Amphibia

Gravity falls

Dead end paranormal park

Spiderman into the spiderveres

BNA

Mob Psycho

Promise neverland

Pokemon

Spiritfarer

Five nights at freddy's

Bendy and the ink machine

Detroit become human

Stardew valley (please no spoilers please!)

Hell followed with us

The girl from the other side

The crane wives

The amazing devil

Pottery/ceramics

Painting/drawing

AND FINALLY TAGS/ ORIGINAL WORKS#️⃣

I have 3 tags i will hopefully have a tag for ask soon but I am procrastinating

#my art -- This as a bunch of fanart of the fadoms I am in and just artpeices I've made

#my pottery -- This is all my pottery pieces and the progress! :D

#To Find A Home -- this is a story im making and im so excited to share my ocs!!!

Thank you for reading!!! Please talk to me if we have any fadoms in common! I want to make friends!! :D

[golbrocklovely]

this is no disrespect to either of you three anons, so please don't feel like this is me trying to be a bitch.

but oh my GOD i don't care lol

i'll just say everything i feel about this here and then be done with it.

ms singer was a girl colby went on a few dates with, and was done "dating" her by like halloween or a little bit after. he didn't even know malia until sam's bday, so it's not like he left ms singer for her. ms singer herself has said she's on good terms with colby and that she has no hard feelings for malia, it's katelyn she has issues with.

colby unfollowing her on her bday was not done maliciously. he just unfollowed her, most likely, bc he has unfollowed every girl he either a, dated/had a fling with or b, found hot. shock and awe to absolutely no one, she falls into that category.

but also she's STILL talking about her beef with katelyn. and look, she has every right to talk about it as long as she wants to. i'm not here to say she can't vent. but let's be real for two seconds: first and foremost, fans are egging this on and we all know that. anyone that wants to argue otherwise is just plainly ignoring what is happening. ppl go on her tiktok lives just to ask her about katelyn so she can start complaining about her yet again. and the only reason fans want more tea on katelyn is bc they hate her bc she's not kat. full stop, full transparency, that's why that's happening. yall don't like tess; you just like that she gives you tea on a girl you hate bc she maybe once shaded kat when in reality if you have more than one brain cell you would know that's not what she did. stop being so up kat's ass that you think everyone is out to get her.

and secondly, tess can complain - sure. but she is talking about real ppl that are now dealing with real hate. it's the whole fuck around and find out method. keep talking shit on someone, and someone close to them (ie colby) is gonna stop fucking with you. why is this a surprise to anyone?

and i'm not here to say that katelyn is innocent. don't mistake me for that. i'm just saying, if katelyn was a shitty friend to her, then that's a shame. but the beef is very much between the two or them, and not us. stop egging it on for content reasons, or for twitter threads, or for whatever weird reason yall try to justify in your head this all for.

not only this, but colby and ms singer only dated MAX a month, but i don't even think that's the case fully. they went on a couple dates and stayed cordial. some of these fans are acting like he blocked his bestie or something. they remained friendly with one another bc things didn't end badly between them. they don't have to have loyalty towards one another, that includes colby. this isn't some betrayal. he unfollowed bc he's taken now, and she's still talking about his best friend's gf. it's really that simple.

dear god, all of this is such hs drama bs and i'm so tired of hearing about it, honestly. i'm too old to go back to my hs self who would have throughly enjoyed this drama. but seriously, can we find literally anything else to talk about??? i'm actually begging at this point.

and colby didn't unfollow ms singer bc malia told him to. he did it bc he wanted to. he's a grown man, as many on twitter love to point out every time he does something they deem as childish. why do you think this is any different?

also, sam and kat pretended to be besties after the break up. let's be real here. there clearly was some awkward tension left between them, but if they told the fandom they were going no contact and never talking again except maybe in passing, ww3 would have started. so they remained cordial to be appease fans (and probably themselves in one way or another). and realistically, kat probably made sam unfollow her (by blocking him/muting him/removing him as a follower) bc the day she did that was after pics of him and katelyn leaked from new years. realistically she probably wasn't thrilled about that and needed some space. it also didn't help that the khakis personified that is sam golbach decided to like a tweet that she made saying how nice her spotify top five looked without the "take a look at my bf" song, which CLEARLY WAS ABOUT HIM. he got his ass blocked after that, and rightfully so lmao

i would like to request - respectfully to all anons going forward - to stop bringing up ms singer, shea, and stas. hell, throw kat in there too. i don't care enough about any of them to hear what's happening about them. i'm tired of talking about them. some of them i've been talking about for years, i've said my piece on them countless times, and i just want something else to talk about. bc it's always the same stories over and over again and i just cannot care about it any longer.

also, since i might as well throw this in too, if you genuinely think snc are malicious in any compacity - STOP WATCHING THEM. why are you here if you genuinely think colby is a slutty manwhore who fucks anything that moves and is malicious and a shitty friend and whatever other random nonsense you think he is?? why are you here if you think sam is a terrible boyfriend who's also a bit of creep and has as shitty gf and again, whatever random other shit you believe???? why are you here???? you don't like snc anymore, and yet you waste your time talking about them. what you really like is the tea that comes from them and the ppl they have surrounded themselves with. i implore you to log off and find a hobby or a content creator you ACTUALLY like.

(also none of this was really directed at yall. more so the fandom et large. sorry if it felt like i was yelling at you guys. wasn't what i was trying to do here lol)

[metakazkz]

You didn't need to reach those 300/100 notes etc to begin with, Kaz. You don't need those to keep you motivated. If even breaks and rests don't give you back the motivation to continue, you might want to reflect on your values or what these comics truly mean to you. What these comics are for to begin with.

Did you do this because you want to be well-known or famous? Or did you do this because you're passionate about it? If it's the first one, then I'm sorry to say, but your motivation won't last long if you strive for popularity. Because popularity doesn't last long too.

If it's because you're trying to make it better than the old one [Abbystale], rather "perfect", then it doesn't have to be perfect. It just has to be done and good enough (and by good enough, I mean "good quality" but at the same time making sure you don't work too hard on it, simply, there's a fine balance). You shouldn't restrain yourself from making mistakes just like the mistakes you think you did with the old Abbystale. There's always room for improvement. And to improve, you got to be open with the possibility of mistakes, and that's fine. Just learn from it.

I love Abbystale. It has played a part in my Undertale days until now, both the old and the new. But in the end, it's up to you to decide. It's okay if you discontinue Abbystale if it takes a huge toll on your mental health, and it's also okay if you continue if it makes you happier than anxious.

I'm gonna stop here before this gets too psychological but kendoshsuwbeiwjd please be okay. I turned this on anonymously because I don't want to be hated on. I didn't mean to offend you or anyone, and if I did, then do tell me. I'll take it. And I'm sorry.

But (last one I swear-), if it's also because you don't have the storyline you like and would share with the audience, take your time to plan it out.

If I said something wrong or false, let me know.

Thanks for the comment. I don't think what you write offended me but rather a good criticism.

Reaching the goal was just an idea to see if it can help motivate me. But I guess it didn't work much I was expected.

I draw my arts and comics out of passion but it looks more like a job even though I draw it for free. I don't care if I'm famous or not. But people claim I'm famous, but they don't listen to me when I say that the old Abysstale isn't canon for the new Abysstale and shouldn't be taken seriously. They may like the old version all they want. But they should not put false information and make false hopes that the old version will be back.

I have to kick myself to do something because I'm usually a person who gets things done and doesn't procrastinate every day. So I just have to take the time and not hitting the art block all the time and not force too much, otherwise it will effectively become a chore and burn the energy too quickly.

It is impossible to create a perfect comic. But I'm doing my best to improve it. Because drawing and comics are my hobby and my passion.

Thank you very much for the comment and I'm taking my time to need.

[sunnylands-world]

I think I get sick of people making mental health into a joke or something sarcastic. People who actually have that shit know the pain and stress it causes!

You don't have to read this but you should, if it doesn't make sense I'm sorry but this is what it's like put into words.

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Having people leave you because they can't handle it, losing friends because they don't want to listen to your every depressing thought. But I think if they understood most of my thoughts, when I'm in deep thought are sad they wouldn't shut me up so quickly.

I think about myself trapped underneath men as they use me and I beg God for it to end quickly or my mother yelling all the things she hates at me as I soak it in like a sponge letting it out in screams and cries as I try to block her out before I make another mistake that causes me a hospital visit and some scars, but not just the ones that bleed, but the ones on my heart that fill me with guilt for whoever had to see it.

There are days where I walk [if I can make it outside without having a panic attack] feeling like every little thing I do is judged; from my clothes, to my hair that never lays right, and my smell that I'll reek from sweating in fear of all the things nobody cares about. If I stand in a group the things I say never interest anyone, to the point where they tell me to shut up not knowing how hard I planned the one sentence I said.

My therapist will say there is no normal but whatever people are I want to be it. I want more days where my head is empty of it's racing thoughts, I want no meds that I pop to heal all the wounds for the day and put me to sleep like I have no goals to achieve, I want less heaviness on my lungs so I can breathe all the pretty smells and clearness without shudders.

The worst part is I can plan all day and dream for hours but none of this is gone long enough to stop blocking my way, and if I can forget it, it's all brought up in a joke or question.

And that's my life with mental health.

Where everyone else can laugh and say it playfully, I have to eat, breathe, even sleep these things.

So please, if you can, don't make a joke or make fun of those with mental illness.

It's real, I have it, and it's a shit show...