#fear of contamination is no joke

[tf-animated-out-of-context]

[continuousmeowing]

had a "mom i frew up" moment tonight. except it was me barging into my mothers room at midnight because i realized pretzel brought home fleas and the fleas are BITING me.

[chronicplay]

oh christ this psychiatrist I'm seeing tomorrow may actually be like "Bitch you have OCD" bc the practice had me do the bigass questionnaire... and let's just say some of these were just straight up checkmarks down the page

[anthurak]

Something I’ve always found rather curious about the Adventure Time fandom, specifically Bubbline shippers, is that nobody seems to talk about how the show slipped in what might be the most angsty, hardcore and emotionally raw Bubbline stories disguised as a wacky Rashomon-style recap in the episode Ketchup.

Like it’s pretty clear that Marceline is doing the whole ‘Lollipop Girl and Rockstar Girl’ puppet-show because she doesn’t want to traumatize BMO with what happened while they, Finn and Jake were gone, and also because she herself doesn’t want to revisit those memories directly.

But when we start reading between the lines and recognize that Marceline’s embellishments are really more to tone DOWN events, I think we get a very stark and raw depiction of what Marceline was doing when Patience set off Ooo’s elemental apocalypse.

Just to kick things off, how much does anyone want to bet that this joke translates to ‘Marceline and Bubblegum had a fight and Marcy was giving Bonnie some space… and because of that, Marceline wasn’t there to protect Bonnie when she was kidnapped by Patience.’?

Kinda adds another layer to Marcy’s whole ‘I was so afraid something bad would happen to you’ breakdown in Come Along With Me, doesn’t it?

Next we have ‘Rockstar Girl smacking off the potato-heads growing on her’ which pretty easily translates to; ‘while everyone else was getting overrun by the elements, Marceline was able to fight off the elemental contamination for possibly entire days while she tried to find a way to help Bubblegum’. And given what we see with Finn and Jake only able to resist the contamination for maybe a few hours at a time, and how willpower was one of the only things that could hold it off, that says a LOT about just how DESPERATE Marcy was to help Bonnie. I mean, you want a really hardcore and messed up image? Imagine if Marceline was actively cutting or RIPPING off the contaminated parts of herself to keep it from spreading and regrowing those parts with her vampiric regeneration?

Then we have ‘Rockstar Girl went after the Blue Tranch’, which I can only imagine translates to ‘Marceline going on a GOLB-DAMMNED WARPATH to hunt down Patience St. Pim’. And let’s remember that A. Patience was currently a super-charged Elemental and B. Marceline would still be fighting off elemental contamination herself, whether the Candification from Bubblegum, the Ice-ification from Patience, or even both.

I mean, when we think about it; ‘Rockstar Girl played some really loud music that the Blue Tranch didn’t like’ quite possibly translates to the most insane battle of the entire show. Like on one side we’ve got Patience St. Pim, seasoned Elemental who could already make Ice King look like an amateur, super-charged with elemental energy making her probably the most powerful Ice Elemental in thousands if not millions of years. And on the other side, we’ve got Marceline, consumed and possibly more than half-crazed with rage, fear and desperation to help Bonnie, going ALL-OUT with her numerous vampire powers, possibly some of her demonic powers, all while fighting off the encroaching elemental contamination.

And if ‘The Blue Tranch begged Rockstar Girl to stop and go away’ is anything to go by, I think we can assume that Marcy utterly WRECKED Patience’s SHIT. As in, Patience may well have ended this fight with an axe in her gut, a claw choking the life out her and Marceline threatening to devour her very SOUL if she didn’t tell her how to help Bonnie.

(Here’s another fun thought: Something that notably separates Patience from the other current elementals of Ooo is that whereas Princess Bubblegum, Flame Princess and Slime Princess are all physical manifestations OF their elements (Gum, Fire and Slime, respectively), while Patience is human. Yet when we see her during the arc, she seems to have lost her human body and assumed fully elemental form as well. Now we could of course assume that this is simply due to the elemental overcharge just like the others. Buuuuttt… what if Patience was FORCED to assume this new form because her human body could no longer SURVIVE after the utter THRASHING she received from Marceline?)

Finally, we of course have the end. Something which seems all too easy to imagine even with Marceline’s toning down of events:

Marcy rushing back to the Candy Kingdom as fast as she can. Even though she’s exhausted from her fight with Patience and the days spent fighting off the elemental contamination. To the point where now she can only barely hold it off and maintain her sanity. Perhaps she wonders if this is what it was like for Simon during their time together…

Even though she knows speeding back this fast is only draining her strength faster, but that doesn’t matter to her. Because what matters right now is the trinket, potion, or something or other clutched in her hand that Patience gave her. Something that Marcy can’t be sure will even work. But she hopes it will. That’s the only thing keeping her going, the only thing holding her together at this point.

A blind, desperate HOPE that this will save Bonnie…

When she finally returns to what was once the Candy Kingdom, Marceline finds the massive tower of gum. Perhaps like Finn and Jake later on, Marceline at first isn’t sure what she’s looking at and thinks Bonnie is at the top. So she flies right to the top in a burst of speed that drains her already dwindling strength even further.

And there Marcy finds Bonnie. Or rather, what Bonnie has BECOME. Perhaps she doesn’t even remember Marcy.

Perhaps for Marcy, this is like losing Simon all over again. Except instead of the father who raised and cared for her over ten years, it’s a woman that Marcy has loved for the better part of a millennium. A woman she was only just able to start loving again after so long. But now, just like Simon… she’s gone.

And this realization does what all the elemental power of Ooo could not.

It breaks Marceline.

Just like that, Marceline doesn’t even try to use the ‘antidote’ Patience gave her. Instead, perhaps Marcy gives Bonnie one last kiss and just… accepts the madness.

Because now, at least they can be together.

[stealingyourbones]

(Click for better quality or view the read more to see a text version of the tropes)

Take your best shot at DPxDC Non-Trope Bingo! This is a writing challenge, not an ask meme. The goal for this isn't to be critical of common DPxDC tropes, but to do a fun writing challenge that flexes your creative writing! Diagonal, Horizontal, Vertical, and Blackout bingos are allowed. Write a fic without the tropes for your selected bingo! How to submit your fic: - Tag @stealingyourbones with your fic and bingo - Reply to this post with your bingo - Add your fic to the NTDPxDCWB ao3 Collection

Row 1 Column 1: Danyal/Demon Twins/Secret Twins/Is a Wayne Row 1 Column 2: DP Character Works at: (Pizza Shop, Wayne Enterprises, Arkham, Book Shop, Batburger, Coffee Shop, Watchtower) Row 1 Column 3: Adoption/Unofficial Adoption/Adoption Bait Jokes/Mistaken for Wayne/Parent Batkid Row 1 Column 4: Shipping (as main focus/ within fandom shipping) Row 1 Column 5: Ghost King/OP/Eldritch Danny/ GZ Ambassador Danny

Row 2 Column 1: Summoning/Constantine Sold his Soul/Not Pariah Dark but it’s Danny bait and switch/Batfamily used as Sacrifice Row 2 Column 2: Liminal/Ecto-contamination/Lazarus Pits as Ectoplasm Row 2 Column 3: De-Aged/ Physically Different Danny/ Animal Transformation Row 2 Column 4: Anti-Ecto Act Ignorance by Any Heroes/Secret GIW/Amity Park is Unknown bc Firewalls/Ghost Magic/Etc Row 2 Column 5: Reveal Gone Wrong/ Fleeing Amity/ Bad Fenton Parents

Row 3 Column 1: OP Amity Parkers/Amity Similar Levels of Crazy to Gotham/Danny Not Shocked by Gotham Row 3 Column 2: Mistaken for Clone/Clone/Clark Hates Clones Row 3 Column 3: Batfamily/Gotham Row 3 Column 4: Homelessness Row 3 Column 5: DP Character Works as: (Ice Sculptor, Medium, Engineer, Chemist, Burglar, Rogue, Vigilante)

Row 4 Column 1: Good Dad Bruce/WFA Dynamic Batfamily Row 4 Column 2: JL/Any DC character even remotely being shocked by Danny/his situation/ghost zone Row 4 Column 3: Danny starstruck by Aliens in JL/ Space Core centric fic/ Space Ancient Danny Row 4 Column 4: Dani as Danny’s Daughter/ Danny as Jazz’s Son/ Fentons as Dan’s Kids Row 4 Column 5: DP Character Goes to: (Gotham Academy, Gotham University, Coffee Shop, Library, Gala)

Row 5 Column 1: Shipping (cross fandoms specifically) Row 5 Column 2: DP Character Is: (Retired Vigilante, Knowledgeable About Ghosts, Related to DC Character, Roommates with DC Character) Row 5 Column 3: DP Character Kills Joker or Rogue\ Fear Gas doesn’t Work as Intended Row 5 Column 4: Lady Gotham/Eldritch Gotham City Row 5 Column 5: Related to Wonder Woman via Pandora/Trained by Pandora or Clockwork

[gatorbites-imagines]

Kinktober day 16

Jason Todd + leather or Latex

I had like, no ideas what to do with this prompt ngl, so I just kinda went with whatever came to me when writing.

Crime lord Red Hood has always had a special place in my heart

Kinktober 2023 masterlist.

Working for The Red Hood wasn’t too bad, especially compared to the other rogues you’d had to work for in the past. With Hood you didn’t have to fear suddenly being shot because Two-face suddenly felt like it, or being eaten by whatever plants Ivy had conjured up, or answering whatever riddles the Riddler came up with that day.

Best part was probably the uniform though. All rogues put their people in specific clothes. For the joker it was clown masks and all that junk, Riddler wanted you in stuff with question mark print, penguin wanted you well dressed in suit and tie, the list went on. For Hood just wearing red seemed to be enough. Most seemed to just resort to wearing a red hoodie under their jacket, and that was enough.

Interestingly enough, working for Hood also came with some benefits, like being allowed to keep stuff from different conflicts as long as it didn’t cause issues for Hood. That was where you found your first leather, some rich guy from Metropolis tried to set up in Gotham and was quickly dealt with. If Gotham hated anyone more than each other, it was outsiders trying to barge in and make a name for themselves.

The guy had been wearing a sturdy but not too flashy leather jacket, so after checking the pockets and for bullet holes and seeing it in one piece, you tucked it over your arm and brought it home. You had to cut the tags out and changed the inner fabric to something cheaper, and most importantly, into something red, but the quality was no lie.

You realized you might have had a thing for Leather one night when you had needed to go out for some small run for Hood, and you’d been too tired and lazy to put on a shirt. You ended up going out in a pair of low waisted denim pants, some well worn boots, and your jacket. No one batted an eye, at all, seeing a shirtless guy was far from the weirdest shit in Gotham, but the feel of leather on your skin seemed to have lit something inside you.

After that you might have subconsciously started looking for the stuff whenever you went on raids or into fights for Hood and his territory. Who cared if you stole some hotshot from star cities leather west and hat, or that guy from Texas whose black leather boots you stole right off his feet. You didn’t touch the pants though, even though you really really wanted too, you just didn’t trust them not to be contaminated by all kinds of junk.

You honestly thought you hid it pretty well, your draw to leather that is. Everyone had their thing, and you always wearing your jacket and boots was just something you did. If you went home to get dressed all the way down to just your jacket and boots though to jerk off was another thing entirely.

But it seemed your draw to the last targets pants hadn’t gone fully unnoticed by your boss. Imagine your surprise when he shoved a package into your arms one night and told you to only check it when you got home, the modulator of his helmet making him seem way more serious than he probably was.

You wouldn’t say you were outright friends with Hood, no one could really be friends with their boss in the criminal world, but you cracked jokes with the guy and even got him to laugh on the regular. You patched him up when he needed it, and he dragged you to Leslie’s clinic when you got knocked around a bit too hard, which happened more than you liked to admit.

When you got home you had almost assumed that the package would hold weapons or maybe even drugs, even though Hood didn’t personally deal the stuff. But instead, you found what you immediately noticed was leather, a card placed on top of the neatly folded leather. The letter was in Hoods writing, and you felt your face heat up a tad at the words on the page.

“Next time just let me buy it for you instead of stealing it off bodies” it said, and when you unfolded the leather, you felt your insides flutter. It was pants, they seemed even better quality than the ones you had been eying the night before. But it wasn’t just pants, there was a newer jacket, it was brown and heavy and was very well worn, and when you held it out in front of you, you could see it was one of Hoods own jackets.

You could feel blood running downwards, leaving you fumbling with your clothes as you got undressed, feeling almost desperate to pull the pants up your legs and hips. They were tight, but not too tight, and there was no question about the quality. Your original jacket fell to the ground with a heavy thud, your fingers quickly grabbing the heavy well-loved leather of the brown jacket and pulling it on, a shaky breath leaving you as the smell that was so clearly Hood filled your senses.

It smelled like leather, gun oil, the cigarettes he smoked when he was annoyed or on edge, and something undeniably Hood, and it had you tenting your new pants. Or tenting as well as one could in leather, which meant it was more a visible bulge running down the inside of your thigh. It had felt so good on your skin that you had found yourself grinding against your hand on your couch like some inexperienced fool. Your back had arched off the couch as you stained the inside of your pants, the leather growing slick against you as you groaned.

It was only later when cleaning the leather that you noticed the writing in the waistband, near the back so it would sit near the bottom of your spine. “Red Hood” it said, like some kind of statement of ownership, and you had shivered and exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand over your face to dispel the thoughts it awoke in your body.

Next time you saw Hood you had worn the pants, but the jacket was left at home. The worn jacket didn’t go well with the newer shinier leather of the pants, so it was your normal jacket and boots, which had some of your friends joke a bit about you being some kind of leather daddy because of your interest in the stuff. You had let the jokes run off your back, joking along every now and then.

You hadn’t even noticed Hood being there until he had appeared behind you, his gloved hand grabbing your ass and giving it a squeeze. Youd almost snapped around and decked him, assuming it was someone else, that was until you heard his modulated voice. “You’re wearing my gift. You like it?” he purred obviously enough that you could hear it even through the voice changer.

You could feel your skin growing clammy as you gave a small nod, not even daring to look at hood as he pressed his crotch against your back, his erection obvious even through all your shared layers. “Good, you look so hot in it” he rumbled, giving your thighs an extra squeeze before he stepped back and wandered off, leaving you unsteady on your feet as you tried to force the obvious hard shape in your pants away, for once cursing how tight they were.

It continued on this way for a while, Hood leaving you presents, and you would wear them around his headquarters. It was never expensive or high quality enough for anyone to target you, but Hood seemed to enjoy it very much. It felt almost like having a sugar daddy or some kind, but he had never demanded much sugar, only grabbing your ass at times, or rubbing his hands up and down your torso that time you’d worn a leather shirt under your jacket.

He was a tease, and you could hear the shit eating grin through his helmet as you ground against his thick thigh one day. You felt so wound up from his lingering touches that you had found yourself in his office one day, or what you guys called his office anyways. Maybe you wanted a fight of some kind, you weren’t sure, but one thing led to another, and you pinned up against the wall, his thigh between your own.

And now you were grinding against his thigh like some kind of pervert, your fingers digging into the worn leather of his jacket as you gasped into his shoulder. You didn’t even notice as he pulled off his gloves or spat on his fingers, it was only when one of his hands was shoved down the back of your leather pants and between your cheeks that you realised. A groan left you as he rubbed the pad of his finger against your pucker, his voice cocky as he asked if this was what you wanted.

You tried to glare at him, but it only seemed to fuel him more as Hood pushed his finger inside, letting you adjust before he started moving to the best of his ability, your tight pants not leaving much room to move his wrist. The stimulation was driving you crazy, the tight leather of your pants doing nothing to lessen the experience as you ground forwards into his thigh, before you pushed back onto his hand.

Running your hands down his torso and up his shirt, you could keep the moan from leaving you as you felt something too smooth and slick to be leather. It was Latex, he was wearing a latex shirt under everything else, maybe it was even a full body thing as it continued as you thumbed at the waistband of his pants.

Your exploring just seemed to fuel him more as Hood added not just a second but a third finger at the same time, letting you just barely adjust to the stretch before he started moving his hand once more, causing you to grind harder against his thigh.

It was impossible to fight back the orgasm that rocked through you, thoroughly slicking up the crotch area of your leather pants as there was no fabric to soak it up, letting it splatter against your thighs and lower body. You could feel yourself twitch a bit as Hood removed his fingers, instead grabbing onto your hips and lifting you up, making your legs wrap around his waist.

You couldn’t find it in yourself to ask what he was up too as he walked backwards, plopping down on his chair with you in his lap, sighing softly as he started rubbing his hands up your torso, flicking your chest through the leather shirt you had chosen to wear. “You alright baby?” he asked, voice warm and caring, leaving you feeling all types of mushy.

You just scoffed and leaned forwards, resting against his broad shoulders and coiling your arms around him. Hood rubbed your back for a while before rolling his chair close to his desk, the taping of keys letting you know he was working on one thing or the other. In the end you found yourself with both your hands up his shirt, rubbing at his latex covered torso as you rocked lazily against his thigh, no hurry in your movements as you knew you had all night, and it would happen soon if the twitching bulge between Hoods thighs meant anything.

[just-another-t-word-blog]

Real Laugh

A Hazbin Hotel fanfiction

Okay so, I saw this fanart done by @kalico-of-doom while scrolling around the other day and I ABSOLUTELY HAD TO WRITE A FANFIC ABOUT IT. Otherwise the nonsense deep in my bones will consume me.

As always on my blog, serving up fresh hot garbage semi regularly, ⚠️⚠️ this is in fact a tickle fic. Don’t like, don’t read. Thank you.

Summary: Alastor thinks he’s funny, Angel thinks he should give him something to laugh about.

Self satisfied laughter rang through the sitting room in the hotel foyer. Alastor nudged Angel with his elbow, trying (unsuccessfully) to get him to join in. He’d been rattling off puns for the better part of 20 minutes now, causing most of the hotel residents to vacate the contaminated area. Angel, however, was trapped.

Not physically trapped, mind you, but he didn’t want to leave the powerful demon alone, fearing he may get upset. A happy Alastor was a safe Alastor, and Angel was not about to open that can of worms.

“Oh! I have another one,” Alastor said, smiling widely. “If you don’t mind the crassness, of course. What is the difference between an unclean bus stop, and a lobster with breast implants?” Angel sighed, but engaged, resting his chin in his palm and looking at his companion. “I don’t know, what?”

“One is a crusty bus station, and the other is a busty crustacean!” The red head broke into another fit of laughter, sounding as if he was faking it for a radio audience. This joke at least earned a smile from Angel, albeit a reluctant one. Alastor trailed off, turning to face the porn star more fully. “Oh, come now, why so serious?” Angel shook his head, offering a more exaggerated smile. “Hey, I did laugh at that one.”

“You smiled, my dear arachnid. I’d say that’s hardly laughter.” Angel scoffed, dropping the grin. “Maybe if you were actually funny, I’d laugh.” Alastor raised an eyebrow. “I am funny.”

This earned a genuine laugh from Angel. “Considering that’s the funniest thing you’ve said all day, I disagree.” He said, crossing his top set of arms. “Well, I disagree as well.” Alastor said, crossing his legs. “I’ve been laughing this entire time, so I’d say I’m pretty funny.”

“Funny looking, maybe.” Angel retorted, mocking his signature grin. “Besides, all I’ve been hearing is your fakey laugh.”

Alastor turned again. “Fakey?” He placed a hand on his chest, as if wounded. “That is simply untrue and hurtful, Angel. My laugh is genuine.”

“There is no way in any circle of hell that you actually laugh like that.”

Alastor gave a half hearted chuckle at that. Angel pointed. “See? No one fucking laughs like that. You sound like you’re reading off of a queue card!” Alastors smile faltered, going a little crooked. The two sat in silence for a moment, stewing.

“How’s about this one?” Alastor chimed. “What do you call a cow with two legs?” Angel gave him a flat look. “Lean beef!” Just as Alastor finished, Angel lunged, tackling the radio demon to the floor. They struggled, Alastor letting out a surprised yelp as the younger demon grappled for dominance. Having a weight disadvantage, Angel attempted to straddle his waist, only managing a half perch with one leg trapped under him, fighting Alastors wild bucking. He leaned forward, grabbing his upper arms from the underside and pushing them up, pressing his body weight into the hold. Alastors ears bristled, antlers threatening to grow and spike. “Enough with the bad jokes. What do you say we see what your real laugh sounds like?” A confused look crossed Alastors eyes.

With another set of arms, Angel dug clawed fingers into his ribs. Alastor gasped, holding the breath. He looked up at Angel, signature grin wobbling, squeezing his eyes shut and throwing his head to the side. Then, Angel lightened his touch.

The dam broke.

A stream of high pitched giggles erupted from the radio demon. Unrestrained, uncontrolled.

But most shockingly, happy.

Angel felt his face tinge red, a fond smile forming. He carefully scribbled his nails up and down Alastors rib cage, following his squirming. “Now that is a real laugh.” He cooed. He shifted his hands downwards, focusing on the skin where Alastors ribs turned into his sides. The older demon squealed before falling into more frantic laughter. His one free leg flailed about, the heel of his shoe scraping against the floor. “Woah there,” Angel teased, picking up the pace on his scratching. “You’ll wear a hole in the carpet! Niftys going to have a fit.” Alastor worked up the gall to look him in the eye.

“Fuck you!”

Unfortunately, the giggles took all the venom from his voice. Angel laughed. “I don’t know what your deal is, but you don’t need to swear at me! It’s not like you’ve asked me to stop!” A deep red blush painted Alastors face, eyes going wide for a split second before melting into another round of laughter. He finally spoke. “No! No, please-“ his pleading cut off with a yelp, Angel having gave his sides an experimental squeeze. “Ah-ha!” Angel exclaimed. “Another spot, jeez you’re just sensitive everywhere, aren’t you?” Alastor stuttered, trying to get out that he absolutely was not. To be fair, English is hard, and it’s substantially harder when most of your breath is being used for other things.

Angel paused his ministrations and grinned, catching Alastors eye. He brought out his third set of arms.

Shit.

Alastor began to plead again, shaking his head frantically. He was unable to keep the mirth from his voice. “No! Please, no more! I’m sorry, okay? I’ll stop with the puns!” His eyes never left that extra set, watching the wiggling claws hovering over him. “Aww, the big bad radio demon is begging now?” Angels voice dripped with playful sarcasm. Suddenly, he lunged all four free hands down.

Alastor shrieked.

And nothing happened. Alastor peered up at Angel, confused. The porn star had broken into his own stream of cackling, hunched over with his hands hovering inches away from Alastors skin. “I didn’t even touch you! What in the hells was that noise?!” Alastor made an incredulous face, for once his signature grin absent. “That sound was absolutely adorable.” Angel said, wiping a tear from his eye. “Do it again?” He lunged again, this time making contact. One set of hands scribbling up and down his ribs and sides while the others dug into his tummy. Alastor shrieked again (much to his dismay), falling into loud belly laughter. He threw his head back, unable to control himself through the onslaught. He yanked on his restrained arms, kicked with his free leg, and tossed his head side to side. He finally had enough.

Two black tendrils appeared behind his tormenter, wrapping around his middle and dragging him backwards off of Alastor. Angel screamed in surprise, flailing at the sudden jolt. Alastors tendrils held Angel there on the floor while he caught his breath, slowly sitting up. He smoothed his hair with his hands, taking a few deep breaths before putting on his sinister smile. “That was fun and all,” he said, standing to make his way towards Angel, “but I think it’s time to give you a taste of your own medicine.”

————

Charlie watched with teary eyes and a soft smile as her friends played. Hidden just around the corner, she had stopped to make sure no one was getting hurt. She had heard Alastor screaming and came running, finding a much more welcome sight.

Knowing neither of them were used to positive touch, she let them horse around. It might be good for them, after all.

Maybe she should find a way to work this into a lesson plan.

[eowyntheavenger]

By Emily Strasser | August 9, 2023

At the theater where I saw Oppenheimer on opening night, there was a handmade photo booth featuring a pink backdrop, “Barbenheimer” in black letters, and a “bomb” made of an exercise ball wrapped in hoses. I want to tell you that I flinched, but I laughed and snapped a photo. It took a beat before I became horrified—by myself and the prop. Today is the 78th anniversary of the bombing of Nagasaki, which killed up to 70,000 people and came only three days after the bombing of Hiroshima that killed as many as 140,000 people. Yet still we make jokes of these weapons of genocide.

Oppenheimer does not make a joke of nuclear weapons, but by erasing the specific victims of the bombings, it repeats a sanitized treatment of the bomb that enables a lighthearted attitude and limits the power of the film’s message. I know this sanitized version intimately, because my grandfather spent his career building nuclear weapons in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, the site of uranium enrichment for the Hiroshima bomb. My grandfather died before I was born, and though there were photographs of mushroom clouds from nuclear tests hanging on my grandmother’s walls, we never discussed Hiroshima, Nagasaki, or the fact that Oak Ridge, still an active nuclear weapons production site, is also a 35,000-acre Superfund site. At the Catholic church in town, a pious Mary stands atop an orb bearing the overlapping ovals symbolizing the atom, and until it closed a few years ago, a local restaurant displayed a sign with a mushroom cloud bursting out of a mug of beer.

Oppenheimer does not show a single image of Hiroshima or Nagasaki. Instead, it recreates the horror through Oppenheimer’s imagination, when, during a congratulatory speech to the scientists of Los Alamos after the bombing of Hiroshima, the sound of the hysterically cheering crowd goes silent, the room flashes bright, and tatters of skin peel from the face of a white woman in the audience. The scene is powerful and unsettling, and, arguably, avoids sensationalizing the atrocity by not depicting the victims outright. But it also plays into a problematic pattern of whitewashing both the history and threat of nuclear war by appropriating the trauma of the Japanese victims to incite fear about possible future violence upon white bodies. An example of this pattern is a 1948 cover of John Hersey’s Hiroshima, which featured a white couple fleeing a city beneath a glowing orange sky, even though the book itself brought the visceral human suffering to American readers through the eyes of six actual survivors of the bombing.

The Oppenheimer film also neglects the impacts of fallout from nuclear testing, including from the Trinity test depicted in the film; the harm to the health of blue-collar production workers exposed to toxic and radiological materials; and the contamination of Oak Ridge and other production sites. Instead, the impressive pyrotechnics of the Trinity test, images of missile trails descending through clouds toward a doomed planet, and Earth-consuming fireballs interspersed with digital renderings of a quantum universe of swirling stars and atoms, elevate the bomb to the realm of the sublime—terrible, yes, but also awesome.

A compartmentalized project. The origins of this treatment can be traced to the Manhattan Project, when scientists called the bomb by the euphemistic code word “gadget” and the security policy known as compartmentalization limited workers’ knowledge of the project to the minimum necessary to complete their tasks. This policy helped to dilute responsibility and quash moral debates and dissent. Throughout the film, we see Oppenheimer move from resisting compartmentalization to accepting it. When asked by another scientist about his stance on a petition against dropping the bomb on Japan, he responds that the builders of the bomb do not have “any more right or responsibility” than anyone else to determine how it will be used, despite the fact that the scientists were among the few who even knew of its existence.

Due to compartmentalization, the vast majority of the approximately half-million Manhattan Project workers, like my grandfather, could not have signed the petition because they did not know what they were building until Truman announced the bombing of Hiroshima. Afterward, press restrictions limited coverage of the humanitarian impacts, giving the false impression that the bombings had targeted major military and industrial sites—and eliding the vast civilian toll and the novel horrors of radiation. Photographs and films of the aftermath, shot by Japanese journalists and American military, were classified and suppressed in the United States and occupied Japan.

The limit of theory. Not only is it dishonest and harmful to erase the suffering of the real victims of the bomb, but doing so moves the bomb into the realm of the theoretical and abstract. One recurring theme of the film is the limit of theory. Oppenheimer was a brilliant theorist but a haphazard experimentalist. A close friend and fellow scientist questions whether he’ll be able to pull off this massive, high-stakes project of applied theory. Just before the detonation of the Trinity test bomb, General Leslie Groves, the military head of the project, asks Oppenheimer about a joking bet overheard among the scientists regarding the possibility that the explosion would ignite the atmosphere and destroy the world. Oppenheimer assures Groves that they have done the math and the possibility is “near zero.” “Near zero?” Groves asks, alarmed. “What do you want from theory alone?” responds Oppenheimer.

Can the theoretical motivate humanity to action?

One telling scene shows Oppenheimer at a lecture on the impacts of the bomb. We hear the speaker describe how dark stripes on victims’ clothing were burned onto their skin, but the camera remains on Oppenheimer’s face. He looks at the screen, gaunt and glassy-eyed, for a few moments, before turning away. Americans are still looking away. As a country, we’ve succumbed to “psychic numbing,” as Robert Jay Lifton and Greg Mitchell call it in their book Hiroshima in America, which leads to general apathy about nuclear weapons—and pink mushroom clouds and bomb props for selfies.

On this anniversary of Nagasaki, the world stands on a precipice, closer than ever to nuclear midnight. The nine nuclear-armed states collectively possess more than 12,500 warheads; the more than 9,500 nuclear weapons available for use in military stockpiles have the combined power of more than 135,000 Hiroshima-sized bombs.

If Oppenheimer motivates conversation, activism, and policy shifts in support of nuclear abolition, that’s a good thing. But by relegating the bomb to abstracted images removed from actual humanitarian consequences, the film leaves the weapon in the realm of the theoretical. And as Oppenheimer says in the film, “theory will only take you so far.” Today, it’s vital that we understand the devastating impacts that nuclear weapons have had and continue to have on real victims of their production, testing, and wartime use. Our survival may depend on it.

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

UNDRESS FOR YARA PLEEEAAAASE

POETTTT YOU KNOW I GOTTA REPRESENT OUR GIRL!!!! here's some yara x macon POW camp goodness to keep us going <3 ONE WORD PROMPTS warnings: injury description

-> undress

The mattress beneath his back felt as hard as a board as Macon lay still, staring up at the bottom of the bunk above. Those wooden slats that slotted across the bedframe had been his constant companion in the four days since he'd arrived here at the Stalag, the pain in his neck sending a bolt of fear through him whenever he turned his head too far in either direction. Sure, the doctors had looked him over, - given him what help they were willing to offer - but Richard didn't know enough about the nature of a broken neck to risk anything that could cause further damage. And so, he'd scarcely gotten up from this bed since the moment he'd lay down, frightened to move until he was sure something was healing.

During the day, the men and women that crowded this room departed, taking advantage of the Stalag's poor excuse for summer and wandering loop after loop around the barren camp, simply glad to breathe air that wasn't contaminated with the smell of so many bodies crammed into narrow bunks. Every few hours, Daniels or Jefferson would poke their head around the door - make sure he was alright, bring him some terrible, tasteless food, or crack a joke to keep his spirits up. Macon was used to the rest of their fellow inhabitants remaining entirely absent in the daylight hours, so it caught him by surprise when two of the women wandered in, taking a seat at the small table in the middle of the room.

Marty Jarlsson. He remembered her - he wasn't sure he'd ever seen a woman quite like her, so tall and so broad. And then, trailing closely behind, came Yara Katz. On her, he had nothing. There was something strikingly elusive about the woman, a silent, looming presence as she hovered in the corner every evening. He'd seen her speak to the other women, but they stood close and talked in hushed tones - he didn't even know what her voice sounded like.

Without turning his head, he could watch the pair through the corner of his eye, stretching his vision as far to the side as it could go. Yara shrugged off her jacket, a frayed tear visible across the back of the sweater she wore underneath. Reaching up over her head, she pulled off the sweater next, sitting now in nothing but a bra and the layers of bandages that had been unprofessionally wrapped around her shoulder. Macon felt heat suddenly rush to his face, blinking rapidly for a moment as if it would purge the image from his mind, and announcing to the silence "I can leave if you want."

Yara scoffed slightly. "Seriously? No - I'm not letting you screw up your neck for the rest of your life for the sake of my modesty."

They were the first words she'd ever spoken to him - hell, the first words he'd ever heard from her period. Her voice was deeper than he'd imagined - smooth and self-assured, easy to listen to. He caught himself wishing she wouldn't stop.

"Yes, ma'am," Richard uttered, fixing his gaze back on the top bunk as a means of respect. A moment of silence passed, but then she suddenly let out a sharp hiss of pain, and before he could remember what he was looking away from his gaze had snapped towards her, staring as Marty peeled away the last layer of bandage.

Across her right shoulder blade ran two gashes - jagged, red tears through smooth, olive skin. Yara had her dog tag between her teeth, biting down on the metal, eyes screwed shut in pain as Jarlsson began to quietly clean the wounds. Hanging from the same loop as her tag, dangling against her chin, was a Star of David, clearly handmade from a twisted scrap of wire. Macon sucked in a breath. Suddenly her silence made sense.

Marty dabbed with gentle diligence at the cuts, Yara's expression contorting in silent agony every time her crewmate made contact with the sensitive flesh. The room was small, and although she wasn't quite close enough for him to see properly, she remained within arm's reach. Without thinking, he reached out the next time she winced, palm pressed flat against her knee. For a moment, Richard felt her tense, and he considered pulling away, but when Jarlsson began to apply new bandages, wrapping dry linen tight against tender skin, Yara took his hand, squeezing as she sucked in a long, shaking breath.

"Ok, you're good" Marty affirmed, skimming a kind hand against the bare skin of Yara's lower back. She sniffed sharply, nodding as the Norwegian rose to stand and packed away what little medical supplies they had been afforded by the camp's doctor.

"Alright. I'll be out in a sec," Yara spoke, lifting herself out of the chair as she seized her sweater, staring at the tear for a moment before pulling it back over her head, tugging it down until the bandages were once more hidden from sight. Macon had returned his gaze to the bunk above, dutifully pretending not to hear or see anything as Marty left the room, her footsteps echoing down the hall outside until everything fell quiet once more.

"... Your neck's broken, right? That's why you don't move it?" There came that voice again, smooth like honey with the slightest hint of a lisp, so barely perceptible that he wouldn't have noticed it at all had he not been concentrating so hard. The vague imperfection made the prospect of talking back seem suddenly easier.

"That's right. First couple days I couldn't move it at all without passin' out," Richard replied. The scraping of a chair against the floor sounded, and suddenly he could see her, droplets of sweat formed on her forehead as she positioned her seat right beside the edge of the bed, firmly in his line of sight. Yara sat down with a sigh, hands clasped together in her lap.

"... What happened to your shoulder?" He asked slowly, cautiously, as if treading shallow water in search of a drop-off. She poked a finger beneath the neckline of her sweater, rubbing along the edge of the bandage.

"Guard dog slipped the leash about a week ago, before you arrived. Lucky it wasn't worse - you should've seen how the others went at it," Yara chuckled slightly. "Kit and Gale had it by the neck." The mental image almost made him laugh - the even-tempered Cleven and scrawny Lieutenant McKenzie taking it upon themselves.

He liked her smile. Until today he'd never seen her wear anything but a scowl, but even the smallest of smiles seemed to change her entire face, the hardness in her eyes dissipating. Richard couldn't quite fathom how he'd never noticed her before, with all those hours he'd spent in this room with her already. She spent every night in the bunk opposite his, lying on her side to face the wall as if she could somehow forget where she was if she didn't look around. If only he could've met her in better circumstances.

"... You got a cigarette?" He asked after a moment of prolonged silence.

Yara reached for her coat, scrounging around in the pockets. Pausing, she let out a huff of amusement. "Last one," She declared, retrieving a single, slightly bent cigarette.

"Oh, well, I couldn't-"

"Nah, I don't mind," She shrugged, stealing a match from the box hidden beneath the floorboards below DeMarco's bed. They pilfered from one another with such ease here that it would have been impossible for everyone not to have known. Yara struck the match, holding the flame to the end of the cigarette. As smoke began to waft from its end, she reached out, her palm brushing against his chin as she held it to his lips. Macon inhaled, sucking in the smoke as he lifted his own hand to take it from her, their fingertips brushing against each other's in a movement so minuscule and yet big enough to send that heat rising to his face once more.

Yara smirked slightly. He realised he hadn't pulled his gaze away from her face since the moment she'd produced that cigarette, a tiny act of selflessness that was like a holy miracle in a place like this. With a faint sigh, she stood up from her seat, placing the battered metal dish they used as an ashtray on the chair beside him. "I'll... see you later," She stated.

"You gotta go?"

"Yeah."

He could tell she wasn't going to offer any further explanation. "Alright. See you later."

She seized her coat, pulling it on over her shoulders. Even in August, it was cold here - he shuddered to think of the conditions the others had suffered in the months before his arrival. She could cross a room without ever making a sound - no rustle of fabric or creak of a footstep - as if she'd never entered at all. Even before she'd left, Macon missed her presence, feeling her absence the moment she turned away from him.

"Thank you," Yara paused in the doorway, speaking one last time.

His brow furrowed slightly. "For what?"

She shrugged. "Holding my hand."

[thewritetofreespeech]

Ahhh!! I'm so happy to see someone that writes for Vanitas!!

Could I request Noé, Olivier and Vanitas with a female toxicologist s/o who weaponizes and is immune to poison?

Noé

“What’s that?”

“Foxglove.” [Y/N] replied at Noé’s question. “It can be used to cause cardiac failure in targets.”

“What’s this?”

“Jimson weed.” She replied as he moved on to a new plant, as she on to tending to another. “It…makes people not act themselves.” Hallucinate. Badly. More of a deterrent than some of her more deadly toxins.

“What’s this?”

“Don’t touch that!”

Noé snapped his hand back when [Y/N] shouted at him. Startled at her outbursts. “I’m sorry. But that’s nightshade.” She came over to brush haunting purple blooms. Like one might stroke a cat. “It’s very deadly, and dangerous. Helena is probably my most vicious girl in here. She only likes me.”

“You named your plants?”

“Don’t you name your pets?”

Noé shrugged and went to look at a less deadly arrangement. “It’s sad in a way that something so beautiful can hurt people.”

“Beautiful things often do.”

He glanced over at [Y/N], and had to agree on that. “Don’t you ever think of using your powers for good? Like making medicine or something, rather than poisons.”

[Y/N] gave a soft, bitter laugh. “There’s no money in medicine. Besides, my…gift is only for ones that bite back, it seems.” Méchante Glycine, or Wicked Wisteria, gave her the ability to expertly grow plants & greenery, but only of the poisonous sort. It also granted her an immunity to them and other poisons as a precautionary note to the wielder.

“Well, I still think they’re pretty. Even if I can’t touch them.”

“I’m sure they appreciate that Noé.” [Y/N] said with a smile. To which he returned.

“Shall we head upstairs for tea?”

“Of course. Just let me wash my hands. Don’t want to accidently get jimson weed cross contaminated in anyone’s tea. Or it would be a very interesting afternoon.” Noé tilted his head in confusion. Not seeming to get the joke.

[Y/N] quickly washed her hands and bid adieu to her garden for the evening. The leaves seeming to rustle back in farewell. Waiting for their master, and to be of use.

Olivier

His boots were heavy on the steps as he headed into the basement towards the research labs. The dark corridor lit only by torches, before it opened up to the shining ward of electric light powering the Chasseurs scientific backbone of weaponry.

“Ms. [Y/N]

“Oh, hello Olivier.” [Y/N] greeted cheerfully. “I’m surprised to see you. Mira isn’t here.”

“I had planned it that way.” He replied. Shuttering a little as he remembered their last encounter. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Certainly not. Just wrapping these up.” She sat the last vial down in the tube tray and put it aside. “It’s a new serum. With this new strength cocktail it should be able to paralyze even the strongest of vampires briefly. Completely incapacitate the weaker ones.”

“Remarkable.” Olivier complimented. Although not looking at the new bluish colored weapon at his disposable. “Your hard work is appreciated Ms. [Y/N]. I know it must be challenging working down here in the dark. With some of your….colleagues.” He mentally shuttered again.

The toxicologist giggled. “They’re not so bad. The science sort are always a little odd. You have to be to make things out of the norm. Then again, the micro-dosing from our own concoctions probably doesn’t help.” It was Olivier’s turn to laugh. If only once.

“Perhaps…you could come out into the field for a time. To get better notes for your research. I would escort you, of course.”

“I fear I would be murder on the battlefield. No pun intended.” [Y/N] replied in response to his offer. “I’m much better with plants and books.”

“Then, perhaps, we could go get some of those.” The paladin was blushing now. Trying to not seem too forward, but not wanting to be too subtle either. He was terrible at these dances.

[Y/N] looked up from her work with a puzzled look. “You want to go out with me?” Olivier’s face took on a stricken look and went quite pale. “Ok.”

He was taken aback by her readily offered reply. Expecting more of a back and forth. Thrust and parry.

“When shall we go? I could use some more nightshade and sodium chlorate. Shall we go tomorrow?”

“I uh…yes. That..should be fine.”

“Great!” [Y/N] said with a bright smile, before returning to her work. “Come by after dinner and we’ll head out. I’ll make sure Mira is busy so she doesn’t catch you.”

“I….thank you. I will….see you tomorrow then.”

The paladin left. Feeling on odd mix of very accomplished, and as if he hadn’t accomplished anything at all. The mission was accomplished at least. Until tomorrow that is.

Vanitas

Vanitas hissed as pain shot up his arm again. Nursing it at his side.

That last curse bearer had been pretty rough on him. Strong for a human body, it was still pretty fragile in comparison to the might of a raging, rouge vampire.

“Here. This will help.” [Y/N] offered as she came into the room with clean towels, and a bottle of clear liquid in an amber jar.

“I don’t want it.”

The woman scrunched her mouth as she sat next to him. “Honestly. For someone who claims to be a ‘doctor’, you’re certainly untrusting of medicines.”

“I’ve had my share of strange brews shoved down my throat for a lifetime. Thanks.”

[Y/N] sighed and went to mending his arm manually. Of course, she knew that. Their experience with the church hadn’t been the same. Dr. Moreau had not been interested in female test subjects charges. Deciding that their bodies would be too naturally frail for the torture strenuous work is experiments allowed. She didn’t receive the physical torture Vanitas did, but the mental torture was still there. Along with his education on anatomy, medicines, and chemicals.

“I would never hurt you Vanitas. It’s just something to take the edge off.”

“I’d rather have a whiskey.” He joked.

“You don’t drink alcohol.” He flinched painfully as [Y/N] dabbed raw alcohol onto his cuts. “I know you don’t trust me. Or why I’m here.”

Vanitas looked up at his physician. Never having said that, but not denying it was true. “I’m not some spy, or malfeasance sent to bring you back to the order. I just want to help. What’s going on….I have no great love for vampires. After what they did to my family. But the more of them that go mad, the more people will be hurt in the end. The enemy of my enemy and all that.”

She tied off the last bandage and stood. “Will you be able to sleep?”

Vanitas still just looked at her. Then took the bottle from her hand and chugged it down. “Now, yeah.” He said before rolling over to lay on his side, in his cloak and all, to go to sleep.

[Y/N] offered him a small smile, then leaned over to give Vanitas a soft kiss on the hair. “Goodnight, No. 69.”

“Goodnight 70.”

[materialgworl-ish]

I know people don’t mean to dismiss people with OCD when they say things like “I let the intrusive thoughts win” but if you’re saying stuff like that you need to stop like yesterday. An intrusive thought isn’t having the desire to buy/do something a little quirky. Intrusive thoughts are debilitating, tortuous, repetitive, and unwanted thoughts that the person experiencing does not want AT ALL. Sometimes they involve a fear of disease or contamination like most people associate with OCD but they can sometimes be violent and/or sexual in nature. It makes it hard to trust yourself because you believe that a “good” person wouldn’t have these thoughts, even though the unwanted images or thoughts don’t make you a bad person. BECAUSE THEY ARE UNWANTED!

Because of this minimization of OCD and intrusive thoughts I’ve seen so many people online being armchair psychologists and saying that intrusive thoughts are “hidden desires” because “why else would they be there?” Like I’m sorry but something tells me that the people who isolate themselves out of a fear they’ll hurt others (despite not having the desire to) isn’t itching to pick up an axe and go Patrick Bateman on people. Go pick up a book before you contribute to an idea that drives thousands of people to live their lives in constant fear and self-hatred.

So please, please, PLEASE stop making “my intrusive thoughts won” jokes. Treat people with OCD with respect or kindly shut the fuck up ☺️

[miriamladyvoid]

Upcoming fics

Voting is over! Thank you all for participating and voting! So there we have our winner: Human Error (funny because I didn't think I would win this one)

So the order of work and publication will be like this:

1.-Human Error.

2.-The King and his Jester.

3.-I kissed a girl and I liked it.

(these three will be the highest priority of work)

Those below will have a slower publication rate:

4.-Longing for you.

5.-Green with envy.

6.-Duo of Chaos.

7.-Bad influence.

8.-Butterfly and dragonfly.

9.-Friends of Gossip.

Although it is slow cooking to create and do this creative process in writing my fics for the first time, I will leave you a little glimpse of what (could) be each fic (this is subject to change so don't get too excited, the final product may be the same or very different from this draft):

Butterfly and Dragonfly

-"As their paths intertwine, their love blossoms into a joint flight, where the butterfly teaches the dragonfly the beauty of the ephemeral, while the dragonfly promises to care for her, even when her wings begin to give way".

Green with Envy

-"The green of envy is intertwined with the pain of being inhuman, as they fight to earn the love they long for, despite being mere mirrors of who they wish to be".

I kissed a girl and I liked it.

-"A kiss, timid and fearful, emerges like a whisper in Krat's gloom. In its sweet secret, hope and fear dance together, weaving a pray that burns in the shadows".

Duo of chaos

-"Together, they unleash a whirlwind of mischief and disorder, merging their worlds in an unpredictable dance of chaos and complicity. Creating his own reality, one laugh and a detour at a time".

Human error

-"As their fingers intertwined, the friction between metal and human skin was palpable, a contrast between unchanging solidity and living warmth".

Friends of gossip

-"The invitation to chat was irresistible, the gossip became a shared fun, and between jokes and confidences, they discovered a new type of friendship".

Longing for you

-"It was woven into a tapestry of wishes and hopes. A longing that reminds them of their place in a world that denies them the humanity they seek. While their feelings remained trapped in the cold distance of their metallic bodies".

Bad Influence

-"A poison in the perfection that Gepetto had sought to build. He felt his dream crumbling, every piece of his plan disintegrating under the weight of an influence he considered contaminating".

The King and his Jester

-"Through their games, between empty laughter and suppressed tears, they wove a bond that only the damned could understand, creating a performance that blurred the line between reality and theater. It was a refuge in the midst of madness, but both knew that their work had a predestined end".

(that's what I have in draft).With this little glimpse, do you feel more interested? Which one interested you the most? Well, you'll find out very soon! :D So stay tuned!

[kuruk]

I can't even tell if it's my mental issues or his that causes half our problems I think it's kind of his fault because my mom understands my jokes and the way I am and knows what to take seriously and what to ignore and like I'm so generous actually I spend the most on everyone and I give long massages when my parents ask and I bring them food they ask for even though my siblings have stopped doing those things for them years ago -___- imso nice and generous for reals and everyone in my family says I am too my sister said I'm like rarity even though fluttershy is a more obvious choice becusause thars how generous I am sooo yeah.

but he thinks I'm a bitch all because I tell him directly how to do certain things like Put your cap on the drink inbetween sips so it doesn't get contaminated by the air and bug particles what if something lays an egg what then. Literally just trying to help him.. but he gets pissed off every time but I can't stand seeing an open drink he doesn't even throw away his trash sooo he is going to leave his drink out and open forever possibly if I dont put a stop to it. If I give any advice he thinks I'm being bossy even if I'm trying to help and like I'm sorry I know it's embarrassing to be told but I can hear when he doesn't wash his hands and I try to cover my ears to prevent hearing it so I'll be less bothered by knowing but I don't like him touching the fridge or controllers with bathroom hands sorry for having to be direct about it but dude. I try to be not bitchy about it but whatevers he's kind of contaminated to me in general unrelated to his man hygiene issues. I don't have a germ fear and I don't feel disgusted by other people's poor hygiene but he's the same category as strangers to me like when a stranger I haven't accepted wants to borrow a pen I feel kind of ill and don't want them contaminating my things with their stranger air and stranger skin and my dad is part of that LOL. I'll still let them borrow pens btw because I'm so sweet and generous and such but I'll wipe it down after help. some strangers are okay if they seem nice and quiet though all shy girls are basically family to me..

[aropride]

Saw this in my reblogs and I'm bored give the rant bestie

oh my god okay so. in class the other day we were going over the chapter on ocd and one of my classmates had his presentation and it was very good, factually accurate, he mentioned different types of obsessions other than contamination, etc . and our professor is like Ok he did a good job but we'll go thru my slideshow to see if there's anything else to cover. and she lovesss group activities and discussions so much so she had us break into our small groups and talk abt how we'd help treat a person with ocd and there were three hypothetical people. there was maya who had obsessions around cleanliness, alex who had obsessions around harm ocd (specifically stabbing), and sera who had obsessions around fire. and me and my groupmate talked abt alex and he was very normal about it so i was like Okay. maybe the rest of the class will be normal about this

THE REST OF THE CLASS WAS NOT NORMAL ABOUT THIS. i literally wrote down word for word what this one girl said bc it pissed me off so bad . she said "he needs psychiatric help, maybe institutionalization, because what will happen if he picks up the knife?"

and my professor is one of those who's like There's no wrong answers but I THINK THERE ARE WRONG ANSWERS SOMETIMES ACTUALLY. AND THAT IS ONE OF THEM. and literally no one called it out so when i gave my answer i tried to as nicely and as un-passive-aggressively as possible make it very clear that This Hypothetical Guy Does Not Pose A Danger To His Loved Ones Actually. On Account Of That Is Not How Ocd Works.

AND NOT TO MENTION. in this hypothetical situation you ARE the psychiatric help. you're the hypothetical therapist..!!! like yes he does need help but not bc he's dangerous but because he's experiencing debilitating fear around the possibility of hurting others and it's impacting his life! he needs help not as a punishment but bc he deserves to live his life without the guilt & shame & fear that come along with ocd!!!

but it's so wild to me bc that was one of the biggest small groups in the class and everyone in the group is like..yknow the type, mental illness advocates until someone does something weird or god forbid strange. but like. they're usually very normal about stuff UNLESS it's something even slightly "scary" in which case they say stuff like, for instance, we should institutionalize people with intrusive thoughts. i've noticed it with that specific group multiple times and it's so frustrating like. are you even trying to understand people's experiences if u completely shut down at the idea of someone having a "scary" symptom. and even if he were dangerous. in this hypothetical situation, again, UR THE THERAPIST, SO IT IS UR JOB TO HELP HIM ???

also in that same class discussion- a guy from another group said the best way to help the hypothetical woman with obsessions around house fires was to put her in a fire safety course. brother that is just reassurance seeking and rumination and will probably make things so much worse actually! no amount of fire safety courses is going to help when the problem isn't the fire!!!

okay rant over i've been thinking about this for the past like. 35 hours straight. i hate neurotypical psych students so much it's unreal slash half joking 😭

[honeygrahambitch]

Hannibal's greatest fear

- a crack fic that will hopefully brighten your day

Summary: Will had never seen Hannibal so afraid of something before

*

Cooking together had turned into a habit after they had jumped off the cliff. They were regularly changing their location, often enough so that no one would be able to trace them. When too many crimes piled up in the same area, they knew it was time to go before Jack would be there. Cause Jack never really stopped looking for them.

It was a cold evening of September when they were cooking together in their little cabin farther from the population than the usual. Hannibal had suggested that taking a couple of weeks just for themselves would be a good idea and it really was.

"Sure, that will last until you get hungry." Will had joked...more or less. But even so, he had agreed. Being on the run was exhausting sometimes, as much as he treasured playing the vigilante role with Hannibal. Killing off and eating the rude.

"How can I help?" Will had asked that evening as he watched Hannibal chopping an onion.

"You can take the chicken breast from the fridge and slice it." He had replied, lifting his gaze from the vegetable that brought teats to his eyes.

"So emotional tonight, aren't we?" Will asked and smirked as he followed the orders.

"Oh, we can definitely make an exchange, dear Will." Hannibal replied as he wiped his tears.

Will was about to comment when Hannibal froze and fixed him with a deadly stare.

"Will. What are you doing?"

"Slicing the chicken breast, like you said." He answered confused.

"You didn't wash it."

"Well, I-"

"Will. Wash the chicken."

"Fine, fine." He mumbled as he put the chicken into a bowl and walked towards the sink.

"Wait, wait." Hannibal stopped him as he grabbed the faucet for him, turning on the water. "Your hand previously touched the chicken. I cannot have you touch the faucet."

"Hannibal, are you afraid of salmonella?"

"Aren't you, Will?"

Will laughed to Hannibal's dismay as he took the chicken away from the water and placed it on a wood chipper.

"Slice it thinly." Hannibal said as he handed him a sharp knife. He had started to trust Will in the kitchen more than before. More exactly, Will got used to Hannibal's way of cooking. But up until then he had never handled the meat, so he had no idea Hannibal was so strict about the chicken.

"Done." He said after a few minutes and grabbed a potato. "I'm chopping these as well, alright?"

Before Hannibal could stop him the damage was already done. Will stopped and lifted his head slowly, feeling Hannibal's gaze burn him.

"You placed the potato on the same chipper where you have previously sliced the chicken meat. And afterwards you sliced it with the exact same knife." He explained, the horror in his eyes making it hard for Will not to chuckle. Hannibal had never looked so tormented when he murdered someone. Nor when he took someone's organ out of their body. But the idea of using the same knife for the chicken and the potato was somehow disturbing.

"Put the chicken meat into the pan and then wash the chipper, the knife, the potato and most importantly, your hands." He instructed him as he turned of the water for him. He had to stop Will from contaminating everything.

"It would be a shame." Will murmured to himself as he put the chicken into the heated pan on the stove.

"What exactly would be a shame?" Hannibal asked thinking that he hadn't heard the whole sentence.

"If I touched you with my Salmonella hands." He said, an evil look on his face.

"Will." Hannibal threatened. "I am warning you."

Will took a few steps towards him, making Hannibal step back, as if Will was threatening him with a knife.

"Wash your hands. Now." He said as he circled the counter, as far from Will as possible.

"But I am having so much fun, darling." He teased. "And I want to give you a kiss." He added as he came closer.

"Will, I swear, I will not hesitate to stab you. It would not be the first time for you to bleed on the kitchen floor."

"Tell me more, I love it when you threaten me." He said, the smug on his face annoying Hannibal even more.

"Wash your hands or I promise to slice you like you did to that chicken breast."

"Mmm...but then you would still get salmonella if you ate me."

For the next seconds, they started at each other, Will enjoying the way he was dominating the conversation. They exchanged a hundred looks until Hannibal finally gave in.

"Please."

"Please what? Sorry, honey, I didn't catch that."

"Please, my dearest Will, wash your hands."

"As you wish, my love." He replied softly as he finally put his hands under the running water, making Hannibal relax.

"I was serious earlier." Hannibal whispered as he came closer to Will and wrapped his arms around him, hugging him from behind. "Prepare yourself for tonight. I will not be gentle."

Will turned his head and kissed him slowly, suggesting that he didn't mind.

"But first please wash that potato."

[fort-cozy-mcblanket]

I was actually really shocked about that little twist as well…, But actually, I’m more sad than angry because if you ignore that then there’s two things that make what comes next a lot sadder…

1. Any negative perception that Sheldon has had towards his father in the light of believing that he was physically unfaithful to his mother all stems from a misunderstanding…

2. The fact that their relationship seem to be getting a lot better what with renewing the spark in their marriage that they hadn’t felt in a long time will tragically be cut short with George’s 2nd heart attack and the suddenness and heartbreak is probably a big reason for why Mary always seem to speak of her late husband in the negative - it’s out of grief and possibly feeling like he left her/was stolen from her right when things were getting better.

Thinking about Sheldon living with and operating under a misunderstanding for decades is more frustrating to me than sad. It's just so unnecessary. It changes the tone of that scene in The Hot Tub Contamination in ways that I don't like. I know TBBT kind of played it for laughs with the knocking joke, but I thought it was really good to see Sheldon finally admit out loud this traumatic thing that happened in his childhood and his fears about how he may inevitably hurt Amy in the same way, and then make the decision to be better than his dad. Now knowing that his dad never actually cheated and Sheldon had nothing to worry about kinda takes something away, even if Sheldon truly believed it himself in that scene.

As for the other thing, yeah, that is sad, assuming they continue on this path of improving George and Mary's relationship up until he passes. I still would have rather they stuck closer to the story TBBT gave us though. The trip to Germany may have renewed their spark for now, but the trip is over and I don't know if it would have been enough to fix things long-term anyway. But I guess if he passes, a hypothetical long-term doesn't really matter.