#semantic collapse

[processzine-org]

"The End is Silence” — from Beyond the Edge of Light by somethingismissing

“The silence speaks, but we don’t know.” “The code unwinds, no place to go.”

This one hits differently. Not just glitch — but collapse. Not just misheard — but unreadable.

“The End is Silence” is what happens when the last thread snaps. It’s about the other kind of silence — not peace, not rest, but the one that hums just beyond comprehension. The one that taunts, not soothes.

For those who live with auditory processing disorder, or exist in neuroperceptual limbo, these lyrics might feel familiar: The signal’s there. The ears “work.” But nothing makes sense.

The song charts that gradual disintegration of coherence: → Fragments. → Echoes. → Glitches. → Absence.

It’s a poem about what happens when all your efforts to decode the world fail — when silence doesn’t mean nothing, but rather everything you can’t grasp.

We’re still not sure if this is the last track on the album. But it definitely feels like the final transmission.

—

Full lyrics below:

Fragments dance in static light, Echoes break the still of night. Patterns form, then disappear, Truth fades out, nowhere near.

The silence speaks, but we don’t know, The code unwinds, no place to go. In the depths, the void remains, The absence hums, silence sustains.

Eyes search screens for distant signs, Answers drown in tangled lines. Circuits hum, but words are gone, Logic fails as silence dawns.

The silence speaks, but we don’t know, The code unwinds, no place to go. In the depths, the void remains, The absence hums, silence sustains.

Eyes search screens for distant signs, Answers drown in tangled lines. Circuits hum, but words are gone, Logic fails as silence dawns.

The silence speaks, but we don’t know, The code unwinds, no place to go. In the depths, the void remains, The absence hums, silence sustains.

In the silence, we seek the end, But nothing comes, just static blend. The answers fade, dissolve in grey, The void is all that’s left today.

The silence speaks, but we don’t know, The code unwinds, no place to go. In the depths, the void remains, The absence hums, silence sustains.

The silence speaks, but we don’t know, The code unwinds, no place to go. In the depths, the void remains, The absence hums, silence sustains.

The silence speaks, but we don’t know, The code unwinds, no place to go. In the depths, the void remains, The absence hums, silence sustains.

[zvaigzdelasas]

think i figured out how to replicate this (you're welcome dev team (btw hire me @staff))

write a tag

copy text from a tag that has the #

paste that text into a tag youre *editing* (doesnt seem to trigger on new tags)

oops

[mangooes]

Morning Jogs with your husband

(Name) had many great ideas.

Convincing Sylus to wake up early for a "relaxing morning jog" up a mountain hiking track was not one of them.

"You lied to me," Sylus drawled as he effortlessly jogged beside her, yawning, hands casually in his pockets. His crimson eyes glowed faintly under the early morning sun.

(Name), already breathing heavily, shot him a glare. "I did not lie."

Sylus arched a brow. "You said jogging."

"It is jogging!" she snapped.

He glanced at the steep incline ahead. "Sweetie. This is mountain climbing."

"Semantics," she wheezed.

Sylus huffed a laugh, his white hair swaying in the breeze as he kept pace effortlessly. Meanwhile, his wife was starting to regret all her life choices.

She should have known. Of course Sylus—her ridiculously overpowered criminal boss of a husband—was completely unbothered.

She, on the other hand, was dying.

After another five minutes of brutal uphill jogging, she dramatically collapsed onto a large rock.

"I'm done," she announced, flopping onto her back. "Go on without me. Tell Luke and Kieran I loved them."

Sylus stopped, staring down at her with an unimpressed yet amused look. “You’re being dramatic, sweetie. Its adorable.”

"I’m dying and you are calling me adorable?!?."

Sylus sighed, crouching down beside her. "We’re not even halfway, kitten."

"Exactly."

"Get up."

"No."

"(Name)."

She waved a weak hand. "Leave me. Go on. Reach the peak. Achieve greatness."

Sylus stared at her for a long moment. Then, without warning, he sighed.

He grabbed her by the waist and tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"HEY—!"

Sylus, completely unbothered, continued jogging up the mountain.

(Name) flailed. "SYLUS, PUT ME DOWN!"

"No."

"YOU CAN’T JUST—SYLUS!"

"Oh, I can," he said smugly, flexing his arm slightly as he adjusted his hold. "And I did."

She smacked his back. "YOU MUSCLE-BOUND MENACE, STOP FLEXING YOUR PRIVILLEGES!"

Sylus only chuckled, his grip on her firm yet effortless. "I told you, sweetie. You lied to me first."

"THIS IS ABUSE."

"This is consequences."

She huffed, crossing her arms. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Sylus smirked. "Immensely, I love watching my little wife depending on me."

She scowled. "You are the worst husband to ever exsist."

He patted her thigh. "And yet, you choose to marry me no? Have I not spoiled you enough kitten?"

She groaned. "Remind me why."

"Because you’re madly in love with me and my incredible physique."

"Excuse you—"

Sylus flexed his arm again, making sure she felt the strength in his hold. "Mmm. Would you like me to carry you bridal-style instead, kitten?"

(Name), now fully red-faced, kicked her legs in protest.

"SHUT UP."

Sylus laughed. "So that’s a yes?"

"SYLUS I SWEAR TO—"

And so, he carried his flustered, struggling wife all the way up the mountain, occasionally stealing a kiss or two. Maybe morning jogs are not so bad after all.

Yeah no i cant do morning jogs so i want sylus to carry me instead <3 HOIST ME UPPP SYLUSS

[beepboopiloveyou]

After doing some info gathering, I can safely say that the anti-Harris "leftists" are entirely Russian trolls, PRC trolls, Iranian trolls, and tankies who genuinely want to see the US collapse. They can be blocked on sight without another thought.

They don't understand how US politics work (I.e. Jill Stein's platform promising things the executive branch has absolutely no control over)

They're trying to guilt you into giving up your vote for single-issue causes

They know their third-party candidates have zero chance of winning anything

They always downplay Trump's horrific legacy

They try and invalidate your identity as part of a minority voting bloc

They refuse to acknowledge any flaws in places like Russia or China, even calling you racist for bringing them up

They try and play semantics/move goalposts when the facts aren't in their favor

They have literally nothing of value to add to the 2024 US Election discourse.

[mourningstars]

curse - Jegulus microfic - @into-the-jeggyverse - word count: 263

James practically skipped through the portrait hole, narrowly avoiding a collision with two second years on their way down to dinner. The common room was comfortably lit with dozens of candles and the fireplace fully blazing. James gave a possibly too enthusiastic wave at the few of his fellow sixth years that lounged across the plush red velvet couches, as they noticed him burst into the common room.

“Prongs, mate, dim your sparkle a bit. There’s a Slytherin present, she’ll probably faint,” Sirius called out from where he was fully sprawled across the loveseat nearest the fireplace, Remus sat under his legs, one of his own propped up on a footrest with a pillow cushioning his ankle.

“Ha-ha,” Dorcas rolled her eyes from where she sat slumped with Marlene, letting her girlfriend play with her ring-clad fingers.

Marlene grinned up at James as he moved past to collapse down next to Peter, “I take it operation Swoon Baby Black was somewhat successful today?” She asked, ignoring the way Dorcas flicked her nose at the use of the nickname that Regulus was known to hate.

Sirius gave a light-hearted groan from his seat, which James pointedly ignored.

“He only threatened to curse me once while I walked him to the library to grab some books!” James decided to not mention that it was less walking Regulus there and more of a tag along and hope he’s distracted enough to not tell me to leave kind of thing. Semantics.

“That’s disgusting, he’s losing his edge," Sirius lamented from his spot, but he was grinning, too.

[cherrywriterrr]

psych 203 seven

college!rafe x pinkhaired!oc

warning: MDNI 18+!! cursing, sexual themes, heavy flirting, jealousy, skin contact, chaotic bff energy, implied sexual tension, emotionally confusing bonding, sharing a bed, bra-only nova, rafe jealousy implied later, joking, shirtless topper, soft!nova for 2 seconds, smut, unprotected p in v(guys don’t.) etc

six seven eight

nova didn’t even remember when she passed out. one second she was laughing with topper, tangled in his comforter, the next her cheek was pressed against his pillow that smelled like too much weed and axe body spray.

she was warm. too warm.

when she blinked awake, topper was on his back, one arm behind his head, chest rising and falling under the low light of his desk lamp. and she—nova—was in nothing but a black bra and a pair of gray sweatpants that definitely weren’t hers. his pants. her pink hair was a mess and her legs were tangled over his like some messy spaghetti dish of questionable boundaries.

“…the fuck?” she mumbled into the pillow.

“oh good, you didn’t die in your sleep,” topper said, voice groggy, laced with sleep but amused. “you looked too peaceful. i almost checked your pulse.”

nova blinked. “you’re so dramatic.”

“and you’re half-naked in my bed, baby girl.”

“technically i’m half-dressed.”

topper snorted. “semantics.”

nova stretched, arms above her head, completely unbothered by the way her bra shifted. topper looked away for exactly one second too late, grinning like the menace he was.

“you’re literally the worst,” she said, swatting his arm before collapsing back onto the bed.

“and yet, here you are, cuddling me like i’m a body pillow.”

“don’t flatter yourself, i was cold.”

“you could’ve asked for a shirt.”

“i was going to, but you were busy telling me about your dream where rafe cameron turned into a golden retriever.”

“okay, i stand by that. it felt symbolic.”

nova rolled over to face him, cheek pressed to his bicep. “topper.”

“nova.”

“…you ever think we’re too close?”

he raised an eyebrow. “you trying to say something, hart?”

she smirked. “nah. just saying, if people saw us like this, shirtless, touching knees…”

“they’d assume we fucked.”

“exactly.”

“…and you know what?”

“what?”

“we didn’t,” he said with a wink. “which is honestly a loss for you.”

nova laughed, full and throaty, and slapped his chest. “shut up, you little frat rat.”

“you love me.”

“you’re lucky i do.”

he looked at her, soft for a second. “you know i’d kill for you, right?”

“i know.” she nudged him with her foot. “but maybe just, like, key a car or something. less jail time.”

“for you? i’d do community service with a smile.”

nova grinned, tucking herself closer under the covers. “you’re so weird.”

“and yet, still your best friend.”

she mumbled something like “unfortunately” before falling asleep again—this time with her hand resting on topper’s stomach, legs tangled, breath slow and calm.

and neither of them noticed the buzz on her phone from an unsaved number that read:

“u forgot something. come get it later. -rc”

nova woke up to yelling. loud, angry, chest-thumping yelling.

her eyes blinked open slow, confused, lips dry, head pounding faintly. it was 7:02am and the sun was barely peeking through the blinds when she registered the sound of two voices snapping at each other from the front of the dorm.

“—fuck you, man, it’s none of your business where she slept—”

“like hell it’s not! you think i’m fucking stupid, huh? you think i don’t see what this is?”

nova sat up quickly, hair a pink halo of chaos, heart racing.

she stumbled toward the doorway of topper’s room, wearing only her black bra and toppers oversized grey sweatpants that hung low on her hips.

bad timing didn’t even begin to cover it.

“what the fuck is going on?” her voice cracked slightly, still half-asleep, but firm.

rafe turned on his heel, expression pure stormcloud. the second he laid eyes on her—disheveled, braless save for black lace, and in topper’s pants—his whole body stiffened.

his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it could break.

“you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

nova blinked. “what—?”

“you slept here?” he asked sharply, voice like venom.

topper stood shirtless behind him, arms crossed, tone just as tense. “she crashed, dude. not that you need to know.”

rafe looked between them, like the math was adding up in his head and he hated the answer.

“rafe,” nova snapped, crossing her arms over her chest instinctively. “don’t start.”

“don’t start?” he laughed bitterly. “you’re half-naked in his bed.”

“oh my god,” she groaned. “you’re not my boyfriend. why are you acting like you own me?”

“i don’t,” he snapped. “i just didn’t expect this.”

topper stepped forward, voice dropping. “and what the fuck is this, rafe? huh? she’s my friend, and the only reason she crashed here is because of what happened with layla, remember her?”

nova’s face twisted. her hands were shaking slightly, rage boiling under the surface.

“you came to my dorm, rafe,” she said. “i did what you wanted. and i saw her. in your room. and you didn’t say shit. so don’t come in here screaming because i was tired and sad and crashed next to someone who actually gives a fuck about me.”

rafe’s eyes flinched. “you think i don’t give a fuck?”

“you sure don’t act like it,” nova hissed.

“you have no idea what I act like,” rafe snapped. “i texted you. i waited up. i told layla to get the fuck out. you didn’t even open the message.”

nova faltered. her lips parted.

“what message?”

he scoffed. “check your fucking phone, pinkie.”

she backed away slightly, stunned. topper was watching them both now, silent, but clearly ready to intervene if this exploded further.

“this is a fuckshow,” nova muttered under her breath, pushing past both of them, walking toward her phone on the nightstand.

rafe’s eyes dropped for a second to the curve of her waist in his best friend’s pants and it made his teeth grit hard enough to ache.

he wanted to punch a wall. or toppers face.

maybe both.

but instead, he stood there, fists clenched, voice lower, angrier now.

“you don’t get it, do you?”

nova turned around slowly, phone now glowing with the message she never saw. her voice was small but sharp.

“no, rafe. you don’t get it. i’m not your property. you don’t get to treat me like shit and then throw a tantrum when someone else gives me a blanket and a place to fucking sleep.”

he didn’t reply. just stared.

topper cleared his throat. “cool, so maybe we’re done yelling at each other at 7am?”

nova grabbed her hoodie and slipped it on fast, avoiding rafe’s eyes. her chest still burned. her hands still shook. and his stare felt like it could set her on fire.

“i’m going,” she said coldly. “thanks for the floor show.”

and with that, nova walked out of topper’s dorm—her phone buzzing in her hand, her heartbeat louder than ever.

rafe didn’t follow. but his stare burned between her shoulder blades all the way down the hall.

nova barely made it halfway down the hall before she heard topper jog after her, barefoot and still shirtless like the chaotic golden retriever he was.

“nova—hey, hey, wait—”

“topper,” she snapped, spinning on her heel as he caught up.

he didn’t say anything at first, just grabbed her wrist and tugged her around a corner, into a random stairwell door with a heavy click behind them.

“okay, first of all, rude. second of all,” he panted, “i think he likes you or some shit.”

nova blinked. “no shit, ponyboy. why else would he be jealous of this?”

she gestured to herself—his sweatpants slung low on her hips, her hoodie hanging open, one bra strap sliding off her shoulder, her pink hair an absolute storm.

topper looked at her for a second like he just realized he gave her his favorite pair of sweats. “i mean… crazy fucking world. i never thought i’d see rafe cameron, big bad boy himself, get jealous. like actually mad jealous. yelling and pacing and shit.”

nova leaned back against the cold wall, arms crossed. “well i don’t give a fuck, topper. if he wants me?” her voice sharpened, cool and dangerous. “he can come fuck me until i forget about anyone else. not throw a tantrum in your dorm like i’m his little bitch who forgot to text back.”

topper opened his mouth. then closed it. then opened it again. “damn.”

nova just rolled her eyes. “exactly.”

topper raised both brows, pressing his hand to the wall beside her head with a dramatic sigh.

“i’ll tell him that. so he can get his shit together and handle it.”

nova smirked, flipping a piece of her pink hair over her shoulder.

“i don’t promise i’ll actually accept anything he throws at me… but hey—he can try.”

topper snorted. “oh c’mon. you fuck everyone.”

nova didn’t even flinch. she blinked slowly and tilted her head with that signature nova smirk,the one that could gut a man and then make him thank her for it.

“not insecure little boys, topper. that’s below my pay grade.”

“damn,” topper muttered, hand over his heart. “you wound me, nona.”

“you’ll live,” she said sweetly, already reaching for the stairwell door again. “he might not, though. depends how he handles the next five minutes.”

the stairwell door hadn’t even clicked closed behind her before it swung right back open.

“exactly on point,” topper muttered under his breath, hands in his hoodie as he stepped back.

rafe stood there, messy hair, jaw clenched, chest heaving like he’d run the whole campus looking for them. his eyes cut between them, narrowed.

“so y’all are fucking now?” he asked, voice flat. sharp.

nova didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. she folded her arms under her chest, chin high, still in topper’s fucking sweatpants like this wasn’t chaos incarnate.

“no, we are not fucking, pinkie pie,” she said, sweet and deadly. “but if you want ‘us’ to be fucking… do sum about it.”

she stepped forward, chest barely brushing his. her voice dipped.“be a man for once, rafey.”

topper blinked once… then twice.

“damn, rafe,” he muttered with a smirk, like he was watching history being made in real time.

he slung an arm around nova’s shoulders casually, gave rafe a half-hearted you’re screwed kind of look, and pulled her into a one-armed hug

“good luck with that, lover boy.”

then, like the true chaotic wingman he was, he saluted them both, two fingers to his temple, dramatic as hell—and backed away down the hall.

“text me if you need a condom or a priest!” he called over his shoulder with a laugh.

the door slammed behind him. silence. tension. a storm in nova’s lungs. and rafe… staring at her like he’d never seen anything pinker or more dangerous in his life.

nova leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, eyes locked onto his with that maddening little tilt to her mouth, somewhere between a smirk and a challenge. her voice was soft, slow, biting.

“i told topper…” she paused, just to watch his jaw twitch, “…that if you want me, you should just fuck me until i forget about everyone else.”

she tilted her head, pink strands falling into her face as she narrowed her eyes at him.

“not throw a tantrum like some insecure little boy, rafe.”

rafe stared at her like she’d slapped him across the face and dared him to hit back.

his jaw clenched. breath uneven. that storm behind his eyes snapped, like something finally broke loose.

“fuck it,” he muttered—more to himself than her—and then it happened.

he grabbed her. his hand fisted into the waistband of those sweatpants—topper’s sweatpants—and yanked her forward until their bodies crashed together, heat against heat.

his mouth was on hers like it was the last goddamn thing he’d ever taste. it wasn’t a kiss. it was war.

teeth clashing, tongues fighting, breath tangled in a mess of heat and spit and something that burned in their chests and didn’t have a name.

his hands were everywhere. rough palms on her hips, up her sides, groping, grabbing like he couldn’t get enough of her. one slid up her bare back to her bra strap, fingers splaying across her spine. the other gripped her jaw, tilting her head just how he wanted it, tongue pushing deeper into her mouth.

she moaned into it, caught off guard, body responding before her brain even caught up.

and he groaned at that. deep in his chest. almost like it hurt.

he pulled back just a fraction, lips swollen and red, his thumb brushing her bottom lip. he didn’t say a word.

neither did she. her chest was heaving, mouth parted, heart fucking pounding.

the air between them was radioactive.

and rafe just stared at her like he wanted to destroy her and worship her all at once.

he didn’t move. not right away.

just stared her down, lips wet, hands twitching at his sides like he was holding himself back from devouring her all over again.

then,his voice, low and wrecked:“good enough for you?”

she smirked.fucking smirked.

and leaned in, slow, lips barely brushing his jaw when she whispered“try harder and we’ll see.”

and then—gone.

she turned on her heel, her bare back still flushed from his touch, that damn pink hair swaying as she walked out the door in topper’s sweatpants like she owned the whole fucking campus.

leaving rafe standing there—dazed. hard. and pissed off in the most delicious way.

nova’s dorm was quiet, sarah gone for class, the kind of silence that made her feel a little too exposed—literally. she was just laying back, skin bare against the sheets, when suddenly the door slammed open.

rafe stood there, eyes dark and unreadable. before she could say anything, his hand was on her, pulling her up against him like he needed to make sure she was real.

“been waiting too long,” he muttered, voice low and rough.

her breath hitched as he leaned in, fingers tracing fire down her sides. she didn’t hesitate, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. the heat between them was thick—magnetic, desperate.

he kissed her hard, no softness, no asking, his hands roaming, claiming, gripping. she responded just as fiercely, matching his hunger with her own.

the world shrank to the feel of his body pressing against hers, the sharp intake of breath, the messy tangling of limbs tangled in sheets and skin

“you’re mine,” he growled against her mouth.

his hands slid down, fingers digging into her hips as he pushed her back onto the bed, never breaking the kiss. the way he tasted—like danger mixed with something addictive—made her head spin.

nova’s skin tingled under his touch, every nerve alive. she arched into him, craving more, wanting to feel him everywhere. his mouth traced a slow, teasing path down her neck, biting softly before sucking a mark that would claim her.

“you’re driving me crazy,” he whispered, voice rough as gravel.

“good,” she breathed, “cause i’m not stopping.”

he moved with purpose, hands exploring, lips claiming, every touch setting her on fire. they were messy, urgent, like they’d been holding back too long. the tension snapped, and everything was just heat and want.

his body pressed fully against hers, skin to skin, the world outside fading into nothing. every gasp, every moan, every whispered curse was theirs alone.

“fuck,” he cursed low, “you’re perfect.”

nova laughed breathlessly, “i know.”

they moved together—fast, hungry, desperate, lost in the moment, forgetting everything but the raw, sinful connection burning between them.

rafe’s hands were ruthless, gripping nova’s thighs, pulling her closer as his mouth devoured every inch of her skin. his tongue flicked over her collarbone, leaving a trail of fire that made her shiver and beg silently.

“you’re so fucking wet for me,” he growled against her skin, his breath hot and heavy. “all this pink just for me, huh?”

nova’s fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him down for a deeper kiss, teeth clashing as they fought for dominance. she gasped when his hand slid between her legs, fingers slipping inside her slick heat, moving slow and torturous.

“fuck, you feel so good,” he murmured, the sound thick with need. “gonna fuck you so hard you forget your own name.”

she arched into him, hips lifting, desperate for more. rafe’s mouth found hers again, tongue exploring every corner, teasing, tasting. the roughness of his teeth scraped her bottom lip, making her whimper.

“you want me?” he whispered, voice dark, “say it.”

“please,” nova breathed, voice shaky but needy. “fuck me.”

without hesitation, he positioned himself at her entrance, teasing the head inside before plunging deep, filling her completely. the bed creaked beneath them, skin slapping skin, their bodies moving in a savage rhythm.

“shit, you’re so tight,” rafe cursed, thrusting harder, “mine.”

nova’s nails raked down his back, breath coming in ragged gasps, the pleasure building faster than she could hold. every slam, every groan, every filthy word pushed her closer to the edge.

“rafe,” she moaned, voice breaking, “fuck me harder.”

he obeyed, pounding into her with raw, relentless hunger, stealing her breath, claiming every inch. the room was filled with their sounds—wet, desperate, sinful.

and when they came together, it was violent, messy, perfect.

nova tangled her fingers in the sheets, staring at the ceiling, breath still shaky. “this doesn’t make us a couple, rafe.”

he blinked, voice rough from exertion. “what?”

she turned on her side, eyes cold but honest. “yeah, rafe. this. what just happened? doesn’t change a damn thing. you fucked layla, remember?”

his jaw clenched, voice low and almost bitter. “you gotta be fucking kidding me. i thought, maybe,we could go on a date or some shit.”

nova snorted, biting her lip. “date? you? you think i’d wanna go out with you? after all that? please.”

he let out a dry laugh, shifting closer. “well, what then? you wanna just keep fucking and pretending it means nothing.”

“exactly,” she said flatly, “because honestly? if i’m honest, it means a hell of a lot less than you think.”

the tension hung thick between them, unspoken feelings tangled with resentment and something messy neither wanted to admit.

“fuck,” he muttered, running a hand over his face. “you’re impossible, pinkie.”

nova smirked, the tiniest hint of a challenge in her eyes. “you’re just lucky i’m insane enough to stick around.”

he ran a hand through his hair, eyes dark. “yeah, alright. just fucking then. no promises, no labels.”

nova’s lips curled into a sly smile. “secret, rafe. no one has to know. no one.”

he raised an eyebrow. “exclusive then?”

she shrugged, playful but firm. “you can fuck whoever you want, just not layla.”

he laughed, low and genuine. “trust me, i only want to fuck you.”

what nova didn’t know was that rafe already had a plan. one he’d been quietly working on since the moment he saw her. a plan to make her his, officially. labels and all. girlfriend. no secrets, no pretending. just them, whatever that meant, but together.

he wasn’t done yet. not by a long shot.

rafe’s fingers traced lazy patterns over nova’s back, their lips meeting in soft, lingering kisses that promised more but said nothing outright.

just as nova was about to let herself get lost in the moment, her phone buzzed loudly against the mattress, the harsh ringtone cutting through the silence like a knife. she sighed, reaching blindly for it, the spell broken.

“shit,” she muttered, staring at the screen. sarah’s name flashing insistently. rafe’s brow furrowed, watching her with that mix of amusement and something softer, waiting for her to answer.

previous ->next taglist masterlist

tags: 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @iconiccolo @viqtoria @devoutedlover @k4yr14 @purplerose291 @qversazex @sc05 @t0x1cfaerie @certifiedlovergirl112 @faithlyn444 @mrspuffdriving @feverg1rl @eviev097 @cherryhoneybabe @silkylovey @chillgal135

[lorynna]

Blackpillers will do anything to twist your arguments, often resorting to semantics or bad faith interpretations to derail the conversation. But the core point behind the statement "Blackpill 'feminists' don't hate the system. They just hate that it didn't pick them" is actually pretty simple: these women are not interested in dismantling oppressive systems; they are angry that they aren't the beneficiaries of them.

Unlike radical feminism, which seeks to abolish the patriarchy and hierarchical structures of domination, blackpill feminism is reactionary. It does not aim for liberation, but for reversal instead. In a hypothetical world where the patriarchy had positioned women as the dominators and men as the subjugated, these same women would likely not oppose the system.

They would justify their power with the same essentialist logic they now claim victimhood from. Their issue is not with oppression itself, but with not being on the winning side of it.

This is what makes blackpill feminism ideologically adjacent to male inceldom. Both ideologies stem from wounded entitlement: Not necessarily sexual entitlement like in the case of incels, but the entitlement to matter within the system built on domination, hierarchy and control. And when that system doesn’t reward them, both groups collapse into rage and nihilism instead of choosing to reject the system's values altogether.

Blackpillers don’t question the structure that created those expectations. Instead, they double down on it, demanding that it finally favor them. This is not liberation, it’s a desire for power under the same oppressive logic. They do not seek to burn the system down, only to be its new rulers.

In that way, blackpill feminism is not feminism at all. It is a mirror image of patriarchy, with the same values, domination, desirability, hierarchy, but with the genders swapped.

post might be edited for better understanding in the future, if I see that certain points are confusing / badly expressed

[aenor-llelo]

amitoufo he is carbondated

It's the Year of the Snake. Destiny 2's Heresy just came out. But this ain't about her. I sit on your shoulder, I am your xiaoren.

I'm Taiwanese! Let's carbon date The Drifter!

Lightbearers retain their semantic memory (facts, concepts, ideas) and procedural memory (memory of how to do things) of their original life before death. This is implied from game/lore instances of Guardians with unique accents, ethnic coding, memory of languages that are obscure post-Collapse, even cases of Guardians retaining pre-rez war PTSD. It is outright confirmed by Sen-Aret, a Guardian who- due to the sheer age of her remains or some error by her Ghost- was raised with only the knowledge she had in life, and had to learn about modern weapons/language from other Guardians.

Why does this mean anything? It means that the way a Guardian prefers to dress, talk, and generally behave tells you where they came from pre-rez!

Aside from his voice actor being Vietnamese, his entry in the official cookbook is banh mi, a Vietnamese dish, and his clothes are Chinese, which would point to him being Hoa, the Han people of Vietnam. (He also wraps his clothes in an orientation specific to corpses, because he doesn't count Lightbearers as truly alive humans.)

Behavior-wise, though, have you noticed how obsessed he is with jade? The coins, the necklace. Jade is a very precious stone in the Sinosphere, and jade jewelry is for giving luck or protection to the wielder- what you will hear less commonly is that it is meant to work by breaking instead of you when something happens. We give them to kids and elderly for this reason.

(You can wonder, for a second, the jade coins he always plays with before Gambit rounds, wraps around certain weapons for you, and the Red String of Fate ornament for Malfeasance. Is this a man perpetually deeply terrified for everyone or himself, or is he every middle aging ah-yi who just got back into religion while you were in school?)

So he's Vietnamese and the Chinese influence means his pre-rez life had to have been after Chinese imperial interference with Vietnam. Unfortunately, four different historical periods between 111 BC and the 1400s isn't good carbon dating. KE SHI NI HUI KANDAO THE SANDWICH,

banh mi is a baguette sandwich. this kind of bread comes to vietnam in the mid-19th century from French colonizers, and only during WWI did a mixed flour version make this bread accessible outside luxury. Early 1900s le. But "post-1900s" isn't a better narrowing down than "BCs to 1400s" in a future setting like Destiny.

Except that Drifter's banh mi recipe specifically uses pâté. This was only a common banh mi filling before the 1950s, when the partition of Vietnam sent an influx of northerners to Saigon and led to the Saigon sandwich that is modern banh mi. So, 1910s to 1950s. And the fact that he defaults to hanfu rather than Western dress or more modern standard Vietnamese ethnic clothing like ao dai skews him having been an adult on the earlier end of this time frame or living in a more rural area where colonization ideas were not as enforced. (One could explore him having other Vietnamese forms of cultural expression like lacquered teeth, actually.)

Ain't that something? He could have lived through WWI or even saw the beginning of the Communist revolution. The possibility that his first life was a survivor of colonization, war draft, and/or violent civil war could add a lot to readings of his character, especially his C-PTSD, but that's a whole other post if the people demand it. It's a neat thing to explore, huh?

And don't call him a rat le! Bad enough already the game think that is cute! White people calling East Asians rats is generally a slur in reference (from my collection) to immigrant "infestation" and part of general stereotypes about their uncleanliness (they cook with gutter oil, they eat rats, they cheap they scam they lie dadadada). You want source bigger than I grow up with white people shout in my face and their children pull their eyes to squint like a "jap"? Look up WWI propaganda posters about Japan. They did not invent that out of nowhere, they make Japanese people into rats because that's something they already say.

"It's just about Japanese-" what if I told you a large part of Western racism about Asians is that they can't tell the difference and don't care. and they're making fun of similar cultures and features.

"My Asian friend said it was okay-" the asian friend values your friendship and your comfort more than what they feel when you say slurs, dude. sorry i had to be the one to tell you that. one friend (or stranger online) giving you the pass to say it in front of them doesn't mean you're allowed to say it to everyone.

"it's fictional-" Real East Asian people getting beat down by Sinophobia matters a little more than how cute you think it is to call a Vietnamese man an animal that your culture associates with filth and plague.

"Chinese zodiac animal-" The snake is right there. The game won't shut up about how snake he is. We're having a Drifter-heavy episode right in the beginning of the snake lunar year. His personality matches the charm, mystery, and wisdom associated with the sign. He is never thematically associated with rats. He is never respectfully associated with rats.

It would be one thing if it was another asian character calling him that in the context of the rat's folkloric characteristics, but this is an American game by an American studio writing someone voiced by a non-asian to call him a rat as an insult about his cleanliness and food choices. Good for you if that doesn't hurt your feelings! Hurt many more people than you! They more real than him!

Good game story. Mistakes happen! Doesn't mean you have special privilege to repeat it.

He is snake! Viper! Asp! Cost zero dollar to say that instead! Don't keep a pet slur in your pocket!

[ambiguous-avery]

Moon Without Stars, Part 4

Sam Winchester x fem!Reader/You | WC: 3612

Summary: Hunters – the people who lived fast and lawless – had one rule they all abided by. No attachments. And in a world where your first touch with your soulmate would leave a brand behind, No Touching was an unspoken second rule. Not everyone followed that, but you did. Or you tried to. The last thing you needed was for fate to be cruel and bind you to someone. Least of all someone like Sam Winchester.

Tags/Warnings: Soulmate AU, sad Sam (that’s a warning all of its own), idiots fighting fate, strangers to enemies to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, angst, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men

A/N: Alright, I think I've tortured you guys enough. For now. Let's get into the meat of this :D Moon Without Stars Masterlist

You hadn’t planned on running into the Winchesters again. Not in this backwoods Colorado town. Not with your hands covered in blood and oil. And certainly not while nursing three fractured ribs, what felt suspiciously like a punctured lung, and in worse tatters than a dog’s well-loved chew toy. If the lung collapsed, then it might’ve been the last thing you needed to spell your end.

You wouldn’t have called it a werewolf den. Not exactly. It was more like a werewolf summer camp for the homicidally furry. But semantics didn’t really matter when your shoulder was bleeding through the scraps that could hardly be considered a jacket anymore and your knife hand was trembling from the effort of staying upright. The abandoned factory outside of Burlington had seemed like the perfect place to corner the pack. 

Until it wasn’t.

“I’ve got this,” you hissed through gritted teeth, pressing your back against some rusted piece of machinery. The thin air of Colorado wasn’t great to begin with, and it was even worse when you could only take shallow breaths without pain.

That's when you heard it – the familiar rumble of an engine that had no business being in these mountains. The creak of car doors that shouldn't exist in your world anymore. Footsteps. Two sets. Brothers.

"Son of a bitch," you whispered, the words fogging in the cold Colorado air. Your mark grew warm. Tingly. Hopeful.

It had been forty-six days since you last saw Dean or… him. Forty-six days of listening very closely to your gut just so you could do the exact opposite of what it told you to do. Forty-six days of staying hyper vigilant to your soulmate mark and pulling a U-turn any moment it grew even slightly warmer. Forty-six days of not even daring to think his name lest the thought of him alone were to summon him from the ether. Forty-six exhausting days of delaying the inevitable. And for what? He found you anyway.

Dean Winchester’s voice carried through the empty hallways first.

“Well, look what we have here. Guess there’s only so long you can run.” Your vision blurred at the edges as you turned to face them. Sam stood a few feet behind his brother, his expression shifting from surprise to concern when he spotted the state of your jacket. Ripped in various places with dark stains spreading across it.

“I don’t need your help,” you said, but the words lacked conviction as your knees shuddered, threatening to buckle beneath the weight of your own ego.

“Yeah, you’re doing great,” Dean’s voice dripped with sarcasm, though you were sure you could sense some genuine worry buried underneath it. “How many are there?”

“Five. Maybe six.” You swallowed hard, tasting iron. “I took down two before–” 

A howl echoed through the facility, bouncing off the metal walls and sending a chill down your spine. Or was that the blood loss? 

“Before you got your ass handed to you,” Dean finished, already cocking his gun. “Plan B it is.” You would’ve scoffed if you didn’t think you’d pass out from it. Sam stepped forward, his expression hardening as he took in your wounds.

“You need medical attention. Now.”

“I need to finish the job,” you countered stubbornly, fingers tightening around your knife. The blade trembled in your grip. 

Another howl. Closer this time. Quickly followed by the scrape of claws against metal. The werewolves were circling back, drawn by the scent of fresh blood. Your blood.

“We’ll finish it,” Sam said, and his voice left absolutely no room for argument. “Dean–”

“Yeah, I got it.” Dean moved to position himself between you and the approaching threat, silver bullets loaded and ready. “You get her out of here.”

You wanted to protest. To prove you could still fight. But when Sam ducked down and slung your arm over his shoulders, his arm wrapping around your waist to support your weight, your body betrayed you. The adrenaline that had kept you upright finally ebbed, and your knees gave away. The silver knife clattered to the ground as you sagged against Sam’s solid frame.

“I’ve got you. Don’t worry,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear.

“I can walk,” you insisted, even as your legs felt boneless beneath you.

“Sure you can,” Sam’s voice was gentle but firm as he guided you toward the exit. “Just like Dean can cook without a microwave.”

Despite yourself, a weak laugh escaped your lips, followed immediately by a wince as your ribs protested the movement. Sam’s arm tightened around you, his warmth seeping through your blood-soaked clothes. Then, in a surprisingly smooth motion you didn’t expect from someone as large as him, he swept his other arm beneath your knees, scooping you up without jostling you too much. You wanted to hate how easily he lifted you. You wanted to despise how familiar his scent already was to you despite the time apart. Gunpowder and old books and something else distinctly Sam.

If you weren’t so focused on staying alert to your surroundings, you might’ve taken solace in the way your mark practically vibrated beneath your sleeve. The way it urged you to cling to Sam and nuzzle your face in his shoulder. But thankfully, your innate instinct to survive was stronger than your natural pull to your supposed soulmate. Still... there was an annoying buzzing in the back of your mind, like when a fly was in the room but you couldn’t quite place where exactly it was. You instead chose to focus on the spreading numbness in your extremities and the concerning wetness soaking through your shirt.

The sound of gunfire erupted behind you followed by a sickening whine and whimper. The pack had found Dean. It suddenly hit you just how close you had been to becoming dog food. Each shot echoed through the facility, bouncing off the walls like thunder, but Sam never broke stride, his attention focused entirely on getting you to safety.

“He’ll be fine,” Sam said, answering the question you hadn’t asked. “This isn’t our first werewolf rodeo.”

“Wasn’t mine either,” you muttered, the words slurring slightly as darkness crept into the edges of your vision.

The cold mountain air hit your face as Sam carried you outside. You clung to him. You weren’t sure when you had wrapped your other arm around his neck, but he was warm. And comfortable. And it would be so easy to fall asleep in his arms like this.

“Stay with me,” Sam commanded, his voice cutting through the growing fog in your mind. The Impala sat waiting, its black surface gleaming under the moonlight like a friend you never wanted to see again. He managed to open the back door one-handed, his movements careful as he settled you across the leather bench.

“Dean–” you started, suddenly worried about leaving the eldest Winchester alone.

“Will be right behind us,” Sam finished, shrugging off his jacket and pressing it firmly against your shoulder. You hissed at the pressure. “Sorry, but we need to stop the bleeding.” There was a snarky comeback somewhere in your brain, but it felt out of reach. Unformed. Your eyes met Sam’s and for a moment, the forty-six days of separation collapsed into nothing. The same hazel eyes. The same hands. The same soft expression. Like he was looking at you like you were someone. You were no one.

“You shouldn’t have tried to take them alone,” he said, his voice low. His tone was tender despite the admonishment.

“Thought I would only have two or three of them. Didn’t exactly plan for a reunion,” you managed, teeth chattering as you vaguely recognized the signs of shock setting in. “Thought I could handle it.”

“You’re only human.” There was an edge to his words. 

“I can handle this. Just drop me at the nearest hospital.” Sam looked down at you, concern etched across his face.

“And tell them what? That you got mauled by a pack of werewolves?”

The passenger door slammed open, and Dean dove in, breathless and splattered with blood.

“Go, go, go!” he shouted, shoving the Impala’s keys into the ignition. Sam was instantly behind the wheel, the Impala rumbling to life. Its wheels spun against gravel as Sam accelerated down the mountain road, taking curves too fast for comfort. Each bump sent fresh waves of pain through your body, but you bit down on the collar of your jacket to keep quiet.

“All of them down?” Sam asked, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror.

“Yeah,” Dean replied, bracing an arm against the bench and twisting to look at you. “Hey, stay awake back there. No checking out on us.”

You hadn’t realized your eyes had closed until Dean’s voice jarred you back into awareness. The interior of the car swam in and out of focus, the leather and chrome completely alien to you.

“Where are we going?” you asked, your voice barely audible over the engine.

“The bunker,” Sam answered without hesitation.

“No. Just drop me at a motel. I’ll be fine.”

“Like hell you will,” Dean scoffed. He sounded like he was underwater. “You’ve got enough blood loss to make a vampire jealous and who knows what kind of internal injuries. You’re coming with us.”

You wanted to argue. To insist on your independence. To maintain the distance you had worked so hard to keep. But the black spots dancing across your vision made a compelling counterargument. The Impala’s grumble beneath you felt like a lullaby, dragging you towards unconsciousness.

“Hey.” Sam’s voice was sharp. “Stay with us. Talk to us. Talk to me.”

“About what?” you mumbled, your hand finding his jacket he had set on top of you.

“Anything. How you’ve been. What you’ve been hunting.” A pause. “Why you left again.”

The last sentence hung in the air between you, heavier than all the rest. Dean shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He leaned forward, rummaging through the first aid kit under the seat, giving you and Sam a semblance of privacy despite the confined space. You managed to find the rearview mirror, your eyes meeting Sam’s. Even though your haze of pain, you could see the hurt there, barely concealed beneath his professional concern.

“It scarred,” you said finally, fingers touching your cheek.

“What?”

“Said it would heal clean. But it scarred.” Each word was a struggle against the tightness in your chest. The darkness pressing in on all sides like a comforting hug. Sam took a sharp turn, and you bit back a groan.

“Sorry.” And you weren’t sure if the apology was for the way he took the turn, your cheek, or something else.

The curving mountain road eventually gave way to flatlands, and you felt yourself slipping despite your best efforts. Sam’s voice sounded urgent. Afraid. Why was he afraid? You were just going to nap. Just a little one. His jacket was warm. It smelled like him. You liked how he smelled.

You woke to unfamiliar ceiling tiles and the antiseptic smell of medical supplies.

Panic seized you for a moment as your brain fought to catch up, memories fragmented and hazy in your mind. Everything felt weighed down, limbs heavy against soft sheets. There was no rhythmic beeping of machines like you would’ve expected from a hospital. And there wasn’t an odd spring digging into your back or tacky wallpaper which meant you weren’t in a motel room either.

You blinked slowly, trying to piece together where in the world you were. You vaguely remembered Sam saying something about a bunker, so that was the logical conclusion. Whatever the bunker was.

You groaned softly as you moved to sit up, but a sharp, stabbing pain across your torso forced you back against the pillow with a low hiss. Your hand instinctively went to your shoulder, finding it heavily bandaged. On top of that, you were dressed in a t-shirt that definitely wasn’t yours. It hung loosely on your frame, the soft cotton smelling faintly of laundry detergent and something else. Something Winchester-esque.

“Easy there,” a voice said. You turned to look, blood rushing in your ears. And there he was.

Sam. Seated in a plain wooden chair a few feet away, elbows on his knees, book closed in his hands. His hair was messy, and his eyes were dark with exhaustion. His entire posture was wired tight, and you could see the way he held his tension in his shoulders. But when your eyes met his, you swore you could see the corner of his mouth lift. Just a bit. Something shaky and relieved. And his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.

“You’re okay,” he said, and you weren’t entirely sure if he was saying that more for your benefit or for his. 

The chair creaked beneath his weight as he straightened up, and he blinked the tiredness from his eyes, though it did nothing to alleviate the darkness beneath them.

“How long?” you asked, your voice raspy from disuse. Your throat was killing you.

“Almost two days. Cas – an angel friend of ours – took care of the worst of it, but he was in the middle of something and couldn’t get it all. Your lung collapsed once we crossed over into Kansas.” Sam stood up and approached the bed. Slowly, as if he were approaching a scared animal that might bite him.

You watched him quietly as he reached for a glass of water that was set next to bottles of Advil and Tylenol. He picked it up and held it out for you. Your mark hummed at his closeness, and you cursed it in your head. You had almost forgotten about it. But your dry throat was more insistent, and you took the glass from him, careful to keep your fingers from brushing against his. He then uncapped both pill bottles, dumped out two pills from each of them, and offered you them as well.

“Advil and Tylenol. Together they’re basically Vicodin,” he said. You eyed the pills in his hand warily. 

It wasn’t that you suspected that they were anything beyond what he was saying, but rather that there was no feasible way you could grab them without touching him. You transferred the glass of water to your left hand and held your right one out, palm up. Sam wordlessly adjusted and dropped the pills into your outstretched hand, keeping his fingertips a healthy distance away from your skin.

“Thank you,” you said softly, popping all four pills into your mouth and sipping at your water. God, you didn’t think you had ever enjoyed a drink of water this much. It was cool and refreshing and soothed your parched throat. You felt just a little more human as you downed the entire glass in one go.

“How are you feeling?” he asked after a beat of silence. You moved to set the glass down but winced as the bandages at your shoulder pulled at the tender skin. Sam immediately reached out and took the glass for you, setting it down on the bedside table in your stead. “Careful. You don’t want to move too much. Got about thirty stitches holding you together.”

You froze. Stitches. Your hand tentatively went to the bandage over your shoulder, fingers gingerly tracing the length of it beneath the oversized shirt. Sam’s shirt, your mark purred. You could almost picture it melting against the fabric, as though it were a cat casually lounging in a patch of sun. You chewed on your cheek, eyes never leaving Sam’s as you processed his words.

You were sure that the Winchesters didn’t have an on-call doctor who could’ve done the stitches. Which meant that either Sam or Dean had taken on the task of putting you back together. And you had a sneaking suspicion that it wasn’t the older Winchester who had patched you up. Not with the way Sam was hovering. Not with the way his eyes kept flicking to where your bandages were. Like he was assessing his own handiwork.

Your gaze darted to his hands, taking in the long fingers and the careful way he held them at his sides. You imagined those same hands methodically working, those fingers gently moving across your skin as he pulled the needle. The thought should’ve been strictly clinical, but there was something strangely intimate about knowing that his hands had been on you while you were unconscious. You shoved the thought away before your mark could latch onto it and dig its heels in.

“Thirty stitches, huh? Guess I really made a mess of myself,” you said. You had been aiming for something light-hearted. Something to ease the tight feeling that was beginning to constrict around your heart. But you’re pretty sure your attempt landed flat because Sam only replied with a quiet,

“Something like that.” He turned, and for a fleeting – disappointing – second, you thought he might leave. But he just returned to his chair, and you didn’t miss his soft sigh as he sat down. Surely the chair couldn’t have been comfortable. Did he not want to sit on the bed with you? And suddenly the content cat that was your mark was clawing at you. You mentally batted it away.

The silence between you two stretched. Uncomfortable and heavy. You had never been good at being in someone else’s debt. Even more so that it was his. You wet your lips.

“I should get going,” you said, though every fiber of your being screamed in protest at the thought of actually getting up. “I’ve imposed enough.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up, his expression of concern quickly twisting into disbelief.

“Imposed? You’ve got four deep lacerations across your shoulder, side, and back. You’re not going anywhere.” His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. “Not until those wounds are healed enough that you won’t tear them open the minute you try to handle a weapon.” You glared at him, hating the vulnerability. Hating that he was right.

“I don’t need a babysitter, Winchester.”

“No,” he agreed, “you need a doctor, but since you’re a stubborn hunter, you get me instead.” 

He stood to his full height, towering over the bed and forcing you to look up at him. You wanted to argue. To insist that you were fine. That you had survived worse on your own. But the truth was, you hadn’t. This was bad, even by your skewed standards. 

“Three days,” you relented. Sam shook his head.

“One week. Minimum. Then we’ll see.” And his tone made it clear that it wasn’t a negotiation but a matter of fact. You frowned at him, not appreciating being told what to do. 

“You can’t keep me here.” You shifted a bit, testing the limits of your pain. It bit back.

“I’m not trying to keep you,” Sam said. “I’m just tired of watching you run like someone’s chasing you.” You looked away, his words landing too close for comfort. And just like that – there it was. A crack.

“What, you’re not gonna chase after your soulmate? I thought that’s what people who believe in them were supposed to do. You know, fate and fairy tales and all?” You covered that vulnerability with your usual armor. A scoff. A shake of your head. You rolled your eyes at him.

“No. I’m standing still. Hoping that maybe you’ll stop running long enough to see that I never needed to chase.”

You hated him. Or at least... you wanted to hate him. Hate how close to the mark he was able to hit. He didn’t know you. You didn’t know him. So how in the world could he say the exact right thing to make your heart clench? How could he sound so genuine? So patient? He had no right to be patient with you. You were stubborn, and you knew it. Difficult to handle on a good day. And being wounded and stuck in a bed did not constitute a good day. You scowled at him, but something about it felt off. Like the edge you usually wielded like a weapon had gone dull. 

“You sure are cocky about that.”

He smiled, and it caught you off guard. There was something almost boyish about it, and it softened the sharp edges of his face. Made him seem less imposing, despite his height. Made him look handsome, like he was always meant to wear a smile like that.

"Not cocky. Just patient."

"That's a dangerous quality to have around me," you said, a hint of warning in your voice. "Patience wears thin."

"We'll see,” he said, and you didn’t like the note of hope in his voice. He took a couple steps towards you again, and for a brief moment, you thought he might reach out and touch you. Lift your chin to meet his gaze the same way all the self-assured protagonists in movies did to the love interest. The way people did when they were sure they were going to break the other one. But he didn’t. Instead, he reached for the empty glass at the bedside table. Then, he turned to leave, stopping briefly in the doorway. He didn’t look at you when he spoke again. 

“You know... I’ve never seen anyone run from something they didn’t believe in.”

And his words settled into your bones like dust after an explosion. Soft. Inevitable.

Sam left without waiting for a response.

And you? You didn’t move. Didn’t dare to breathe. Just stared at the spot where he had been standing. Like maybe, just maybe, if you held still long enough, you could pretend that you weren’t still running.

---

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Part 3 --- Interlude --- Part 5

[brotheralyosha]

The Trump administration’s compliance with court orders started with foot-dragging, moved to semantic gymnastics and has now arrived at the cusp of outright defiance.

Large swaths of President Trump’s agenda have been tied up in court, challenged in scores of lawsuits. The administration has frozen money that the courts have ordered it to spend. It has blocked The Associated Press from the White House press pool despite a court order saying that the news organization be allowed to participate. And it ignored a judge’s instruction to return planes carrying Venezuelan immigrants bound for a notorious prison in El Salvador.

But Exhibit A in what legal scholars say is a deeply worrisome and escalating trend is the administration’s combative response to the Supreme Court’s ruling last week in the case of a Salvadoran immigrant. The administration deported the immigrant, Kilmar Armando Abrego Garcia, to El Salvador despite a 2019 ruling from an immigration judge specifically and directly prohibiting that very thing.

Until recently, none of this was in dispute. “The United States acknowledges that Abrego Garcia was subject to a withholding order forbidding his removal to El Salvador, and that the removal to El Salvador was therefore illegal,” the Supreme Court said on Thursday in an unsigned and to all appearances unanimous order.

The justices upheld a part of an order from Judge Paula Xinis of the Federal District Court in Maryland that had required the government to “facilitate” Mr. Abrego Garcia’s return. He had by then been held for almost a month in one of the most squalid and dangerous prisons on earth.

The administration’s response has been to quibble, stall and ignore requests for information from Judge Xinis. In an Oval Office meeting on Monday between Mr. Trump and President Nayib Bukele of El Salvador, both men made plain that they had no intention of returning Mr. Abrego Garcia to the United States.

President Trump and President Nayib Bukele of El Salvador said during a meeting in the Oval Office on Monday that they would not return Kilmar Armando Abrego Garcia to the United States.

In remarks in the Oval Office and on television, Stephen Miller, Mr. Trump’s top domestic policy adviser, said the administration’s earlier concessions, made by several officials and in a Supreme Court filing, were themselves mistaken, the work of a rogue lawyer. He added that the Supreme Court had unanimously endorsed the administration’s position that judges may not meddle in foreign policy.

Ed Whelan, a conservative legal commentator, said that was a misreading of the ruling.

“The administration is clearly acting in bad faith,” he said. “The Supreme Court and the district court have properly given it the freedom to select the means by which it will undertake to ensure Abrego Garcia’s return. The administration is abusing that freedom by doing basically nothing.”

White House officials did not respond to requests for comment.

The administration has also responded to court orders blocking its programs in other ways, speaking to audiences outside the courtroom. Mr. Trump and his allies have waged relentless rhetorical attacks on several judges who have ruled against the president, at times calling for their impeachment and at others suggesting that Mr. Trump is not bound by the law.

Assessing whether, when and how much the administration is defying the courts is complicated by a new phenomenon, legal scholars said, pointing to what they called a collapse in the credibility of representations by the Justice Department. These days, its lawyers are sometimes sent to court with no information, sometimes instructed to make arguments that are factually or legally baseless and sometimes punished for being honest.

Defiance, then, may not be a straightforward declaration that the government will not comply with a ruling. It may be an appearance by a hapless lawyer who has or claims to have no information. Or it may be a legal argument so outlandish as to amount to insolence.

Sanford Levinson, a law professor at the University of Texas, said the Trump administration had exposed dual fault lines, in the constitutional structure and in the limits of permissible advocacy.

“I would like to think that at least some of the Trump administration’s arguments have crossed that line,” Professor Levinson said, “but, frankly, I don’t really know where the line is.”

[rawenky]

tech gauntlets and memory wipes

@varianlikescheese making a new post because the other one was starting to give off color of the sky but here’s what I know of how memory works irl from my cognitive psychology classes:

So there are different kinds of memory, you have episodic memory (for example: that one time you went to a museum), semantic memory (the location of that museum) and procedural memory (how to ride a bike). Then there’s autobiographic memory which mixes episodic and semantic memory and is centered around memories about yourself.

And fun fact! You can never forget anything, it’s all stored in your brain forever and it’s actually the recall of that memory that makes it hard to remember some stuff. Basically every memory has a hint that will get you to recall it but sometimes that hint is so precise that it’s realistically impossible to recall the memory (but it’s technically possible).

Memory also works in links, the more you elaborate information and link it up to other concepts in your mind, the easier it is to recall because you multiply the possible hints to recall it. (Also information about the self is recalled faster because you establish more links (and stronger ones too) when it’s centered around yourself)

SO! How do the tech gauntlets do what they do to people’s memories?

They could either:

Erase the memory itself, which would lead to your thoughts having links between concepts that lead to nowhere (for memories that are pretty elaborate).

Or, erase the hint(s) that help recall the memory. For things that just happened, that someone didn’t have time to think about and link up to other lived experiences, that would make the memory inaccessible. For events that happened a while ago or concepts that someone has thought about in depth and made connections with (especially things that relate to them personally), that would lose efficiency really quickly.

I think the gauntlets work that second way, because of what we’ve seen happen to Five: his memory was still there, he just couldn’t access it until he found his bracelet, which worked as a hint to recall Hinobi Smash.

And so the stronger the memory wipe, the more hints/links around the memory you want gone are erased, which could potentially lead to the collapse of some of the brain’s most important information in a way (if you ever link your experiences as a glitch tech with how to walk, and those links between concepts are destroyed, you potentially won’t be able to recall walking as well as being a tech).

If a reset at max strength means deleting every link to a memory you want gone, then it doesn’t stop after a few connections and there is a very real possibility it destroys links between essential concepts like ‘2+2=4’, ‘how to hold a pen’, ‘what my name is’ or even completely wipes out someone’s mind.

Which is why I don’t think the tech’s strongest memory wipes are the actual strongest wipes out there, because they don’t walk around essentially leaving empty husks of people behind every glitch encounter. Hinobi corporate though…

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

The First Death of Robin, The Boy Wonder

They've had a good run. Bruce will never deny that. But he has to take responsibility for his mistakes. He has to put an end to this.

Robin has to die.

Robin has been injured before. He's even been shot before. Mostly grazes, but a couple times, they’d been rather serious.

But for whatever reason, this injury feels different. More dangerous. Deeply personal.

It also doesn't help that the moment the bullet hits him, Robin falls backwards and off the roof of a thirty-story building.

“Robin!” Batman shouts, slamming an open palm into the Joker’s face and sprinting for the ledge. The grappling hook hangs on for dear life, but there's tension in the wire. Robin must be holding on. He must be-

Batman looks over the edge and sees a situation far more attributable to luck than skill. As Robin fell, the grappling line twisted around his body, leaving him upside-down and limply dangling from the swaying line. Batman can't even tell if the boy is conscious. (If the boy is alive-)

“Robin?”

And then the red and green figure is shifting, arms reaching for the rope tangled around his legs. “G-go,” Robin calls, grabbing the line like his life depends on it. (And it does.) “Batman, get him. I’ve… I can hold on.”

Batman is hesitant to turn away, but the Joker also has a gun and is currently unrestrained, so-

Not a moment too soon, Batman whips around, throwing his cape in front of his face. Two bullets are deflected, pinging as they hit the ground.

“Welcome back to the fight, Bats!” Joker crows. “I was worried you'd make it too easy for me.”

“How many people have died for those rocks?” Batman rushes the Joker, but a henchman built like an industrial freezer comes out of nowhere, tackling Batman before he can land a single blow.

“Hm.” The Joker looks at the sky pensively, playing with the priceless jewels strung around his neck. “Not sure. But we get to add one more to the number. Sorry about your bird, Batsy.”

Now fending off three linebackers-for-goons, Batman doesn't take the time to argue. He could scream that Robin is, in fact, alive, but Batman’s stomach flips at the increasingly likely possibility that Robin let go of the rope. Every second that he's hanging there, the greater the chances that he’ll slip and die. So not only does Batman not have the time to argue semantics, but he's also fighting the nauseating feeling that maybe the Joker is right.

Eyes still fixed heavenward, the Joker breaks into an even wider grin. The wind whips furiously, just distracting enough for one goon to land a punch to the side of Batman's head. “Oh, would you look at that?” the Joker cackles. “My ride’s here!”

How and why the Joker got a helicopter, Batman isn't sure, but it doesn't really matter. He slams an open palm into one goon’s nose, not even relishing in the solid crack of bone and cartilage. He ducks the blow from another thug and slams his knee into the last man’s gut. “JOKER!” he bellows.

“Ta-ta, Bats!” the clown sneers, grabbing hold of the rope ladder hanging from the helicopter’s open door. He offers a lazy salute as the chopper starts gaining altitude. “Send me an invite to the birdie's funeral!”

Batman pushes through the panic that statement elicits and flings two Batarangs at Joker’s hands. Then he turns back and lands his fists down on the nerves of his pursuant goon’s shoulders.

And then Batman hears three THUMPS.

THUMP.

One, the thug, dazed and confused on the ground.

THUMP.

Two, the Joker, his hands bleeding as he watches the helicopter fly away without him.

THUMP.

Three…

No.

Batman sprints to the edge of the roof, bile rising in his throat as he notes the slack rope of the grappling hook.

“Robin!” He leans over the edge, stomach flipping dangerously at the sight before him.

Robin had let go. He’s collapsed in a heap on a narrow ledge between the twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth stories of the building. One arm and leg dangle precariously over the edge.

With barely another thought, Batman dives down, firing his grapple behind him. He’s at the boy’s side in a second, tossing him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry before retracting the grapple and returning to the roof.

“Robin,” he says, shifting his hold so he has one arm under the boy's knees and one supporting his back. “Eyes open.”

But the boy is limp in his grip, expression lax and shirt sleeve drenched in crimson. It's infuriating that both of Batman's hands are full, making it impossible to check a pulse. But there's a pattern of uneven, shallow rises and falls of Robin’s chest, and that's proof of life enough.

After the briefest moment of hesitation, Batman sets Robin down on the roof like one would a live hand grenade. Then he’s off with a flurry of the black cape, methodically tying up the criminals laid flat on the roof. The Joker is awake and aware but far too weak to struggle against the Batman’s might. Instead, the clown resorts to what he knows will wound far deeper.

“Taken so young,” Joker muses wistfully, grunting as Batman yanks the rope around his wrists tighter. “What a tragedy. I’m sure you’ll have fun trying to explain it to the poor boy’s parents.”

Batman can't help the words that spew from his mouth. “Robin's not dead.”

“Oh, Batsy, you poor thing. Denial is the first stage of grief, y’know. And I’m sure you’re feeling extra guilty this time. A child, dead, all because the big, bad Bat needed a friend to keep him company.”

It's a trick. It's always a trick. The Joker just wants him to turn around and check Robin's status. He wants to distract him.

“Be quiet,” Batman growls instead.

“I could, but then you’d have to listen to your own thoughts. I think my friendly chit-chat is the kinder mercy, don’t you?”

There's a wheezy cough behind them, and Batman can't tell if it's Robin or just his imagination coaxing him into looking away. Into giving Joker the chance to escape.

But whatever it is, Batman doesn't look. He won't.

“Hn.”

“‘Hn?’” Joker mimics. “The heck kinda word is that? Now you’re just being mean, ignoring me like this.” He sighs and returns to his favored topic. “Well, think of it this way, Bats: a gunshot and then falling off a building is probably the tamest way I could have killed him. God, if only I’d thought tonight out a bit more! Think of it! Poisoned spikes, spinning blades, slowly driving a stake into the eye and then setting it on fire - ugh, I’m drooling-”

The Joker chokes on that drool as Batman slaps a piece of tape over his mouth.

“You’d do best to exercise your Miranda Rights now,” Batman growls into the man's ear.

The Joker says something from behind the tape that he probably thinks is deliriously funny. Batman is glad he can’t understand a word of it.

“Penny-One,” Batman says out loud, scooping Robin into his arms once more. (He's dead weight, and it sets Batman's heart racing all over again.) “Put in an anonymous tip with GCPD. The Joker and three additional hostiles are on the roof of the Magnolia Building.”

Alfred doesn't respond, and Batman doesn't waste time waiting for him to. Instead, he leaps off the roof, Robin slung over his shoulder and a grapple prepped in his free hand.

“Hang on,” he says, words lost under the wind rushing past his ears. “You’ll be okay.”

Robin can’t hear him. Batman knows Robin can’t hear him. Even once they’ve reached the ground and Batman is struggling to gently deposit his partner in the car, Robin still hears nothing, limp and ragdolling across the backseat.

And even so, Batman continues to murmur silent comfort until the Batmobile pulls into the Cave.

---

“Robin’s dead.”

Dick drops down on the couch, blatantly disregarding Alfred's orders to stay in the med bay. “Yeah, I heard.” He gestures to the TV, which is plagued with videos and pictures and eyewitness accounts of the young hero’s presumed death.

Bruce glances back at Dick. At the boy. (Man? No, still a boy. Still just a kid.) He's out of breath and shaky from climbing the Batcave’s staircase, weak from blood loss. His shoulder is covered with thick layers of gauze, dark red seeping through the dressing. The same arm is secured in a sling, bruises from a nasty dislocation running down his neck, across his shoulder, and along his arm. Bandages snake around his legs, hiding vicious scrapes and burns from where the grapple line had caught him. Dick graciously left the IVs in his arms this time, but without blood or fluid attached to them, they don't do much good. Bruce fights the nagging urge to drag the boy back to the infirmary.

“That's not what I meant,” Bruce corrects. “I mean that Robin is staying dead.”

As expected, Dick sits up immediately, teetering on the edge of the couch cushion. He narrows his eyes and opens his mouth, with no doubt a thousand arguments flying through his head.

Bruce beats him to the punch. “This is not up for discussion.”

“Like hell!” Dick shouts, fists clenched at his sides. “Just because they think Robin is dead doesn't mean we have to go along with-”

“Not. Up. For. Discussion.”

“What, because I got shot?” Dick demands. “It's happened before! Why is this suddenly such a big deal?”

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose and fights back a tension headache. “We’re not having this conversation. Go back to the med bay before Alfred realizes you're gone.”

“No! You can't keep doing this kind of stuff without even telling me-” Dick stands up, but the sudden movement makes his eyes roll back into his head, and he nearly faceplants on the coffee table. Bruce's quick reflexes are the only things that save him from what must be his seventh broken nose.

“Come on,” Bruce grunts, slipping Dick’s good arm over his shoulder. He’s startlingly cooperative, and it only strengthens Bruce's resolve to prevent Robin from coming back.

“You’ve been getting… worse…” Dick grunts, feet struggling to gain purchase on the ground. Bruce continues dragging him towards the grandfather clock. “E’er since… high school…”

“No,” Bruce snips back. “You forced me to become more strict when you started taking unnecessary risks.”

“Wh-? What are you even-?”

“Leading a group of inexperienced, superpowered kids into fights you weren't equipped to handle. Taking on multiple Gotham rogues at once without backup. Getting your face smashed in by Bane because you thought you could outrun him. Zucco.”

Dick hisses, though Bruce can’t be sure if it’s in pain or frustration. “You’re exaggerating.”

The clock swings open, and Bruce hauls Dick through the door and down the stairs. The boy whines the whole way down.

“I am not,” Bruce says simply.

“Sir, Master Dick must have run off-!” Alfred runs towards them, expression twisted with some bitter mix of panic, concern, and frustration. When he realizes that there are two figures struggling down the stairs, his shoulders droop in relief. “Ah. It seems you’re already aware of the situation.”

“I am.”

“Hey, Alfie,” Dick greets with a weak grin. “‘sup?”

“What is up,” Alfred says, over-enunciating every syllable, “is my blood pressure. And I believe you to be the culprit.” He meets the pair at the base of the steps and wraps one arm around Dick’s waist, holding up the weight that is now slipping from Bruce’s shoulders. “Do try to keep up, sir.”

Dick lets out a poorly-muffled yelp as Alfred jostles his injured arm trying to keep him upright.

“Perhaps this will dissuade you from disregarding your medical orders in the future?”

The teen takes ragged breaths, no longer attempting to stand. Between the pain, a concussion, and some pretty severe blood loss, he's not going to make it to the med bay without help. But even still, Dick wastes the energy to joke. “It's like you don't even know me.”

“How foolish of me to think that collapsing from injury for the upteenth time would convince you to put a modicum of effort into your self care.” Alfred tuts, shakes his head, and looks at Bruce. “The boy takes after you, sir.”

Bruce doesn't take it personally, even if that was the clear intent. “Still awake?” he asks the boy instead. He obviously is, breathing too uneven and painful for unconsciousness. Dick whines, and that's good enough for Bruce, who lets the boy slip from his shoulder so he can pivot onto the cot.

“Might I remind you that twelve hours ago, you were so unstable that Dr. Thompkins nearly called for an airlift?” Alfred’s voice is dry as he reattaches monitor cables and IV lines to his patient.

Dick blinks. He takes his time in replying in his own quiet murmur, “I didn't know that.”

The butler sniffs but doesn't lecture further. “Will you tell me honestly what hurts, or do we have to go through this again?”

“Um.” Dick blanches and lays back on the cot, humming and closing his eyes. “Shoulder, mostly. Head and side too, but not so bad.”

Alfred nods, gently pulling the boy onto his good side and lifting his tank top. The purpling on his shoulder was the tip of a bruised iceberg. His right side is more bruise than not, a consequence of falling three stories onto his side.

“What about your ribs?” Bruce insists. There's no way there could be that much bruising without a few broken bones.

“Meh.” Dick looks at the ceiling absently. “Doesn't hurt if I don't breathe.”

Bruce folds his arms and narrows his eyes. “Go back. Think about what you just said.”

“You're not being helpful, B,” Dick deflects. “I’m not telling you anything until we talk about this dead Robin bullshit.”

“Master Richard!”

“Sorry, Alfie,” the boy says reflexively.

“I’ve been very clear,” Bruce persists. “There's nothing to discuss. Drop it. Now.”

“Something, something, free speech,” Dick mutters.

He's trying to get under Bruce’s skin. It won't work. “Can I get you anything, Alfred?”

“I’m quite alright, sir,” the butler assures Bruce.

“Good. Call me if you do.” Bruce turns away and heads back up the steps, ignoring Dick’s increasingly petty demands for Bruce to stop and explain himself.

But that's fine. The decision has already been made:

Robin will never fly again.

---

“Alfred.”

“Master Bruce.”

Bruce glances back at the figure in the study’s doorway. The butler stands tall, hands clasped behind his back, expression like stone.

“Can I help you?”

“The boy asked to see you again. In fact, it's the only thing he’ll say to me.”

An eyebrow creeps up Bruce’s forehead. “Even after he punctured a lung?”

“Well… during that debacle, he tapped out your name in morse code while gasping for breath. So, in a way, yes.”

Bruce sighs and rubs his temples wearily. “What are the odds he’ll get over it?”

“This century?” Alfred shakes his head. “Unlikely.”

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

For a moment, Alfred’s posture stiffens even beyond his usual starchy stance. But then he nods once, in a curt, almost dismissive manner. “I’d recommend haste. He refused to eat yesterday and seems intent on continuing the fast.”

Bruce slams his hands on the desk, frustration exploding in his chest. “If he's dumb enough to starve trying to prove a point, then let him starve!”

“Sir-”

“I trained him to survive,” Bruce seethes. “If he has such disregard for my lessons that he’d let himself go hungry, he clearly isn't capable of being Robin.”

“Master Bruce!” The butler shouts with such authority - with so much disappointment - that Bruce wants to curl up under the desk and die. “Your inane schoolyard argument has to stop! This isn't a battle of the wills! This is your son, who is injured and about to lose the identity he built his childhood around. You will go downstairs and talk to him, or so help me, I will quit!”

A chunk of ice settles in Bruce's gut. His mouth tastes sandy. Alfred has threatened to leave in the past, but it's been a very long time, and it's never been spoken with such vehement sincerity. This time, Alfred means it.

“Fine,” Bruce grumbles. “Fine.” He drags himself onto his feet and trudges the whole way to the Batcave. Alfred doesn't follow. He's always been good at knowing when his presence is needed and (more importantly) when it's not.

“Dick?” Bruce peers into the med bay, half-expecting the boy to have run off, leaving an empty bed and the Robin uniform behind. But upon seeing his state, the lack of jailbreaks makes sense. Dick looks considerably rougher than he did when Bruce brought him in just a few days prior. An unauthorized, ill-advised trip outside only two days earlier resulted in his broken ribs puncturing a lung. Had Bruce not returned from his WE meeting when he did, Dick might have died right there on the front lawn. (Again.) So yes, Dick looks a bit more fatigued than before, and there are a few new tubes and drains hooked up to him. The bruising on his side is still a spectacular mess, the only sign of healing being a vague yellowish tint at the edges. At the very least, though, the gunshot wound stopped bleeding through its bandages.

“Bruce,” Dick says, voice clipped.

Bruce takes this as an invitation to enter, so he approaches the boy and sits at his bedside. “How are you feeling?” It's the first question that enters his mind. He just can't shake the unnerving fear that this isn't the end. That the Joker will realize Robin is alive and-

Bruce stops that thought before it can impact his judgment.

“Fine,” Dick replies cooly.

Yeah. Bruce’ll believe it when he sees it.

“We need to talk about Robin,” Dick continues, steamrolling past any form of care or sentiment. He speaks clinically. Objectively. Nothing at all like his usual candor, always open with his feelings and receptive to others’.

“Not much to talk about.” But Bruce doesn't protest further. Alfred wants them to talk, so that's what they’ll do.

Dick sighs. He looks exhausted. “Why? Tell me honestly.”

Bruce takes a seat on the edge of the cot and stares at his hands, brow furrowed. “You almost died, Dick. Twice. And if you had, the Joker wouldn't have been responsible.”

“Don't say it-”

“I would.”

Dick scowls, sitting forward with some difficulty. “You're wrong. We’re partners. Equals. I know what I’m doing. You trained me.”

“And I shouldn't have.” Bruce glances at the boy. Both fists are clenched, and his mouth is set in a firm line. “We’ve been lucky. This isn’t a job for a child.”

“Child??” Dick grabs Bruce's shoulder. “B, you’ve always said that we’re different from everybody else. What you and me went through as kids… We grew up overnight. We’re-”

“I know what I said,” Bruce replies, voice canting over the line between stern and angry. “I was wrong. I shouldn't have let you do this. I shouldn't have-”

“Trained me.” Dick lets go, slumping back and pouting like a petulant toddler. “Yeah, you said that. And you're wrong. I needed Robin, and so did you!”

Bruce shakes his head. “No, we didn't. And though I can't change the past, I’m willing to take accountability for my mistakes and do everything I can to diminish their impacts. That means Robin has to go, no matter how you feel about it.”

The argument has worn the boy out, but he refuses to acknowledge it. He speaks softly. Wearily. “Robin’s not yours, Bruce.”

“It's my cave. My gear.”

Dick takes a long moment, eyes unfocusing. “My mother's name. My family's colors. My childhood - ten years of my life - spent on something you think not only isn't worth anything but also I’m not worthy enough to take ownership of.”

Bruce works his jaw. Dick is exaggerating. He's being dramatic. That ends now.

“Drop the ego,” Bruce orders. “You're not the only one impacted by this.”

Dick - previously ashen and exhausted - turns red. “Ego? You think I’m the one with an ego problem?? I fall off a building for the first time in a decade, and you think I’m not good enough to work with the great Batman??”

“I think you forget that it would have been on me if you’d died! You nearly did this time, and I can't let that happen again!”

“I have free will, B! What about all the times you lectured me for messing up? You let me take responsibility then but not now?”

Bruce shakes his head. “Batman has always been responsible for Robin. And he always will be. That's just how it is.” He sighs. “I’m sorry.” Because he really is sorry.

“Liar,” Dick seethes.

“It has to be this way. I won’t put you in danger any longer. It was selfish of me to drag you into this. I should've… I shouldn’t have…”

Dick realizes what Bruce is trying to say before Bruce does and finishes the sentence. “You shouldn't have taken me in. You should have sent me to a foster home.” His jaw clenches tighter, twisting the sheets in his hands.

It's like a punch to the gut. Bruce feels lightheaded. “What? No! Why would you-?”

“Don't lie. You couldn't have given me a normal childhood. If you didn't bring me into this, you would have passed me off to the next rich person that was adopting. I was a ward, not a son, because you needed a way to back out just in case I became a liability.”

“That is not true. You know that I-”

“Stop. Just…” Dick’s eyes water, but he doesn't let a single tear fall. “You win, B. Robin’s dead. I won’t bother you anymore.”

Bruce’s mouth turns sour, stomach flipping. “I didn't mean it like-”

“Stop!” Dick’s face is still red, and he looks haggard enough to sleep for a week. He leans back in the cot tiredly and covers his face with his good arm. “Just… please go, Bruce.”

His tone is broken, and Bruce knows better than to poke this bear. Later, yes, but certainly not now. Bruce retreats upstairs and asks Alfred to check in on Dick in an hour. Alfred asks for details; Bruce doesn't provide them.

---

Dick isn't in the med bay the next day. He isn't even on the property. His bike is gone, as are his shoes, his go bag, and his phone. He leaves behind an empty bed, sheets neatly draped over the cot, and one damning note placed on top:

Congrats, B. You got what you wanted.

[azspot]

This is what I fear most about AI, at least in the immediate future. Not some superintelligence that eats the world (it can’t even beat Pokémon yet, a game many of us conquered at ten). Rather, a less noticeable apocalypse. Culture following the same collapse as community on the back of a whirring compute surplus of imitative power provided by Silicon Valley. An oversupply that satiates us at a cultural level, until we become divorced from the semantic meaning and see only the cheap bones of its structure. Once exposed, it’s a thing you have no relation to, really. Just pixels. Just syllables. In some order, yes. But who cares?

Welcome to the semantic apocalypse

[sgiandubh]

Caitriona didn’t mention Tony. Seems the ‘reporter’ utilized Google. 😂

Dear Didn't Mention Anon,

It's always a sarcastic pleasure to see tension climbing for literally nothing across the street. Some other Brazilian Anon, just like you (best way to convey your thoughts was, in proper English, 'the reporter used Google' - not the Portuguese semantic calque 'utilized'...), even speculated we must be hiding this shattering press article, since no reaction and/or discussion happened as of yet.

Brazilian Anons would certainly have made better use of their time and grey cells if they simply presumed that in another time zone people really have other (simple and boring and prehaps even endearing) things to do. While Brazilan Anons were probably sleeping or having breakfast, someone else was just about to end a shorter Friday work schedule, buy Chinese takeaway on the way home, have a light lunch, take out Baby the Lab for a short pee stroll around the block. And mercifully collapse in flannel sheets for a blessed siesta, waiting for the first snowy day of the year. But enough about me, Anon, you are not here for this: you are here for that article - https://www.mindfood.com/article/caitriona-balfe-looks-ahead-to-life-after-outlander/

It is also an amusing factoid that C's PR and/or *** very often seem to favor second-tier media outlets in order to keep spreading around the Narrative Word. Pinoy regional gazettes, borderline clickbait/gossip websites and now Mindfood, a vanity/hybrid press magazine based and edited in New Zealand and Australia by McHugh Media Group, which main activity, at least in Oz, is (🥁🥁)...paper mills and paper manufacturing - of course.

[Source: https://www.dnb.com/business-directory/company-profiles.mchugh_media_australia_pty_limited.6ded585ed8e21b347589059682b44143.html]

Within that group, the Mindfood project is but an apparently lucrative subsidiary ('integrated media company', LOL), despite some dire client reviews ( 2 out of a resounding global 3, how odd!) on Google:

'Rank amateur's' [sic!] (...) What sort of magazine publisher doesn't have a manned office? (...) They'll go broke very quickly like that.' '(...)pretty shabby treatment of a customer.'

😱😱😱

But let's assume I am twisting again the plot (I don't, I do not need to). Let's assume I am evil like that and I give credence to two very negative (but brutally clear, too) user reviews only. Perhaps I am wrong, you might say. So, let's also have a look at some company figures, shall we?

Nay contest, it's them.

[Source: https://rocketreach.co/mchugh-media-profile_b5d2097af42e3bbb]

Now, my lovelies, how can I put it without offending anyone? What we are looking at, here, is a small company with 5 (five) employees, few web hits (164.480 hits is ridiculous, when we are talking about press/media!), but a comfortable revenue (7 million AUD - about 4.5 million USD). May I remind you that a company's revenue is roughly its gross income, before subtracting operating costs, wages and taxes. But given they have only 5 employees, wage expenses & operating costs must be marginal and taxes are rather friendly in New Zealand, where their HQ is (to the point there was, three years ago, an ongoing debate in order to determine if the country was a tax haven: https://thespinoff.co.nz/business/06-10-2021/is-nz-a-tax-haven-for-the-rich-and-dodgy-the-pandora-papers-reignite-the-debate), you do the maths. Therefore, how can this rather substantial profit be explained, otherwise than by a very friendly editorial policy towards paid and/or sponsored content and product placement galore (Lifestyle, anyone)?

Its immediate competitor is a supermarket chain in-house bulletin/leaflet, Campbell's Cash & Carry. The kind of thing that always lands somehow in your shopping bag and then directly in the kitchen trash:

This is enough to show their real reach and place on the market, I believe.

All this for what, Madam Knife? All this to say that paper is probably paid by the talent's PR/***. I will not go into useless detail, because there is very few new-ish/relevant information (e.g.: 'With a long season seven concluding in January, the Outlander epic will close out within the next 18 months, taking the episode total to 101. '). But I will, gleefully even, point out two tiny details, all of you patiently read this long rant for, in fact.

As always, McGill doesn't even deserve a quote, only reported speech that is, in fact, snowballing prior reference (this is exactly where copy/paste comes in very handy, you see). And a clumsy one at that, sugar on top - hence the copy/paste certainty and this is so, so rude, I could cry (nope...):

But... but... such a nice, thoughtful touch for her Stans, who spent DAYS in a row proving he was not a music producer, but the Night Media Manager (and I have to say, delivered actual quotes - still No Face, No Name, No Number, though):

[Tait rhymes with hate, alright - I know, darlings, it pisses you off to no tomorrow 😉.]

Copy paste/Goes to waste. Finally, I had to snort (not a pretty, nor feminine sight) when I realized Mindfood takes its readers for complete, amnesic idiots:

So she became 'a mother in August of 2021', but she did film 'the sixth season of the drama while pregnant'. Granted, this paper is written for casual OL viewers, the kind of people who did find C interesting/beautiful/clever/extraordinary, but who don't remember her name when prompted on candid camera, for example. The kind of superficial audience who will never do the maths and never question the fact a pregnant actress was filming beautiful (but steamy) scenes with her... ahem... with her co-star she is now 'consciously uncoupling' from.

ROFLMAO.

Not even sorry for the length, Anon. There you go, let's say good bye with a merry little song - I am told I have the best tunes on Tumblr (SMH). Really, Mindfood's client could have curated and tailored better the Retconning Operation - but perhaps even PR has trouble taking that man and his narrative role seriously?

[kaisers-house-of-desires]

It's Starlight anon again! This time asking for headcanons of Lilia (TWST) with a partner that helps him with raising either Silver and/or Malleus, please and thank you. <3

Welcome back, Starlight!

Your order has been received and shall be delivered~

Lilia Vanrouge raising Silver Headcanons

Characters: Lilia x m!reader, Silver

Fandom: Twisted Wonderland

Headcanons below the cut

All characters are 18+ (except Silver because raising him)

MINORS, FEM ALIGNED, AGELESS/BLANK BLOGS DNI (This may not be smut, but I still want the above to be followed)

Reblogs > likes

Listen raising a child isn't easy, much less for a fae to raise a human. Sure, Lilia was amazing at raising children, but he was used to fae children. Having you around is a blessing.

You understand humans, being human yourself, of course.

So when you entered the picture when Lilia had a baby Silver, you were like a godsend.

Though you were hesitant at first. Children weren't something on your list of wants, but Lilia had most of the work covered. If you were ever uncomfortable with something, he took care of it.

He would often confide in you on human knowledge. What would be okay for Silver to eat? What would be okay for him to play with? Sure physically fae and humans looked very similar, but it came down to semantics.

But one thing you weren't ready for was Silver taking his first steps to you

He propped himself up on a table and immediately started walking around, his little stubby legs trembling the whole way.

At first you were scared and almost rushed over, thinking he was about to fall, but when you realized he was walking, you called Lilia over.

And boy did he rush over when you said it

He knelt down beside you, arms out, waiting for his son

But Silver walked to you, falling over in your arms with a giggle

You nearly cried when it happened, and Lilia would be lying if he said he wasn't just a smidge jealous, but he got over it, really. He let you have this.

When he said his first words, you both nearly collapsed

He said "papa!" and you two couldn't tell who he was talking to, though for awhile you two would play-fight about it.

"Silver was talking to me." "No, love, he was talking to me."

Neither of you meant any ill behind the teasing, but you would later learn that your title would be "papa" and Lilia's would be "father"

Silver showed you all his drawings and you displayed them proudly somewhere, but as an adult he'd get embarrassed if he saw them.

As Silver grew, he wondered why you would look older and not Lilia, but he also assumed genetics

No one has to tell him yet

[pinene]

It just feels like we are entering an era of complete semantic collapse. Ppl will just say anything..