#Trim Rewinders

[escapingrealtiylovinginsanity]

Jay Halstead NSFW Alphabet 

This is a small apology for my hyper-fixation on my Rewind, Remix, & Replay (Burgstead story). I know it’s not a common pairing or a reader insert but it has been so much fun to write. I’m totally hooked on the couple. If you have any interest you can check it out HERE. 

 Anyway, enjoy some sexy Jay Halstead content! (I forgot how long these take to write) 

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex) 

Jay is all about aftercare. He will only leave the bed to clean himself and you up, or grab you something if you need it. Jay’s favorite way to give you aftercare is through physical touch. He wants to hold you, kiss your skin, tangle his finger in your hair. He wants the intimacy of having pillow talk or the playfulness of wrestling around or tickling you until you are begging him to stop.  

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) 

Jay’s favorite body part of himself is his hands. They are rough and calloused from hard work and his time carrying around a gun in the desert. They can hold a sniper rifle and make perfect aim as well as run through your hair when you lay together in bed, or pull an orgasm out of you as you ride his fingers. 

Jay’s favorite part of you if asked would be everything. He loves your body and always claims he can’t pick just one part of you to be his favorite. But you have noticed his fixation on your ass. He is always slapping it as he walks by, grabbing it during sex, or sliding his hand into your back pocket. He had even bit your ass a few times when he had the opportunity. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically) 

Jay loves to come inside of you, it makes him feel connected to you. He will stay inside of your tight warm core until he goes soft. When he finally pulls out he likes to watch his come drip out of you and down your thighs mixing with the wetness of your arousal. He will clean the sticky mess but takes gratification in knowing that his DNA will linger on you long after he has wiped it away.    

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) 

One of Jay’s favorite things is to be woken up by you giving him head. There is just something about starting his day with his cock in your mouth. He doesn’t even care if it's just a warm-up and you guys end up finishing with sex.  

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?) 

Jay has plenty of sexual experience. While Jay prefers committed long-term relationships, he had his Casanova days in his early twenties and after bad breakups. He has learned and perfected how to please a woman. But Jay knows that no woman's body is the same and he makes it his mission to learn how to please you.          

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying) 

Jay’s favorite position is with you on top. He likes watching you bounce on his cock. Your breast in his face with easy access to his mouth. His hands can grab your hips or ass to urge you on.  He can kiss you and rub slow circles on your clit. He can let you take charge letting the pleasure roll over him or he can rock up into you to meet your thrusts.   

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.) 

Jay can be goofy during sex. He likes the banter your relationship has and it often leaks into the bedroom. Sassy comments or jokes can have you both laughing into each other's kisses. Once or twice you had got each other laughing so hard that you had to take a break mid sex to catch your breath.  

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) 

Jay keeps himself trimmed for the sake of hygiene when he is single. When he is busy it drops low on his list of worries well below food and sleep. When he is in a relationship, he is more on top of it making sure it stays in his normal routine. He is more aware of the length of his facial stubble too. He doesn’t want to leave you with a constant healing beard burn. 

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect) 

Jay wants intimacy in his relationships. It’s not romantic in the normal aspect of flowers and fancy dates. It’s getting to know you, the banter you share, the drag of his stubble against your skin as he kisses every inch of your body. It’s being tangled together naked afterwards sharing soft kisses. 

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon) 

Jay was in the military for years so he knows how to jack off quick and efficiently. Jay doesn’t masturbate a lot. He does it more for stress relief than anything else. He usually does it while in the shower for quicker cleanup. If he is in a relationship, he will get himself off if you are not in the mood, but he has to go without for a while before he even considers it.    

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks) 

Jay likes to have sex in public places. The threat of getting caught makes the experience more thrilling. He also has a praise kink. He wants to know how good he is making you feel. He loves to see you flush with his praises and tell you what a good girl you are.  

L = Location (favorite places to do the do) 

Jay's favorite place to have sex with you is on the bed. There is plenty of room to do an array of positions with the comfort of a soft mattress and sheets. Jay is also a sucker for having sex with you pressed against walls. Whether it's your hands holding yourself up as he pounded into you from behind or your legs wrapped around his waist nails digging into his shoulders. Jay is also a fan of having sex in semi-public spots- he enjoys the thrill of almost getting caught. 

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going) 

Jay is pretty easy to get in the mood. Flirty banter, heated looks, and caressing touches will pull his mind to dirtier things. Jay is a visual man so seeing you in lingerie or his clothes is a big turn-on. The two of you pulled an all-nighter when you were draped across his bed in nothing but one of his flannels unbuttoned, red lipstick, and his dog tags hanging between your breasts.   

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs) 

Jay will not do anything that could cause you physical harm. He is okay with spanking, restraining, and even some light choking- leaving little bruises and love bites but never wants to cross the line where something could actually hurt you. Jay is very monogamous. That along with his possessiveness and jealousy makes the idea of another person joining you guys in bed an immediate no.   

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) 

Jay has a talent with his tongue and it’s not just for his sassy smartass remarks. His oral skills are otherworldly. He can get you off in a matter of minutes with just his mouth if he isn’t in a teasing mood. He is a fan of using his fingers too. If his mouth or fingers can make you feel pleasure on their own, how much will you receive with both? Jay doesn’t like to stop when he starts either. Your legs are shaking and have come twice already and are edging on overstimulation. You’ll just have to wait until he is finished. 

Jay loves receiving as much as he enjoys giving. He will thread his finger through your hair pulling it back into a ponytail. He likes to tug the strands but mostly it makes it easier to see your eyes. It does something to him to see you on your knees, your face flushed, cheeks hollowed, sucking on his cock eyes locked with his. Jay likes to thrust into your mouth and loves it when you swallow but he will never force you to do either and will give you a warning before comes.   

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.) 

Jay knows there is a time and place for both. He leans towards the more rougher side pace. The friction of your bodies together, the bouncing of your breast, his hips snapping against yours. There are days that he wants slow intimate lovemaking. He will lay you down and worship every inch of your body, caressing all your dips and curves. He will rock into purposefully letting you feel every inch of his cock rubbing inside of you.  

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.) 

Jay loves quickies. Life is busy and there isn’t always a lot of time for long drawn-out sex. If an opportunity arises for a quick fuck he almost always says yes. He had on more than one occasion locked the two of you in a bar bathroom, hushing you as he fucked you from behind. He likes the thrill of not having a lot of time and having a chance of being caught.  

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.) 

Jay is a risk taker, the man has spent years in the army and likes a good adrenaline rush. He is down to try any position you can find or come up with. Jay likes to have sex in public, he likes the risk of being caught. It’s a challenge for him- can he get you off or fuck you while keeping you quiet enough to not get caught? Can he turn you on enough for you not to care if you do?  

You guys have got caught once in a bar parking lot. Luckily the person in question didn’t know you were having sex and just thought you were making out heavily. You were still fully clothed except for your panties. The skirt of your dress was spread over his lap covering the fact that he was buried deep inside of you. Both of you were so turned on that you continued with minimal thought after the person had made it to their car. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?) 

Jay has a high stamina. He is more willing to give up sleep to pull an all-night sexathon. If you are up for another round, most likely so is he. He just needs fifteen to thirty minutes for his refractory period. He is more than willing to keep you warm up with oral, fingerfucking, or just making out with caressing touches. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?) 

Jay isn’t a huge fan of toys. He won’t be offended if you ask to use them with him or add them to your sex play. He will use them and use them well but he would rather get you off himself. He is more into restraints and blindfolding his partners.  

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease) 

While Jay is a massive flirter and likes to tease you outside of the bedroom, he isn’t a big teaser sexually. He is a complete pleasure junky- your pleasure. He wants to make you feel good and is more likely to overstimulate you with orgasms than to edge you with teasing. He does it occasionally when he feels like you are being a brat and needs to be taught a lesson.     

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.) 

Jay isn’t necessarily loud but he is a groaner when he has sex. He likes to dirty talk in bed and loves to make you moan as loud as he can. You can get him to be pretty loud too with the right encouragement. Mostly it is a string of curses that turn into moans as you clench around him.  

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character) 

Right after Jay returned from deployment he was touch starved. He didn’t feel like himself enough to build new relationships or even maintain old ones. He spent his first few months bouncing from one girl's bed to the next using a fake name. During that period the sex felt mechanical and didn’t do much for him but it did give him the physical contact that he was craving. He would completely wear his partner out so he could lay there and hold them after they fell asleep. Unfortunately, it never really helped barely taking the itch away. He often left their beds feeling more empty and isolated than before.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes) 

Jay has an athletic build, and his body all smooth lean muscles. He has strong arms and broad shoulders. He had a washboard stomach with six-pack abs and a cut V of his hips. Jay is above average in the length of his cock easily hitting six and a half inches when he is hard. His dick is on the slender side but still thick enough that it takes your body time to adjust to him when he first slides in.    

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?) 

Jay has a high sex drive. He would prefer to have sex three to four times a week if you are willing. He is insatiable when he comes back from long UC operations. He can’t keep his hands off you or his lips to himself. When he is working bad cases or is having PTSD flashbacks his sex drive tends to drop drastically or cause dry spells.     

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) 

Jay wants to make sure you are taken care of after you have sex so he stays up until he is sure you have gotten the aftercare you need. He enjoys basking in his relaxed state, clear mind, and tired body, after his orgasm for as long as he can. You usually fall asleep first unless it has been a multiple-round night and you are curled up with him. Jay is a light sleeper from his time in the army and will wake up if you get up or move around too much in your sleep.  

[seat-safety-switch]

Recently, I was watching my cousin Neutral's dog, when he ate a whole pile of iron supplements. The dog, not the cousin. This would not ordinarily be a problem, except that I live next to a junkyard that still have a 1950s-style cartoon electromagnet in operation.

As you might expect, Rover (not his real name) was stuck up there for a really long time, until I was able to negotiate with the crane operator for his safe release. What price was on Rover's head? Paying their inflated rates for an alternator. I mean, fifty bucks for an 80-amp? This is robbery, I bitched, while trying to get the charge reduced to "some overpriced dashboard trim." Under duress, I paid it, and the dog was fine.

Of course, the true junkyard connoisseur can always make a silk purse out of a dog's ransom. When I selected my alternator, I got smart: I looked at all the terrible, holed-out hoopties and picked the one with an electrical fire in the interior. That can only mean one thing: poorly-installed giant subwoofers. And those babies need juice. Suddenly, I was walking out of there with an "80 amp" alternator that could produce four times that amount of jam, thanks to a heinously sketchy rewind courtesy of our town's least reputable stereo store.

You wouldn't expect such a prize to leave the junkyard uncontested. The crane operator immediately realized the scam I was pulling as I tried to pass off a chrome-plated, water-cooled thing of beauty (with a bunch of random chisel marks as I tried to force it off the tensioner) and started to blather about changing the deal. No dice: even dog-kidnapping junkyards have a moral code, I explained to him, and surely he wouldn't want me to bring it forth to The Council.

Anyway, I turned it into a go-kart motor and gave it to the neighbourhood kids. Alternators are kind of a fad, anyway: all you need to run a car's electrical system is to occasionally rotate a large ferrous object through some magnets. Rover is really good at "roll over," and as long as he doesn't hear that as "play dead," he should be able to at least keep the lights on, which will save me a lot of money in batteries too.

[maxybabyy]

i’m thinking about your max run club au again 😵‍💫 does daniel realize… the effect… max’s voice has on him? when do daniel and max meet in real life (if ever)?

😫 😫 i am always thinking about max run club ... but im sooo glad you're there with me! 🏃

in my mind they don't meet until after he and scotty break up. Daniel in a moderate sized LA apartment trying to figure out what to do with a bum knee and no race seat, when he goes to one of martijn's shows, and look who is there also :)

below the cut is the third part 😏 (part i, ii)

The first time he sees him, Daniel almost doesn’t notice.

He’s face-down on the sofa with his phone held loosely in his hand. He should probably be in bed, has an appointment with his physio in the morning, lunch with Blake after that. But Scotty’s in Canada for training camp, has been for the past two weeks, and Daniel hasn’t been sleeping well.

He had offered to come with him, with Scott. Made a joke about getting on the slopes too, “My knee’s been better, yeah? Reckon I could probably take you down for a run or two.” His knee still isn’t great but like, he could probably hang out in the hot tub, work on maybe, like a nice tan.

But Scotty had laughed, told him not to waste his time, “You don’t even like the snow, Ric. I’ll see you in a month, yeah?”

Daniel thinks maybe he’s allowed to feel like this, lonely and sad, scrolling through Instagram.

It’s worse then, when he sees the picture of Scotty. He’s shirtless and smiling, how Daniel likes him the best. There’s a sunburn on his nose, red and angry, and Daniel knows it must be painful. Can imagine almost how he must be complaining about it, refusing to put on aloe because he doesn’t like the sticky after-feel.  

It gets him a little hot, his hips pressing against the sofa almost unconsciously. He could probably like, get himself off. Come into his own hand and send him a picture, saying some shit like, thought of u ;).

But also, like. Daniel hasn’t heard from him in a few days, thinks maybe he’s not going to be the one to reach out this time.

He’s deep in his twitter feed, focus only half on the screen when he hears the voice.

He rewinds it and presses the phone to his ear, the volume turned loud as he listens, and there it is. Just a handful of lines in that sharp accent that Daniel recognises immediately with an odd sense of excitement.

He loops it over to hear it again, and Daniel feels it. The sudden burst of energy, conditioned almost by sound alone. He wants to put on his shoes and run, Max’s voice hoarse in his ears coaxing him to be faster, to be better. To make it good, make it last. And Daniel would, for him. For Max.

He grinds his dick into the sofa, reckons it would be half-hard if he reached down to touch it.

Daniel doesn’t do it, obviously. It would be too much, he knows. Getting hot and bothered by the sound of a voice, or like, not even that. Because it’s GP’s voice he can hear now, deep and British, and decidedly not Max’s. But even like this, Daniel feels out of control.

He loops it again before he even thinks about it.

Daniel doesn’t realise until he’s on his third listen that GP is talking about Max, “- and he can be himself with me, which I think is really important when you work together the way that Max and I do.”

There’s a shuffle in the background, and Daniel almost misses it, rewinds the video just a few seconds to watch as a guy pops in from the side to hug GP.

Daniel doesn’t have to think about it, knows already that it’s Max on the screen.

He can only see his backside but he’s already so fucking hot. The wide line of his shoulders, trim waist obvious from the cropped running top he’s wearing. His shorts are almost indecent too, sit barely below his ass to show off strong thighs.

Looking at him like this, Daniel cannot fucking breathe.           

Belatedly he noticed the link on the screen, a tag to their socials. It takes him to a YouTube page, Red Bull Running, and Daniel almost doesn’t – feels as the sour taste builds in his mouth.

It’s, like, objectively okay what he’s doing. He’s just a fan, that’s it. And like, Red Bull has probably hundreds of athletes, it’s barely even a connection.

Daniel doesn’t find it until he’s almost given up, hidden away at the bottom of the screen on a playlist called Max V. His cheeks feel flushed, his eyes heavy with maybe not sleep but something else, the illicit feeling making his fingers tingle.

He scrolls through it with his knee pulled to his chest, flicks through videos of Max on the treadmill, going over data with GP, crossing the line at the London marathon. He’s just as pretty as Daniel thought, wide smile and kind eyes as he laughs at his own silly joke.

He’s almost at the bottom, an absent yawn escaping his lips when he finds it. Yoga for Runners.

Foolishly, he clicks it, watches with a dry mouth as Max introduces himself. He sits squarely on the mat in a sunlit room. He isn’t wearing a shirt, back so straight it makes his pectorals look obscene. There’s a low-fi beat in the background, not too loud to drown out Max’s soft instructions guiding the viewer through a series of poses.

Daniel’s thumb hovers over the home button, ready to close out, to go to bed. And then Max bends over, ass to the camera in his tiny running shorts. It goes on forever. Max speaking softly, demonstrating with his hands the muscles he stretches, how to increase the pressure, where the strain should not be.

Max counts himself down, “You got, it. Four. Breathe deep for me, please,” lowers his knees and folds his chest almost to the floor, keeps his hips up high. “Here, you will feel the release of your rib cage. Obviously, like this it will give you a great stretch in the back also. Yes, just like this. You are of course doing so good.”  

Daniel bites into the meat of his palm, pants into his own sweaty hand. He balances his phone against a pillow and slides his hand down to his dick.

He digs out the bottle of lube that hasn’t been used in months, pours it into his hand, onto his dick. Pretends the slick sound of his hand is something else. It’s easy to do like this, Max’s voice steady in his ear, body moving with impressive control on screen.

“Sink in a little deeper for me, we are so close,” Max says, voice soft, hoarse. “Breathe into the sensation. It should of course feel good when we do this.”

Daniel should feel embarrassed, maybe, but he comes just as Max is winding down, spread out on his back, breathing heavy. “Max,” he sobs, breathless.

The video ends, replaced by a moment of silence. And then in an all too familiar voice, “Hello, everyone,” that makes Daniel’s stomach drop.

[iwtvfanevents]

Rewind the tape —Episode 5 highlights

One of our favorite outfits is...

...the one Claudia wears at the university!

Claudia proves herself to be a blossoming master of disguise. She overhauls her wardrobe in the fourth episode, once she makes the decision to start acting her age, putting on what she feels is a more age appropriate outfit —a vibrant red dress and lush fur-trimmed coat snagged from “a girl between speakeasies,” perhaps the beginnings of the burgeoning souvenir collection that is revealed in this episode. 

According to IWTV costume designer, Carol Cutshall, her concept for Claudia's “away at college” looks was "that her kills were guided by FASHION! Like a magpie she was drawn to shiny things and she was always SHOPPING”.

Here we see her style evolution take on a more subdued tone, to allow her to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Her costume, complete with an oversized sweater vest, book bag and a more fall semester appropriate fur-trimmed coat, should be more than enough to help her blend right in with the rest of the co-eds as she carries out her late night archival excavations. 

The look is appropriate and functional, a far cry from the luxury of her first foray into fashion, but it simply isn’t enough to deflect the attention of a wanna-be campus cop in a Letterman jacket, one she quickly repurposes later on in the episode.

What's a favorite look of yours? Claudia's overalls, or Louis' disheveled robes-and-pajama looks, maybe? His grey suit from the beginning of the episode, or his cozy sweater? Claudia's stripped dress from the opening? Rashid's all-black fit with the slightly transparent robe?

Reblog with your highlights, or make a new post with the tag #vampterview to join the conversation! And, if you're just getting caught up, learn all about our group rewatch here ►

[tapedsleeves]

This is Golden-knights-of-the-realm on my main blog and I wanted to say that I really enjoy your gifs and posts you make about the Vegas boys. I know I probably fill up your notifications a lot by reblogging your posts but I have enjoyed finding other blogs who also post about the VGK. Sometimes it can be hard to find Golden Knights fans on Tumblr, especially ones that are active, I have found so many that went dormant around 2019 or a little later. I just wanted to thank you for the great fan content you supply, as someone who doesn’t know how to make a gif I thank you. 😁

I love to see you in my notifications!!!!!!!! I didn't get into hockey until way later than 2019.

I'm glad you enjoy the gifs I make!!! They could probably be better, but mostly I make them because I'm compelled rather than as an art. And they're like. pretty simple to make the way I make them - mostly it's just.

obtain video (i use OBS studio to screen record. most of the time i try to get a legal stream so i can rewind, but if I'm not i rely on luck or twitter reposts. This is made way way way easier by the fact that I have a desktop with 2 monitors. every time i try to screen record on my laptop *something* goes wrong, istg.)

upload recorded video to ezgifs.com

choose length / quality / frames

adjust size to fit on tumblr either by trimming frames / frame rate / quality or by compressing (under 10 mbs)

save to computer

upload to tumblr & caption

TY!!!

[sparkagrace]

Welcome to my fic masterlist! Most fics are Steve x Bucky but listed if they're not. Everything is on my ao3 and divided up into series and standalones.

series

lane lines series ● complete sports au, olympics, swimming, rivals to lovers

lane lines ▪ mature | 132k | complete

lumiere ▪ mature | 5k | one-shot

new traditions ▪ mature | 6k | one-shot

treading water ▪ mature | 275k | complete

al, pal and alpine series ● ongoing kid fic, canon div, established relationship, domestic fluff

the question ▪ gen | 3k | one-shot

the pancakes ▪ teen | 7k | one-shot

ballet shoes ▪ teen | 3k | one-shot

post-match ▪ teen | 4.8k | one-shot

london calling ▪ teen | 11k | complete

mouth bones ▪ teen | 4.3k | one-shot

flower girl ▪ teen | 3k | one-shot

fire escape ▪ teen | 6k | one-shot

the proposals ▪ gen | 4k | one-shot

last train home series ● complete modern au, fluff, slice of life, established relationship

last train home ▪ gen | 1k | one-shot

found a place to fit ▪ teen | 4k | one-shot

the third day in january ▪ teen | 5k | one shot

parental advisory ▪ teen | 5k | one-shot

six months and counting ▪ teen | 5.7k | one-shot

his, his and theirs ▪ teen | 3.7k | one-shot

sunday lunch ▪ teen | 4.5k | one-shot

dial 'u' for uncles ▪ teen | 7.5k | one-shot

off track ▪ teen | 5.9k | one-shot

standalones

coffee stains ▪ teen | 6k | one-shot shrunkyclunks, post-avengers (2012), meet-ugly

off the record ▪ mature | 37k | complete shrunkyclunks, post-avengers (2012), reporter!bucky barnes

be kind, rewind ▪ mature | 47k | complete shrunkyclunks, 90s au, becca barnes

fifteen-love ▪ teen | 5k | one-shot au, tennispro!steve, actor!bucky, meet-ugly

rough edges ▪ mature | 33k | complete sports au, ice dancing, rivals, road trip

the white wolf of wall street ▪ teen | 2.5k | one-shot au, werewolf!bucky, stock market

nobody else ▪ teen | 5k | one-shot pre-serum steve, unrequited love, 1940s

no church in the wild ▪ teen | 3k | one-shot pre-serum steve, captain america bucky, winter soldier sam

i’ll take your roses (if you cut off the thorns) ▪ teen | 5k | one-shot runaway groom, florist au, pre-serum steve

Steve Rogers, PA ▪ teen | wip hunkyclinks, personal assistant steve, winter soldier bucky

comic books and coffee cups ▪ teen | 4.7k | one-shot modern au, coming out, fluff

non-steve x bucky

so deck the halls (trim those trees) ▪ teen | 5k | one-shot bucky & natasha & clint, roommates, modern au, christmas

evanstan

haylofts & cashmere ▪ mature | 10k | one-shot au, meet ugly, farm life, mechanic!chris, ceo!seb

tangled up ▪ teen | 9.5k | one-shot spiders, 5+1, friends to lovers

misc. masterlists

tumblr ficlets

stuckybingo masterlist

[queen-simia]

finally gave Murder Drones a shot after seeing its final episode just aired, and... yeah. it was WAY too compressed to tell the story it wanted in the time it gave itself.

at first I thought maybe I was just too old for it (and admittedly I very much am Not the Target Demographic), but repeated viewing confirmed there was just way too much crammed in and fired out way too quickly. hell, it took THREE full viewings (with pauses and frequent rewinds!) to make sure I even understood the plot.

like, I get wanting to draw your viewers in with details and making them put the pieces together. however, there's a huge difference between setting a puzzle down in front of someone, and chucking the same puzzle at them full speed down a highway. For example, on my second watch, I was desperately looking for whatever scene I missed that explained why Uzi developed the same vampiric tendencies as the disassemblers, but found I hadn't missed anything. I was just supposed to piece it together that she'd developed them out of the Solver's need to amass matter to heal... which I could only do after having watched the whole series and obsessively combing through subtitled rapid-fire dialogue to pick up every detail.

and... no. That's not even touching on the whole deal with what exactly the Solver/Cyn is (which I think I finally have a tenuous grasp on only after viewing #3). like... multiple viewings should be encouraged for fans who want to delve into lore and worldbuilding. They shouldn't be required just to understand the story in the first place.

it's frustrating because the world hinted at and the ideas presented in Murder Drones are so intriguing, but they're delivered so goddamn fast that it detracts from the whole experience. if the creator really only wanted to do a miniseries, it needed a LOT of trimming. The Cyn-Solver being a corruptible entity that requires an unstable host to grow its strength is a really strong concept, but one that needs much, MUCH more space to explore. And with a massive load of plot detail crammed into the last three of eight episodes, I feel like it was a huge disservice to the overall story.

eh. it sucks because I like so much of what I saw, but am really frustrated with how it was presented. I mean, it clearly is commercially successful (as much as a YouTube series can be considered commercial), but y'know what I mean. It could have been so much better if it had taken its time.

or maybe I'm just old. could be that, too.

[wishingstarinajar]

I just discovered your son rewind and I love him so much omg???????????????

Question for rewind-

Where did you get inspiration for your clothing style? (I love it btw)

His want for comfort was his inspiration. Baggy pants with an elastic waist, comfy sneakers with velcro straps for easy removal and putting on, an oversized puffer jacket with padded lining and thick fur trim around the hood, and a grin-embroidered mask for that extra sense of comfort.

Comfy all around!

..... Sure, the crop top doesn't exactly say "comfy" but it has a level of comfort with the sleeves being fingerless glove sleeves so it's snuggy!

[words-are-fireproof]

With the Kids in the Gym (Ribbons Part IV)

(gif by @nicolethered)

Summary: Marcus helps Missy with Guppy and goes out on a limb.

Rating: T

Content: kids being kids, uncertain Marcus Moreno should come with a warning, anxiety, disabled canon and original character, Marcus being soft and fluffy.

A/N: As always, this story is unbetaed. Sorry, not sorry. ;P

Word Count: 3.9k (this chapter is chonky)

[Masterlist] || [Series Masterlist] || Part Three || Part Five

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The sounds of the gym met Marcus’ ears as he stood outside the big glass windows. Big brown eyes watched as Missy and Guppy trained in front of a large mirror and punching bag. Guppy pummeled the punching bag with her shark strength, and he couldn’t help but laugh when Missy had to jump away from the bag because it kept swinging precariously on its carabiner. He couldn’t exactly tell what his daughter was saying to the little pint sized hero, but whatever she was saying wasn’t exactly sinking into the little one’s head.

Despite whatever Missy was–or wasn’t–accomplishing, he couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride for his daughter. He never doubted her for a second. Not when the entire fate of the world rested on her small shoulders. Not when the subsequent training seemed to push her down. She kept getting back up. Every single time. He knew exactly where she got her strength from. Others would say that she got it from him, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. She got her resilience from him, maybe, but her strength she got from Laura.

A sharp pain stabbed furiously in his chest.

He took a deep breath to try to steady it, to make it go away, but it lodged there and didn’t want to move. This happened every single year, sometimes more than once a day. Around this time of year, it seemed to linger from sun up to sun down and sometimes it even seeped into his dreams and nightmares at night. Of course, Aaron’s words and the reason why he currently stood at the gym doors didn’t help matters either. He knew that. He also knew it wouldn’t go away until he did something about it.

He took a deep breath, carding a hand through his shaggy dark hair. He needed a trim. He’d set up the appointment later. For now, he let the breath steady him as he pushed into the gym, letting the door shut behind him. His eyes surveyed the thinning crowd. All the kids were there with various equipment. Training. Rewind and Fast Forward seemed to be working together much smoother than they had in the beginning. After the takeover, they still had their issues, and sometimes they didn’t work together well, but any progress was better than nothing.

Slo-Mo was the real MVP of the post-takeover team up. The slow moving hero finally moved at almost regular speed now. With Missy’s and his dad’s help, he finally learned how to control his speed. There were still moments when he moved too slowly–he noticed it when the kid seemed tired at the end of day or after a particularly long training session–but for the most part, the kid moved normally. He chalked it up to Missy’s strength as a leader–among other things.

A sense of pride welled in his chest, replacing the sharp pain for a little while.

The only person he couldn’t see in his survey of the crowd was the one person he wanted to see the most. Keilah. A frown tugged at his lips, and he tried not to entertain the disappointment he felt rising within him. Maybe she left early that day. Maybe Aaron just wanted to tease him. Maybe pursuing her would end up being a fool’s errand. Marcus didn’t know, but he didn’t like the feeling currently settling inside of him. It felt needy and desperate and oh, so terribly stupid. Why did he think he could do this, whatever in the hell this was? He was a widower. No matter what Aaron said about getting a life, it already didn’t feel worth it.

Another sigh and he walked through the gym to Guppy and Missy, just barely missing a whack from the punching bag.

“Guppy,” Missy began, exasperation tinged the edges of her voice, “try it again. Focus on the power you feel when you’re in a rage but don’t actually go into a rage.”

Guppy whipped around on Missy and bared her teeth, snapping at the older girl fiercely. Marcus chuckled softly as Guppy began waylaying the bag again.

“How’s it going nina?”

“Well, I’ve already had to break up Fast-Forward and Rewind today. Wheels is skipping arm day because he thinks he doesn’t need it, and Wild Card’s just been messing around and setting mats on fire because he can.” She huffed, her hands settling on her hips.

“Sounds like a normal day for me.”

She snorted softly. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Well, if you remember, I didn’t do a good job of it. Not at the end, after all.”

She made a face, her lips and nose scrunching a bit. “You have a point.”

“Don’t I always?” He asked as he playfully reached to pull her in a one armed hug.

“Dad,” Missy whined playfully.

“Missy,” Marcus whined back teasingly. But he let her go.

She never failed to make him feel better. He felt a surge of gratitude for her. Gratitude and pride. It threatened to boil over making him insufferable, but he held it back. She didn’t need an overly prideful father who couldn’t see her shortcomings or help her overcome them. She needed someone to help her whenever he could. He admitted, he didn’t always have the answers, but he was more than happy to try.

This felt like one of those times.

“Do you want me to get onto Wild Card?”

She shook her head. “You know it wouldn’t work.”

“You have a point.”

Then, his gaze landed on Guppy. “What’s up with her today?”

“Shark Boy and Lava Girl are off on assignment.”

“Ah. She’s having a hard time adjusting,” he said knowingly.

“You know her well,” she admitted easily.

He wasn’t sure how true that was. He felt like he knew Guppy well. Truthfully, he had a soft spot for the little girl. In a lot of ways, she reminded him of Missy when she was her age. Missy had been a wild child. He and Laura had a hard time reigning her in. When she had just learned how to walk, she toddled everywhere, getting into everything, tearing books off shelves and pulling pans out of cabinets to bang on them and make noise. She had a wicked temper sometimes. Only Laura could calm her in those days. After she’d died, Missy seemed to calm down a lot, perhaps somehow knowing that he’d need a much more mellow child. He loved both sides of Missy. Just as he adored both sides of Guppy.

“I do,” he concured. “Tell you what. Take ten or go help someone else. I’ll handle her for a little bit.”

Relief immediately spread over Missy’s face. “Thanks, Dad.”

She left to go help put out one of Wild Card’s fires. He watched her walk away with a smile before he turned his attention back on Guppy. The little girl’s wild punching of the bag ceased. Wide blue eyes trained on him and her stance immediately softened. He grinned, crouching down to get on her level.

“Hey, Guppy.”

“Marcus!” She wrapped her arms around him in a hug. “What are you doing here?”

He hugged her back briefly. “Well, I’m here to see if Missy needs any help.”

She pulled back a little to peer at him curiously. “You’ve never came and helped before,” she said, her little lisp making him smile wider.

“No, I know.”

She frowned. “Did we do something wrong?”

He settled her gently back on her tiny feet. “What? No.”

“Because when the grown ups come to check in on us, it’s because we did something wrong.”

Marcus shook his head, his kind eyes trained reassuringly on her. “No, Gup. You’re fine. Though,” his gaze flicked over to Missy and Wild Card, “I might have to get onto Wild Card.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “He’s not being very nice to Missy.”

“Yeah, I know. But he’s just a kid. You’re all kids. You’re allowed to have bad days sometimes.”

Her little face scrunched up as she stood there and thought what must have been a mighty large thought. His expression softened and he had to resist a laugh as it began to bubble up in his chest.

“Marcus?”

“Yes, little miss?” The nickname fell from his lips easily without him even realizing it.

Her lips curved into a wide smile that almost devoured her face. She liked that nickname. He’d have to remember that.

“Are adults allowed to have bad days, too?”

The blood in his veins buzzed a little bit. For a moment, he allowed his attention to drift. The sound of a fire extinguisher hissed to his left. He tilted his head. He didn’t need to look behind him to know that Missy was dutifully putting out literal fires. Then, to his right, he heard the door to the gym squeak open and squeak shut, latching with a soft click that he felt more than heard. A rather unfortunate training mishap had seen the then head of HQ swap out all metal from the gym equipment, but the door hinges and door knob hadn’t ever been changed. They always pulled at his powers when he wasn’t paying attention, his fingers tingling with the life in them.

When he looked toward the door, he saw Keilah with her head down, stalking across the gym with her head down, hair swept up in a ponytail. Her ever present headphones sat dutifully in her ears. His heart pounded in his chest. Aaron was right. She came to train at the end of the day. In the back of his mind, it made sense. With the kids here, there were less adults present. Less adults meant less people intent on bothering her. He’d have to remember that.

Keilah sat her stuff down at the leg press just across from them. Marcus watched her for a long moment before he remembered that Guppy asked him a question and he hadn’t responded yet.

He cleared his throat and returned his attention to the little girl in front of him.

“They have more bad days than you think they do.”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “Do you have a lot of bad days?”

Marcus nodded. “I do.” He took a breath, considered, then continued, “You know this morning I destroyed a sofa bed because I had a bad night.”

The look on her face broke his heart. He briefly wondered if it was a bad idea to let her in on his bad days, but if they helped her, maybe it wouldn’t be a total loss.

“Missy says I need to control my shark frenzies because it’s bad for the team.”

“You don’t think they’re bad, do you?” He asked curiously, figuring he knew what the little girl would say.

“I’m stronger when I’m in them,” she stated with a shrug.

“Maybe you are, little miss, but think of how much stronger you’d be if you channeled your strength and were fully conscious of what you were doing.”

Guppy lifted an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you should stop relying on your frenzies and train your natural strength.”

She stared at him for a long moment before shaking her head. “I don’t understand.”

Marcus blew out a breath, palming the back of his neck as he tried to think of an easier way to explain what he meant. All the while, his eyes drifted over to watch Keilah as she began her work out. He longed to talk to her, but he knew that helping Guppy was the right thing to do. That and he could hear Missy and Wild Card arguing behind him.

“Okay, so. Your frenzies put others at danger because you let anger…push you along. Right?”

“Yes…” she answered slowly, uncertainly.

“So what you need to do is find inner peace. There you find your greatest strength.”

She frowned. “How do I do that while fighting?”

“I’m not sure.” He rested his hands on hips, fingers tapping his belt in thought. “You meditate, right?” Guppy nodded eagerly. “What do you do to meditate?”

She shrugged elaborately. “I just sit down and not listen to people.”

A strangled laugh died rather unceremoniously in his throat. He shouldn’t laugh, but he couldn’t help it. It was such a simple answer for such a complex little girl.

“It doesn’t help, does it?” She shook her head. “I didn’t think so.” He tapped his belt some more as he continued to think. “Okay, we’re going to try something. It’ll be a work in progress, so you’ll have to trust me.”

“I trust you.”

You’re the only one, he thought bitterly, and he wasn’t even sure why he thought it.

“So…can I ask you something? Before we start?” She shrugged. “How do you feel right now?”

Her face scrunched in thought. “Sad. I miss my mom and dad.”

“I know how that feels. Being sad. You know how I use my sadness to fight? I channel it through me and let it fuel me, but I also use it to calm me.”

“Sadness calms you?”

“Yeah, in a way. Because I miss my wife, and when I think about her, it makes me sad but I also remember the good times we had together. So, think of your mom and dad and think of all the good times you have when they’re here.”

“You think that will help me?”

“I think it could, yeah. So, try it. Punch the punching bag and let the sadness and happiness move through you, but try to keep the anger at bay. Try not to be angry at them. They will be back soon and think of how great that will be.”

Her brows furrowed thoughtfully as she slowly turned to face the punching bag. She considered it for a long moment then started punching the bag, slowly at first, then quicker as time went on. He wondered if what he said was working for her. He wished he had powers of telepathy, but then he was glad he didn’t. Telepathy would be too much to bear for him. He knew this far too well. He’d seen good heroes come and go who had telepathy and they couldn’t be saved. He didn’t want to be one of those people.

His thoughts were pulled from that line of thinking and he turned to watch Keilah as she sparred silently with a holographic sentinel. Marcus envied her solitude. He wished he could have just a fraction of it. He wondered if it would make him feel better. Maybe it could help him feel more centered and less out of control, especially now as he dealt with the memories that continued to pummel him, even as he stood there. He listened to the faint squeaks of the punching bag, not paying attention to Guppy until he heard the loud thump of the bag breaking free from its hook on the wall and falling to the ground a few feet ahead of them.

“Oops,” Guppy quickly covered her mouth in horror. “I’m sorry, Marcus.”

“Hey, it’s okay. There’s no need to apologize.” He glanced between the downed bag and the little girl beside him. “Are you angry?” She shook her head. “How do you feel?”

“Strong,” she beamed in pride behind her hands.

“I’d say it worked, then, don’t you?”

“Well…”

“Guppy.”

“I might have gotten a little angry.”

He crouched down in front of her. “Can I ask why?”

It looked like Guppy was about to answer when her blue eyed gaze rose to just past his left shoulder. He turned to be met with Keilah, all beautiful and wonderful and standing there with her hair pulled up in a ponytail, barely breaking a sweat despite her fight with the sentinel. She smiled down at him and his heart skipped a beat. He tried to ignore the fact that Guppy stood there, watching him and his reaction to the woman. He could see out of the corner of his eye that the little girl was smiling from ear to ear. Dios mio.

“Uh, hi,” Marcus said as he stood up to face her.

Hi, she hastily scrawled on the notebook she held in her hand. I wondered if I could help you?

“Help…help with…” He trailed off and motioned at Guppy who just giggled.

“My name is Guppy!”

Hi, Guppy. If you have it handled, then I can just go.

“Oh, no. It's fine. You can help. Of course you can help.”

She laughed and looked at the bag on the floor before scribbling quickly, Can’t help with the punching bag, though.

Marcus chuckled as well, trying to keep from snorting unceremoniously. He turned to look at Guppy. “Want to move to the sentinels?” The little girl nodded eagerly. “Perfect. Let’s move over there.” Then he frowns. “I won’t be kicking you out, will I?”

Keilah shrugged. It’s okay. I’m not feeling like training today anyway.

He laughed again. “Noted.”

The three of them went off to the little corner of the gym that Keilah once occupied and the three of them began to train. Marcus tried to keep himself from staring at Keilah too much, but he didn’t feel very successful with that endeavor. She looked beautiful. Even with the headphones in her ears. Even in her gym clothes. Especially in her gym clothes. He tried not to be lewd, but as she crouched down to help Guppy, he couldn’t help but sneak a look. He immediately felt dirty and straightened up, averting his gaze from her to focus on Guppy.

Soon, Guppy was off fighting sentinels on her own and the two of them watched her closely. He stood near enough to Keilah that he could feel the heat radiating off the skin of her arm. In fact, he could feel the blood singing in her body, the iron calling to him faintly under layers of skin, muscle, and sinew. It felt so strange yet not unwelcomed. Not at all. Marcus liked feeling it. For the most part, he’d learned to ignore it. But with her, it was hard to ignore. It felt like a siren’s call, his fingers tingling with the feeling. He wanted to reach out and touch her, but he couldn’t imagine that would go over very well. He knew it wouldn’t. So, he shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to ignore it.

He also tried to ignore it when he felt a very soft hand lay briefly on his forearm. He turned to face her and was immediately met with her notebook full of her delicate writing.

My name’s Keilah. I’m sorry. I realize now we’ve never properly met.

He shook his head. “It’s alright. I’m Marcus.”

Her cheeks turned a light pink as she wrote quickly. I know who you are. I used to have your poster hanging up in my room. She looked mortified as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ears, showing him what she wrote.

He chuckled, palming the back of his neck awkwardly. “Oh, um, thanks, I guess?”

She scribbled quickly on her notebook again. Sorry. This is awkward. I…don’t usually talk to people.

“Is it okay if I asked why?”

I’m deaf.

His eyes briefly widened. “Oh, oh. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I didn’t realize that. It makes sense now.” Then his brows furrowed in thought. “Do I need to be writing on the notebook too? Would that be easier?”

Her shoulders relaxed a bit and even the blood in her body seemed to stop moving so quickly. Her heart slowed down. He felt it and immediately knew the answer to that question.

It would be, actually. Reading lips exhausts me. I try to make do, but it doesn’t always work.

Marcus smiled, holding out his hands expectantly for the notebook. He tried to ignore the way her eyes seemed to shine at the realization that he was serious. He was going to do this for her. He wondered how many people overlooked her because of her disability, how many people didn’t make concessions for her. He imagined that more often than not, people didn’t care or take the time to learn what she needed to thrive.

When he took the notebook, he immediately started writing. What else would make you more comfortable? If you don’t mind telling me.

She stood there, considering that for a long moment before she took the notebook again to write, I can’t think of anything right now. If I think of something, I’ll let you know.

He nodded. Awkward silence settled over the pair. Guppy continued to fight, but Marcus noticed that she was beginning to slow down. The girl must be getting tired. He shut off the simulation after she downed one of them with some difficulty. Confusion shone all over her face as she looked over to the both of them.

“That’s all for the day, Guppy. You did good, little miss.”

She beamed. “Thank you, Marcus.”

“You’re welcome. Now get cleaned up, okay?”

She nodded eagerly, disappearing into the newly designated kids’ locker rooms to get cleaned up and changed into her regular clothing. One by one, the other kids began to do the same, all of them in various degrees of exhaustion until the only people left in the gym were him, Keilah, and the trainer who had the rather unfortunate job of trying to find a new place to hang the punching bag. It made him chuckle quietly to himself.

Suddenly, he felt the edge of the notebook poke into his chest. He looked down, eyes scanning the writing.

You’re good with her.

Guppy? Oh, yeah. She’s one of Missy’s best friends. She’s fun.

It seems like it.

Yeah. He took a deep breath, about to hand the notebook back to her when he took a leap, deciding to add something to it that made his heart pound in his chest. Do you want to go get lunch with me?

Her eyes widened briefly as she considered, writing back hastily, Sure.

He couldn’t believe it. She said yes. He thought maybe she would let him down easily and say no, but no. She said yes. He could hear the hollow rush of his blood pounding in his ears. His fingers prickled with his barely contained powers. At the front of the gym, he could hear the hinges and the door knob of the door squeaking under the pull of his metal manipulation. He swallowed thickly and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“Sorry. Um, great. That’s great. Is tomorrow too soon?” Keilah shook her head. “Good. Good. That’s…that’s great, actually.”

She beamed right as Missy came out of the locker room, her bag slung over her shoulder. “Dad, are you ready to go?’

He turned his attention to his daughter. “Si, I’m ready. Let’s go.” Then he turns back to Keilah. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?” She nodded. “Perfect.”

He smiled, in fact, he couldn’t stop smiling. His powers still tugged at the metal in the doorframe despite them being shoved in his pockets. He could still feel the slight tingle of the iron in her blood. He tried to ignore it but couldn’t. For the first time in a long time, he felt alive. Now if only he could stop himself from going power crazy before he got home. This should be interesting.

[asaltyrat]

Tools of the Trade - Gnolbard’s Request

Wood smoke filled the forest clearing. The mixed scent of a warm fire and a savory meal had started to work its way through the still wind. There, sat in the center, next to the crackling fire was the impossibility of a Gnollish woman, dressed in proper clothing made of flax and cotton rather than furs and rawhide, as was against tradition. She sat there, tending the fire, turning a fat haunch of meat on a spit.

It was a particularly fatty piece of meat. Poorly marbled, badly butchered, but the Gnoll didn’t care. A Gnoll is many things. Resourceful, creative, crafty. Nothing would be wasted, Not the drippings falling from the meat, into a earthenware bowl that sat nestled in the warm ashes, nor the animal’s gut, that the woman had taken off the hands of the butcher who, otherwise, would have thrown them into the refuse pile with the rest of the day’s remnants. She was familiar with spiced offal, but this wasn’t the day for it. Too little salt, not enough herbs. It had been set to dry over the cooler part of the fire.

At her side, on a lain out cloth, was a fine wooden mandolin. It was hard worked but lovingly cared for. Imperfect, where the worn spots where the varnish had worn away from a tender grip turned the tan fine grain into a pale divot. It laid there, missing one of the thinnest strings on the fret. The Gnoll never learned the names of these notes. They never felt right in her head. Single letters didn’t give the sound and song any meaning that she could come to grips for. To feel in her heart. Her mentor only called the thing string ‘Like a songbird’. A light, sweet tone.

The Bard loved that note the most, oft plucking it with the tip of her smallest finger’s claw as she drummed on the body or idly sat in mead halls and taverns while waiting her turn to perform. That loving attention netted it one too many plucks, haphazard against her sharp claw. It was an unfortunate reality that gut string only lasted so long. And now, it was time for her to do her duty. A mixture of somber feelings of guilt and elation that she had the chance to show her beloved treasure the care and attention it deserved.

And so she began to sing. Jaunty and quiet. Equal parts in celebration in tempo to the tone of a lullaby.

Over the hills and through the dale,

We lift upon our silver vales,

A song oft sung apart.~

Carefully she took the sinew and gut from the spit, pliable and dry. Deft fingers tied it to the base of the metal spit, and she began to stretch it, first in sections, then as a whole.

When the sun is come

And until the day is done

We lift the song alone.~

Her voice lifted some. The worry that the gut would snap as it drew thinner passed, and she grasped the fiber between her sharp teeth, behind her longer canines, and dragged it to tear away lingering meat and coarse fat. Between those nips and drags, she continued her song.

A hard day’s work nets silver-and-gold

An evening spent, merchant’s haul sold

And never a night so-cold~

She was happy with her work, with the gut stripped to a proper string, she paused to replace the broken note, she made her treasure complete. Trimming and tuning, twisting the string taut until she heard that familiar songbird, testing it on that same claw that had snapped it earlier in the day. Then came the polishing.

A light rag was dipped into the animal fat coming from her meal for the evening, and gentle as she could, began to buff the wooden surface of her instrument. She cared not to rewind time, to restore it back to the glory it once was. But to give her beloved a glossy sheen, to keep the water and dust off for a time. It glimmered in the firelight, reflected her pearly smile, a satisfied grin that game with a truly warmed heart. Her friend was whole, and she expected no thanks in return.

In reality, she was quietly thanking the mandolin for its time, its patience, and its trust to come back to her. It was settled back on her lap, a few careful plucks to test it. She began her song anew.

This time, they sung together, her beloved tittering songbirds playing along the toads and the frogs and the joyful beating of her palm along the wooden body. As joyful as any long coming reunion between friends, as if they were never apart.

Over the hills and through the dale

We lift upon our Silver Vales

A song oft sung apart~

And when sun has come

And until the day is done

We lift this song along~

A hard day’s work nets silver-and-gold

An evening spent, a merchant’s haul sold

And never a night so-cold~

Travelers come from down the road

To sing and dance, unite, unfold

To ale and glee once more~

Never too-long the dawn has come

And til we meet, our work is done

We sing our long farewell~

Never to sad, we’ll meet again

When firelights shine, our heads will spin

‘Neath our Silver Vales~

The moon had creeped out from behind the forest canopy, casting a cool light that barely pushed into the campfire’s glow. Her mandolin was placed back on that spread cloth to keep it from the dirt and ash of her home away from home, and she turned to her dinner.

A Gnoll is many things. Caring, Stubborn, Careful. She is Resolute, Crafty, and Loving.

And for now, with her task done, and care shown to her beloved? A Gnoll is hungry.

[fineprintedsunsets]

Chapter 1: Strange

this is not edited, it's a part of a series, check out my master list for details.

 Doctor Stephen Strange. I’ve heard of him, hard not to. He was the guy who restored a sanctuary, brought life back into New York. Even though, a year ago. His hands were steady at the operating table, now he works his way around mystical magic, wielding something much more dangerous then a scalpel.

Magic is dangrerous, yet somehow we all wish to wield it. To get a taste of the adrenaline that course through the veins, to show off, the brag about how you, only you, can save a whole world with just a snap of the fingers. What happens when you have to pay the price for the demons you’ve created along the way?

A person told me once, that your demons never leave you, and as much as I hated to admitted, she was right. Demons prowl at the edge of your bed, that sink their claws into your spine and they tear at you day by day. The angels we meet hardly last, because unlike demons, there life meant something valuable and the knowledge they whisper are not for human ears

Angels are more demons, then demons themselves. Holding that information, keeping into themselves. 

I no longer believe in Heaven or Hell, worthless phenomenons if you ask me on a given day. But what is true, are the beings that walk beneath the elevation of our earth. Demons and Angels are real, but the places, practically fairytales to scare children into behaving, or to persuade widows with absent families to go church every Sunday. They are untrue. 

I was a whisper once, still am truly. I’m the thing that parents tell there children to behave for. I am not Krampus, nor am I Old Saint Nick. I am Pareidolia. I find meaning when things have none. My large wings, my demon horns, and my glowing red eyes make others advert their gazes. I arrange myself in a group called The Collectors. We’ve been searching for an item in Strange’s possession for awhile now. I can’t have my own demons, I already am one. 

Strange owns a watch. A sentimental object given his protection over it. The watch is nothing to us, but the hands, the things that make that clock tick. Are made of something so dangerous, it’s hard to concede. 

Plasmanianin Metal. A metal harmful for humans to touch, to breath in, to look at. Plasmatros is where I come from, making me and the other collectors immune to the might sting of the metal. But Strange? It’s hard to understand how the watch has not burned through his skin. 

It’s the last object we need, to perform the Resurrection Ritual. To bring back my sister. She is not dead, instead she resides in the land of the angels, clouded by greed and false hope. Madneko is the land in which humans refer to as Heaven, and Hell? Plasmatros. 

But if were all just demons, living with other demons, who want Angels to watch over them, What are humans? 

A pain in my fucking ass.

“Can you hurry up? Surely the Doctor doesn't have much to do at 11:00pm” I’m shocked he’s still receiving visitors at this time, but his main desk, occupied with his human pet must run a full turn of the sun. 

“Stephen is in a mood today, but go on in.” I point for Pactolus to stand at one side of me, while Panolia at the other. They are my greatist protectors. I wear my human skin today, making my red hair shine, my horns tucked into my scalp, and my wings vanishing beneath my rib bones. 

Playing human is fun, until you have to act like them.

We push back the doors to the Santum, watching as Strange messes with a cup of water, rewinding the time so he can keep taking mouthfulls without ever having to get up. 

Lazy pigs. 

I cannot lie, Strange is anything but unattractive. His hair is perfectly combed, with a few flyaways settled at the top, and his subtle nicely trimmed. Even some demons back in Plasmatro don’t compare to this human. 

I try to hid my disgust. 

Panolia and Pactolus stay at my side, they too wearing human skin. I clear my throat as Strange takes another gulp, resting his feet up on a large desk. His attire is leather, blue and red. Of course, accompanied by, the levitating cloak he received at Kamar-Taj.

“Name?” Strange speaks, his voice is entitled, something humans seem to posses alot of. 

Entitlement. He sits on throne he did not carve. 

“Pare.” 

“This is Pan.” I tip my chin at the blonde women to my right,

“And Pac.” I motion to Pactolus on my left. His black hair seemingly sucking the light out of this room. 

“Lies.” He smiles, cocking his head. Stephen raises a brow and takes another sip of water. The Time Stone lights against his chest each time he loops the action.

I narrow my eyes, never wanting to be upshown by a human. Especially this one. 

“Take off the mask.” He says it with intimacy, his voice the same high tone I despise. I grit my teeth, but do not remove my human disguise. 

“Pan, Pac. Let me handle it.” My protectors hesitate, before the nod, and walk outside the door letting it close. I can feel them, stationed just outside.

“Hello, Pareidolia” Stephen cocks a small smile, standing from his desk, rounding the wooden piece of furniture before crossing his ankles against each other, and settling against the wood frame. I almost gasp as he eyes take in my human body. Why am I feeling something? What is this human doing?

He rolls his eyes, seeing I have yet to unveil myself. “Does the demon not want to play?”

The rage the fills my bones is unlike any other. The nerve of this bastard, thinking he has the right to taunt me. It’s a privilege his eyes get to lay upon me. I stretch the human skin away, feeling it break, seeping back into my bones. He watches. This act feels intimate to, almost as if he’s watching me undress. A certain heat shoots through my body and all I want to do is recoil in disgust. 

I roll my eyes into my head, replacing them with the glowing pools of red. My horns tear through my skull, growing as he watches it all. Even as I breath in and out, forcing the wings to break from my back, watching the feathered black cardilage expand from me. My armor coils around me like spider venom, crawling up and down my arms, legs, and back. Piercing together by each strand until.. 

I stand in front of him as Pareidolia not Pare. Stephen eyes roam me, his human hands gripped against the desk. I see him walk toward me, but I don’t move. He circles me, eyes my wings, my horns, my eyes, my thighs. Even if their covered with metal, I still feel a jolt of electricity shoot from my body to my pressure point. 

“What do you request of me?” He raises an eyebrow, stationing himself back at his desk, his ankles crossed, his cape dangling almost effortlessly over his sides. 

“I need the metal.” 

“Need, or want?” I step forward, my voice forcing itself into a growl. 

“It is not time for your games. A life hangs at stake.” 

Stephen looks at me, cocking another grin. I suck in a breatth as he opens up his vile, but somewhat large mouth to speak. 

“Ah yes. The sister who choose Heaven over Hell.” I ignore how he knows it already, the story of me, my sister, Angels and Demons. He knows my story, but Stephen Strange does not know me. 

He dosent seem the least bit intimidated by my demon frame, and it makes it all the more unsettling. If the watch wasn't already enough. 

“Just give me it and we can go our separate ways.” I grumble, my voice ringing loud in his office. I cringe at it, the space in which he works. 

“Why would I give my watch, a 800 dollar model, to a demon?” 

“You don’t care about it’s value.” 

“I do. Just not in the way you think.” He mutters, more to himself. But his eyes never leave my bruning red ones. It’s odd in of itself. Everything about this human being is odd..

What if he’s not. 

A human being, I mean.

I speak to Pac and Pan through mind, travelling the message through their Protecter bonds. 

It’s possible. Pac answers first.

What would it make him if he’s not from Madneko or Plasmatros? Pan answers a few moments later. I table our mind conversation and focus on Strange again. 

“Please, Don’t stop discussing dinner plans on my account.” He holds up his hands as if he didn’t mean to interrupt, before crossing his arms against his chest and smiling.

A fucking smile. 

“Who are you?” I ask,

“What are you?” I confirm, sounding almost breathless. He knew what I was when I stepped into this room, he knew of my family, my problem, he knew of my communication with Pac and Pan through Protection Bonds. 

“I am Doctor Stephen Strange. As for what I am, I’d say a bit hungry at the moment.” Stephen smiles my way, as if somehow finding this all amusing. I creek my neck, suck in a breath, and exhale as I return back to my red-haired human. 

“If you’ll excuse me.” He crosses his hands, summons a sparking portal, and walks through it. I watch as the sparks fly, closing behind him as a mark burns away on the floor.

Fucking Bastard.

[ktlovely]

Today I bought a guillotine-style paper cutter on FB Marketplace because I might be a little bit Autistic.

You see, I was telling MFH the other day that my brain has decided that Sirius XM Classic Rewind is the PROPER channel to be playing when we are in his car. That is the car drive noise. If we get in and the channel is set to "classic vinyl" or some shit, I'm like NOPE. WRONGE.

I got done with this mini rant and looked over at him and went. "...I'm Autistic, aren't I?" And because he is MFH (My Fkin Favorite Husband) he just smiled fondly and nodded a lot.

Honestly probably nobody who knows me and also anything about my maternal grandpa and my mom will be surprised by this but it turns out all the indicators for Autism and especially Girl Autism are basically symptoms of a super duper stressed out Autistic person. I'm told there's not a lot of data on Autistic people who were raised in loving, accommodating environments that validated them and allowed them to cultivate their existences to suit their needs...which is what I had. It hasn't been until this year that I've even begun to think about whether or not that sort of thing might run in my family, and it was due to a post on FB about mid-20th century men who lived...essentially just like my grandpa.

So anyway I'm printing a lot of PDF clothing patterns where you print them tiled on 8.5x11" paper and then tape them all together. I've been using scissors for trimming the margins of these, but it's inefficient and slow. Therefore, I need a paper cutter! Well, funny story, this paper cutter thing is the same deal as the radio. I have a very specific idea of what a paper cutter should feel like and the idea of using a lightweight shitty version is like, mildly physically repulsive. Like, yes, I could go to Joann or whatever and pick up a lightweight Fiskars rotary cutter thing and have it in my hands in less than an hour. But even the mental sensory experience of handling the flimsy plastic bullshit makes me fidget my hands because--ew. I want a heavy base that goes THONK on the table and a cast iron handle with a blade that goes SHHHHK as it drops and if I can't have that I'm not going to have a paper cutter. I will store it tipped on its side, blade at the top and clipped safely down, slid in between the china cabinet that houses my reenacting pottery and the front wall of the dining room.

And yeah I could go buy one of those new, but I actually also want one that's beat up and a little chipped and the corners are bashed in and it's probably spent its life in an office or an elementary school or a library. That part I can't actually explain, it's not a sensory need, but I want it that way and I can get it on FB Marketplace, so here we are.

[bigmouthlass]

Title:  Training Films

Series: Vices and Indulgences

Author:  BJ

Fandom:  The Boys

Warning: Rape/Non-Con

Rating:  Explicit

Pairing:  Solider Boy/You, Solider Boy/Reader,

Synopsis: Set sometime in the mid-60s. Catering to the vices of irreplaceable men is part of the job if you work at Vought America. Sometimes that gets . . . literal, as a lowly technician finds out one evening.

Tags:  Solider Boy, Female Reader, Female You, Mid 60s Period Piece,

AN:  Content warning-- period typical use of offensive language. All recognizable intellectual properties are owned by their respective creators and holders of any trademarks or copyrights. This is a not-for-profit work of fan art and is protected by Fair Use.

---

The courier for NBC News ticks a little salute as he leaves, film cans tucked under his arm.  Footage from the latest operation in the Keys-- Soldier Boy and Tremor working with the National Guard to clean up damage from a tidal wave.  NBC hasn't switched to magnetic tape yet, so all that has to be done on the KEM flatbed.  Carefully cleaning up hours of raw footage to make it look like the grime and devastation didn't actually touch them, like they were for-real heroes and not professionals being paid very well to do very dirty work.  Thank God he's pretty, your boss says every time footage of Soldier Boy comes across the deck and you have to trim out frames showing his Roman hands and Russian fingers.

The editing suite's quiet as you let yourself back in, dragging an M-cart piled with boxes behind you.  It looks like an all-nighter, crouching in this hot cigarette-stinking cave while everybody else is out hitting the bars.  You're way behind on your other project, and these cans have to go back to One Police Plaza by Monday morning-- confiscated material under Article 235 and illegal to possess, exhibit, or promote.  Every time the guy comes by to take the originals back downtown your hands go clammy.  One of these days he's going to show up with police officers or Postal Inspectors, you just know it, and they're going to throw the book at little ol' you as opposed to any of the people who actually watch the damn things.

It's hot in here with the projectors running and it's just you, so you peel off your blouse and pin up your hair.  Working in your camisole and bra feels strange, air dragging across skin that's usually decently covered.  The first film goes into the transfer machine, your fingers sure and steady threading the thin film between the rollers.  Simple straightforward printing job.  You're not here to do any actual editing, you're here because you work cheap and your discretion can be relied upon since you're a far out little weirdo who doesn't talk to anybody.  You're also a reasonably intelligent person who figured out pretty quick there's more money in a steady job than there is narcing to the tabloids that Vought America's full of people who collect science films and foreign cinema and nude cuties and Heaven knows what else.

The first specimen -- no title on the aluminum container, just an NYPD file number -- turns out to be an uncomfortably . . . slimy short subject of a woman's visit to a gynecologist.  The horny retards who get their boxers knotted at the mere idea of pornographic movies have never actually sat down and watched one, you're firmly convinced.  After a while it's like watching stock footage of animals mating, all grunts and hairy parts.

Or so you tell yourself as you work exchanging reels and cranking the rewinder.  Your excellent visual imagination doesn't have a problem painting other faces into the footage, wondering if certain people make those kinds of noises while in the throes.  Like that guy with his hair sculpted into an Elvis duckass-- does Elvis throw his head back that way when Priscilla swallows him all the way down to the pubic hair?  Would Lennon and McCartney sound any less disgusting calling the lucky lady lounging naked between them a dirty fucking slut?  All things considered you wouldn't exactly mind being the center of attention at an orgy featuring Burt Lancaster and Kurt Douglas, maybe a little Sidney Poitier for spice--

The editing suite's door clicks open.  "Hey!" you snap at the shape behind it.  "You can't come in here!"

Your world's magnetic poles flip upside-down when the shape walks in anyway.  You've spent whole days watching film of this body in motion; you know who it is even though he's not masked and he's in a robe and slippers.  A cigarette smolders between his thumb and forefinger.  Even in the gloom his eyes are very vividly green.  It's weird, watching someone in real space and time when you only know them from two-dimensional images.  It's a little like wearing glasses for the first time, the eyes and the brain take a while to re-synchronize.

Those eyes rake you up and down.  God, you must be a sight-- practically undressed, dewy with sweat, hair twisted into a clumsy knot at your nape.  "These were supposed to be delivered up to my apartment yesterday.  Are you about done or are you too busy playing with yourself?"

Your heart does something stupid and you splutter.  On the wall behind you a bosomy woman with long blonde hair shrieks as a gigantic Negro reams her out, while a little Oriental woman observes and makes helpful suggestions.  Soldier Boy's eyebrow cocks.  "Well isn't this interesting."  He takes a drag off his cigarette and puts it down next to yours in the ashtray on the editing desk.  "I didn't know they had a woman putting together our training films.  Phil must think a girl wouldn’t get turned on.  Idiot."

It's not just clever editing making him stand out in any crowd he's in, you can see that now.  He takes up more space than he physically occupies.  As he comes closer his robe clings in front, close enough you can see he's . . . aroused.

Soldier Boy crowds you against the editing table, ignoring your pleas for him to go away.  "And here I was thinking I'd have to settle for some ginch Phil can scare up on short notice.  Here you are all hot and bothered."

"I don't know what you're talking about," you say, your voice shaking.

You damn near leap out of your skin as Soldier Boy claps a hand between your legs.  The seam of your trousers rubs up between you, against that spot that sometimes makes you flinch when you hit it cleaning up in the bath.  Chuckling, Soldier Boy says, "My goodness, a virgin in New York City.  Who knew?"

"I'm not," you choke out, horrified shame not doing a damn thing to make you any less of . . . this.  Heat kindling deep in your belly, in that place that sometimes keeps you up nights with . . . something.

"Two minutes of in-out from your high school boyfriend who couldn't find it with a map and compass doesn't count doll."  Your blush deepens to sunburn levels.  His hand presses, squeezes, and you gasp as something harsh and clawed rips through you.  His other arm goes around your back and presses you against his broad chest.  Your body rises until you're up en pointe and off-balance.  "Where's Vought been hiding you all this time?"

"Stop it!  I mean it-- stop it!" you squeak.

"Just relax.  Relax and let it feel good," Solder Boy tells you, quiet and rumbly.  His hand shifts and presses up against you more firmly, following the subtle rocking motion of your hips.  "There we go.  Fuck yourself on my hand princess.  Make yourself feel good.  Like this."  His grip around your back shifts and his arm tightens and relaxes.  Tightens, and relaxes.  "Poor thing.  You know just enough to know you're missing something, I bet."  Your pelvis moves with his lead, dragging your softest parts against his palm.  In the background far far away voices cry out.

The film’s run out, flapping like an unlatched screen door in the wind.  You’re the one moaning like a fucking animal in heat.  Like a filthy slut.

“Look at me,” Soldier Boy commands.  His eyes hold yours like a mesmerizing cobra, full of wants and hungers.  You've never had a man look at you that way before, not even the boyfriend who ran away to join the Navy when you told him you thought you were pregnant.  Under that gaze your pride washes away, and your resistance goes with it.  "Atta girl," he smiles as you fail to bite back your groans.  "Dress like a boy but you're pure woman deep down, aren't you?  You need a man.  In the worst possible way."

"Oh-- oh-- oh my God . . ." you whine.  Nothing in your prior experiences with intercourse has prepared you for this, all this dark and sweet and power, rising like a tide and shaking like a fever.  Soldier Boy's grin is both the ugliest and most beautiful thing you've ever seen, the smile of the Devil tempting a hungry Jesus.

You're back on your flat feet.  "Woah there!"  Soldier Boy grabs you as your knees buckle, laughing.  "Easy kitten, easy."

The tide's ebbing away and it hurts.  You're stranded on the rocks, weak and . . . unfinished.  "Please, please-- why'd you stop for?"

Gently, Soldier Boy traces your face.  "I'm not a total beast, babydoll."  In a gesture that feels grotesquely paternal, he kisses your forehead.  "First time you climax," he whispers, "it's going to be in my bed.  On my cock."  You feel your sex clench and you whimper.  Warm breath puffs your skin as Solider Boy sniffs at your neck.  "You smell so sweet.  Pussy's the best perfume there is.  Oh hey there," he says as you start to cry, you feel so God damned filthy, "there's no need to be carrying on.  You're going to finish what you're doing here, and you're going to come up to my place.  You know which elevators go to the residential floors?"  You nod.  "Thirtieth floor.  The passcode is 7915.  You're going to bring me this latest batch of videos and this hungry little beaver of yours.  You hear me?"

"No," you manage to dig up from the broken remains of your pride.

"Your mouth says no but your body's screaming yes."  Solider Boy yanks you close and you can feel him, big and hard, against your stomach.  "Your pussy's calling me.  I can hear it.  Calling me to fuck you into oblivion.  Make you scream."  You don't realize you'd been holding your breath until you gasp and spots clear from your vision.

A whisper of a kiss on your open lips and he's gone.

---

Somehow, you make it through printing the rest of the films.  Your nipples are hard and aching in your bra and underwear's wet like your period caught you without a belt.  Your skin crawls and your blood itches.  You remember feeling something like this after those times with your boyfriend, as he wiped himself off and you lay there trembling in the backseat, sore in the vagina and wondering what all the fuss was about.  Wet and shaking and needy like a filthy slut, for a man you know for a fact uses women like appliances.

The elevator door whooshes shut behind you and you enter the code with shaking fingers.  Soldier Boy's in the bedroom, reclining at his ease in the middle of a huge bed, his robe spread open and his penis standing up from his groin, red and angry looking.  "All for you doll," he grins, all sharp white teeth.  His eyes flutter closed and he takes a deep breath through his nose.  "And I can smell how wet you are for me."

"I'mjustdroppingthefilmsoffI'mnot--" you blurt.

Soldier Boy levers himself up off the bed, and your voice dries up as you eyes fasten on the sight of his erection bobbing and swaying.  That's going inside you, and your sex flutters.  Your boyfriend's was a baby carrot by comparison.

"Be good for me," Soldier Boy growls down at you, plucking your glasses off your face, "and I'll spoil you so bad," his will rolls over yours like a tank and crushes the last of your pride to dust, "you're gonna hate every other man you touch."

---

“That’s your clitoris, kitten.”  Soldier Boy chuckles to himself.  “Almost rhymes.  I stroke it, really gently,” you gasp as he suits action to words, “and you turn into my shameless little slut.”

Not true, you think, feeling absolutely defiled.  But his fingers feel so good, touching you exactly where you’re throbbing.  It's half-true.  You watch dirty movies and you're moaning in bed with a man you're not married to.

Filthy slut.

---

“Breathe, doll, that’s it.  You’re so fucking wet.  Taking me so well.  Christ your pussy feels fucking tailored for me, fits so fucking perfect.  Oh, there you go-- take me deeper baby, I’m gonna make you feel so fucking good--"

---

It’s very late the next morning when you wake up in Solider Boy’s bed, alone and aching in every fiber.  The only sign of the man himself is a note on the cluttered nightstand-- Out taking care of some errands.  Be naked when I get back.

When he gets back he’s in his supersuit and mask, every inch the perfect patriot hero.  When he sees you sprawled out on the bed, stripped to the skin, he smiles.  "Pretty as a picture.  What's say we watch some of those movies and screw ourselves stupid?"

---

AN2: Hard to believe but once upon a time tits'n'ass were not available on demand and in the privacy of your own home. It's actually a fascinating thing to research a little, the histories of assorted vices-- did you know that VHS won the home video format wars because of the adult entertainment industry? VHS tapes were easier and cheaper to mass-produce than Betamax.

[sparkagrace]

first & last line tag game

I have been feeling very rough this past week thanks to a cold that's pretty much wiped me out 😭 I haven't felt like writing or reading much, but this might kickstart that. Thanks to @voylitscope for the tag!

Rules: Post the (first and) final line of your 10 most recently published fics. (Or as many as you have published.) You can either omit multi-chapter WIPs or include the last line of the most recent chapter (or several chapters). Up to you!

treading water [stucky | wip]

first: Steve jolts when someone kicks his foot. last: At 2:30am, Steve smiles up at Bucky from a plate of freshly cooked mac and cheese and thinks maybe jetlag isn’t so bad.

six months & counting [stucky | one-shot]

first: It’s completely normal to spend an entire day in bed when you’re in love, right? last: “It can wait until tomorrow.”

fire escape [stucky | one-shot]

first: There’s a fresh load of laundry folded away and Bucky is hankering for a mid-morning snack, thinking about the lone dark chocolate mousse in the fridge that he’s certain Steve doesn’t know about, when he walks past their living room and overhears his husband’s stern voice. last: Bucky knew they didn’t have a dumb cat.

so deck those halls (and trim those trees) [bucky & natasha & clint | one-shot]

first: “Look, I know I’m 29, but I think it’s mean that my parents decided to go on a cruise this Christmas,” Bucky whines from the couch and not for the first time this weekend. last: He really does have the best friends.

parental advisory [stucky | one-shot]

first: “I’ve met someone.” last: “Mom, Dad. I’d like you to meet my boyfriend, Steve.”

flower girl [stucky | one-shot]

first: They don’t mean to do it, but when they see Allie dolled up in a formal dress, they both tear up. last: He rolls his eyes but when they finally take their seats, Bucky feels Allie’s tiny hand reach for his.

haylofts & cashmere [evanstan | one-shot]

first: Maybe it’s because Sebastian had begged his secretary for weeks to get him out of this retreat-cum-networking event that the universe decided to finally listen and cause his car to break down in the middle of… where was he? last: He tastes like apples.

the third day in january [stucky | one-shot]

first: When Steve pushes open the front door of the bar, he is greeted by a warm wall of heat that feels somewhat like a hug. last: (Steve takes him to the diner and then takes him home.)

mouth bones [stucky | one-shot]

first: Bucky has completely cracked it. last: “Papa, can we have carrots tonight?”

be kind, rewind [stucky | complete]

first: They tell him it has been forty-nine years since he died. last: “Nah, I’m too old for this shit.”

no pressure tagging: @dreamsinthewitchouse @buckyismybicycle @its-tortle @dharmasharks @duchessonfire @maddiewritesstucky @padfoot-and-the-marauders @between-a-ship-and-a-hard-place

[dollsonmain]

Hm. Looking at this video, the auto trim lever does not have a spring that pops it back into it's original position.

I have no idea why it's not feeding, then, unless it's an issue with the spools. I've attempted to rewind one myself before and that didn't solve the problem.

... It's possible the protrusion is broken off. I'll have to go look.

[pascalepalaces]

"Brainworm" in Eclectica Magazine 24.4:

Oct/Nov 2020  •   Fiction

by Pascale Potvin

I didn't understand why she'd had to kill him. I'd heard her wails from across the house like an anti-birth. I found her red when only two weeks prior she'd been all blue confetti.

"She doesn't remember any of it," the doctor had explained, once the cries had stopped reverberating in me. "It may have been some sort of trauma response."

I spent the first minutes next to her wondering how I'd explain this to our families. Andrea had been the sole survivor of a knife attack? She'd only been trying to trim his hair?

I had my own trauma response when I heard her again, just weeks later.

"Liam, I'm so sorry," she sobbed, hard into me. "I think I was too scared of hurting him."

"What do you mean?" I told her. "You did. You did hurt him."

"Yeah, but..." And she hugged me tighter—to avoid my eyes, I sensed. "I think I was trying to save him. From me. Later on."

She told me about the fears, the thoughts she'd had ever since the gender reveal. I drank myself to sleep nearly every night after that, and I slept more during the day. I only ate take-out, not able or willing to stomach what I myself had brought into being.

I would sometimes hear Andrea throwing up, upstairs, too—but the whole sound of it was different. I was by that point convinced she was going all the way back through the pregnancy. Somehow rewinding.

Yet when I next followed the noises to our bedroom—my clumsiest climb—I saw a new, brighter shine of remorse in the woman's eyes. In her hand.

"I'm a monster," she said to me. "I deserve this."

"No," I mustered, my brain going heavy. "We'll get you into therapy."

Still, she raised her fist and crossed herself out in one swipe—right then and there, like she'd used red pen.

"We got concerned because she was so precise with the cut, with hitting her carotid artery," I was informed that night by a Doctor Number Two. "Yet she was also just shy of a fatal depth."

There was a ringing in my ears like screaming, again. This time, I felt I was hearing every cry beyond her office walls.

"I don't know what you're saying," I groused.

"We found what is called P. Caedis," the doctor explained, her face furrowing. "In Andrea's brain. It's usually found in rodents. Do you know if you have a rat problem?"

"No," I said, my mind still all bent. "I don't understand."

"Essentially, it's a really nasty parasite," she told me. "And she'll be okay, but I'm very glad we found it when we did. It'll take hard control of its host and is essentially lethal."

The air around me stiffened.

"It's all gradual, but often it gets the host to hurt themselves, to drain blood from their brain and take over further," she explained. "It's hard to know for sure, but we think it may have sensed your late son's brain, before hers, and treated it as the threat."

I was overturned.

"So that thing is why she hasn't been herself, lately?" I asked.

"Absolutely," she said. "But I want you to know, the surgery has a high success rate."

As expected, my wife could only remember shy and dizzy parts of the prior weeks. We celebrated her recovery in the spring, with a boozy lunch by the river and a walk where the plum trees were budding again.

Her eyes were shimmering just like the water, her voice like the birds.

"We'll try again," I finally spoke, finally said it out loud. At that, Andrea smiled faintly at me, and she raised her chest to take in the warm air. She looked over to the kids playing frisbee, in the field, like she had so many times before.