#so its correlation not causation?

[zsofiarosebud]

GenX and boomers saying on xitter that they lack the attention span they had 10 years ago due to social media hyperstimulation: "I can't even read a book or watch a long film nowadays!"

My millennial-almost-genZ ass that grew up with social media as an important part of everyday life: *closes phone and goes watch a 3h movie and read 4 books at the same time* are you sure its nowadays' fault?

[around-your-throat]

the thing that sucks the most is that you will finish the introduction and get half-way through the literature review before realizing the thing you're advocating for is actually just like. a bunch of baseless bullshit

[soupcrouton]

Guys EMERJENCY what if i secretly am attracted to men and just havent found the right one yet

[siri-ike]

By hooking each bat up to a neural monitor during some of these interactions, the bats were able to learn some of the potential causes for their reactions.

Most people experienced dramatically hightened levels of dopamine and slight decrease in serotonin. The dopamine made people feel intensely about him, and the lack of serotonin gave people a negative experience.

This prompted two hypotheses. If someone already has low dopamine, will they still have a reaction? and if someone has high serotonin, will the reaction be better?

The first would be easy to test. Just have Nightwing stop taking his Ritalin for a while and have them meet.

Result: it wasn't great. Dick was all over the place, and it was hard to tell whether he was put off or not.

Conclusion: Dick has been relying on Ritalin since he was 6 years old, and therefore cannot be expected to function without it.

The second test was more difficult. No one in this family has an abundance of serotonin. So, instead, they went the other way. Find someone who's used to having low serotonin.

Luckily for them, they had the perfect teammate for the job.

Garfield Logan, aka Beast Boy. His undiagnosed depression and ADHD make him the perfect candidate.

On a related note, Damian refused to get tested for either.

The whole plan had raised concerns. Such as "How do you know he has "undiagnosed" depression and ADHD?" And "Batman, try not to send 9 year olds into potentially dangerous situations challenge" and of course Tim's favorite: "What do you mean his parents agreed to this for a small fee? Do we need to call CPS?" But none of those concerns mattered as much as getting answers.

*kzzt* "Red Robin calling Beast Boy, come in Beast Boy."

"Beast Boy responding, target is in sight." Gar said mere inches from the boy staring right at him. "I could almost touch him." He places a hand directly on his face. "I am now touching him."

"Gar, we talked about this." Nightwing butted in. "Don't just touch peoples faces. You don't know if they could bite."

Gar, without removing his hand, asked. "Do you bite?"

The boy didn't answer, he more just blubbered. It was gross. Gar pulled his hand away, and a solid web of bright green snot clung to them both. "That doesn't look like a healthy color." Gar held the goo up to his own face to compare. "Nothing should look like this." He couldn't keep in his laughter as he said that. It was enough to put a smile on the older boys face.

"Who are you?" He finally rasped.

"I'm Gar. It's short for Garfield. I'm one of the Teen Titans." Gar proclaimed proudly.

"You're a teenager?"

Shoot, he saw right through his clever ruse. "Well, no. I, I'm not a Teen Titan yet. I just live at the tower for now because my family is being investigated, and my mom thinks I can't keep a secret." Gar wiped the discusting slime all over his bright purple suit. "She thinks I'm going to tell everyone that my dad isn't allowed near any minors"

"Oh." The boy looked concerned in a much too knowing way for Dicks liking. "I'm Danny." Said Danny.

*kzzt* "Take him to the shelter."

"There's a safe house nearby. It has food and everything. You can live there now because Batman and Red Robin wanna fix your spooky pheromones or something." Gar beamed as though delivering the best of news.

"Ok." Danny hesitated but decided to follow. Sneakily, he latched onto Gars' hand, who only smiled in return. It had been months since anyone let him touch them.

The test was a success. Now, they had two people who could interact with the teen. One of whom didn't trigger Batmans fight or flight. This way, they can keep tabs on him 24/7.

Dick sent Zatana their data just incase Tim's "vibes proof barrier producing belt" or Vpbpb (pronounced as a fart noise) didn't work.

Ever since the portal accident, Danny has always seemed a bit… off, to other people. But even before that, he’d always been seen as a bit of a weird kid. The people of Amity Park were, even at the start, a bit used to it.

The people of Gotham, however, were not.

If anything, they were the opposite. Living in the ‘city of crime’ had built within them keen survival instincts. Instincts that went on full blast in the halfa’s vicinity.

Most simply avoided him. Homeless shelters turned him away. Jobs, even the less than legal ones, hesitated to hire him. Sometimes people would even call the cops if he stuck around in any one place for too long.

Not even the city’s mysterious vigilantes trusted him. He sometimes caught glimpses of their masked eyes following him from the shadows. Watching. Waiting for him to show his true colors.

Or maybe he was just hallucinating. He couldn’t be entirely sure. He didn’t dare transform and risk bringing down further suspicion on himself, nor could he ask anyone to corroborate for what he saw either. So instead, he just curled further in on himself. Surreptitiously using his powers to steal the bare necessities for himself and avoiding everyone.

Not even during the worst of the anti-ghost sentiment in Amity had Danny felt so alone.

[beeboomachine]

an hours sleep with a bad dream is still an hour

[redshoes-blues]

One of the most random “ah, it was autism all along” realizations for me has been learning that there’s a large correlation between autism and having chronic ear infections as a kid. Because from ages like 5-11, I got one or two a year. Like clockwork. Still get them often as an adult, too.

[koiukiy-o]

orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 008 (II). the disquiet.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 1.2k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: um... surprise anaxa pov? mini update once again bc i couldnt help myself. hes a loser and i have no self control i fear... welcome home professor and fuck you very much for ruining my LIFE. i hope you guys like it! <3 next update NOT coming soon bc its going to need a LOT OF RESEARCH !! but it will come, hehe. -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

Anaxagoras sits unnaturally still, save for the occasional, minute twitch of his finger against the trackpad. The inbox is open again—has been, for the last thirty-seven minutes. He’s refreshed it thirteen times. Fourteen. He does not look at the time.

The email remains unread.

No reply.

Of course not.

He closes the tab. Opens another. Reopens the inbox. As if that would change the outcome.

He leans back, then forward, spine stiff and aching with tension he refuses to acknowledge. His other hand flexes once against the armrest, fingers curling in tight, rhythmic spasms. He imagines, absurdly, that he can will the message into existence by the precise calibration of his breathing: inhale, two beats, exhale, one. Inhale. Exhale.

Footsteps behind him. Soft. Familiar. The cadence of someone who does not knock.

“I thought you only hovered when you were revising a grant proposal,” says a voice, dry as old paper.

Cerces.

Anaxagoras doesn’t turn. “You’re early.”

She shrugs. He hears it in her voice. “You’re transparent.”

He ignores that. She crosses the office anyway, folds herself into the spare chair without invitation, like she’s amused by how much it bothers him.

“You know,” she says, glancing toward the screen, “for someone who claims to detest inefficiency, you’re wasting an awful lot of neural bandwidth watching that inbox not blink.”

He keeps his tone level. “I’m waiting for a reply.”

“Oh, I gathered.” Her smile is all teeth. “From the little prodigy, yes?”

“Pathetic,” she says lightly. “You’ve hit refresh so many times, the poor thing’s going to short-circuit.”

“I’m expecting–”

Cerces glides in, unimpressed. “You’re brooding. Badly. Honestly, it’s unbecoming. You usually pace.”

Cerces taps her nail idly against the edge of the desk. “Sent them my paper on subjective structure, did you?” She lifts a brow. “Bold.”

“It was relevant.”

“To their project, or to you?” she asks, with mock-innocence. “Can’t tell anymore. You sent out less reading than usual this term. Except to them.”

Anaxagoras does not dignify that with a response.

Cerces hums, leaning back in the chair like a cat preparing to nap on his thesis notes. “No wonder you’ve been unbearable all day,” she muses. He closes the inbox.

Cerces, satisfied, stands. “Just admit it’s getting to you.”

“It isn’t.”

“Oh, it’s absolutely getting to you.” She adjusts her coat. “You know what I think? I think you’ve finally found a student who doesn’t need your approval to be brilliant, and it’s making you—” she lifts a hand, gesturing vaguely at his expression—“like this.”

She’s halfway to the door when she adds, lightly: “It’d be romantic, if it weren’t so predictable.”

The door clicks shut behind her.

Anaxagoras stares at the inbox again.

Then he clicks refresh.

Just once more.

Anaxagoras locked the door behind him with a muted click, the old brass deadbolt sliding home with a satisfying weight. He stood there for a moment, coat still draped over one arm, his keys resting loosely in his hand.

The apartment was dim, lit only by the soft, residual glow filtering in from the streetlights outside. Dromas stirred from her place on the windowsill, her feline silhouette stretching languidly, but didn’t bother to cross the room to greet him. She knew his rhythms too well to expect anything different tonight.

He exhaled, low and measured, setting his folio and coat onto the small entry table. His movements were deliberate—almost mechanical. He loosened his cuffs, folded them back neatly, crossed the room to the kitchen only to stop halfway there, hands half-lifted in the faint, aborted gesture of making tea he didn’t really want.

Instead, he turned, leaning back against the counter’s edge, arms crossing over his chest as he stared into the middle distance.

It should have been a straightforward afternoon.

He had predicted the conversation. He had anticipated the questions—sharp, incisive, urgent in a way most students couldn’t muster even on their best days. He had even foreseen the almost inevitable moment when he would have to reveal that he had submitted the symposium application on your behalf weeks ago.

What he hadn’t anticipated was the look you gave him.

Not gratitude—that would have been easier to dismiss. Gratitude was impersonal, clean, academic. He could have tucked it neatly away with every other minor debt and favor exchanged in the endless currency of university life.

No—what unsettled him was that you had looked at him as if you understood. The warmth of it, the raw, unguarded recognition—it lodged under his ribs like a splinter.

Anaxagoras dragged a hand through his hair, the gesture more frustrated than he would have allowed anyone to see.

It wasn’t improper.

It wasn’t wrong.

You were brilliant—deserving. Your mind had already begun to unfurl in ways that few others' ever could. It would have been criminal not to give you the chance to sit in that room with Cerces and the others, to sharpen yourself against the brightest, most dangerous minds the field had ever produced.

And yet—

He pushed off the counter sharply, crossing the room to the bookshelf by the window. His fingers skimmed across the worn spines without truly reading any of the titles.

And yet there was an edge to it he could not name—a precarious, almost gravitational pull that had nothing to do with academics.

He had always prided himself on his ability to compartmentalize. To categorize attachments neatly away from the crisp structures of logic and methodology he demanded of his work.

But when you had stood across from him this afternoon, tablet still glowing faintly in your hands, passion and ambition thrumming just beneath the surface of your carefully controlled demeanor—

He had wanted.

Not just to teach.

Not just to challenge.

He wanted to see what would happen if you didn’t hold back. If you let that mind—the one so few even recognized as extraordinary—unfurl without apology or restraint.

To watch you unmask the depths of yourself, raw and unfiltered, free from the weight of expectation. He longed to see you, not as the student you so often hid behind, but as the person you were when you let go of the barriers you had so carefully constructed. He wasn’t just waiting to be impressed—he wanted to be seen by you, to be part of that unfolding, as if by witnessing it, he could catch a glimpse of something he had only dared to touch in the quiet spaces of his own soul.

He closed his eyes briefly, jaw tightening.

Cowardice isn’t always irrational.

Cerces' words. He understood them now, in a way he hadn’t when she first said them years ago, with that half-smile and a glint in her eye that hinted at the ruins she was quietly accepting.

If he was careful, this would pass. The symposium would come and go. You would find larger horizons to chase. That was the plan. That was the only rational outcome.

Dromas jumped down from the sill, padding over to rub herself against his leg. He bent down, absently running a hand along her back. She purred once, low and approving.

"You," he said softly, as if the cat could understand the accusation laced into the word, "have far fewer complications."

-> next.

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[pokemonshelterstories]

please tell me the pokedex is wrong, please tell me jumpluff doesn't actually die after it spreads its seeds 😭 I made friends with a wild skiploom living in my backyard and I'm terrified that it's going to evolve

it is true, but remember that the pokedex is a field guide and not the compelete picture. jumpluff can survive mutliple flowering seasons. it's only when they stop producing at all that it's a sign they're about to die. in the wild, they typically survive 2-3 flowering seasons, but they've been known to survive up to 6

remember, it's important to think about correlation vs causation! jumpluff doesnt die because it's spread all of its seeds. rather, once it gets old enough that it can't replace the seeds it's scattered anymore, that's a sign that its reaching the end of its life. producing seeds is hards work, so senior grass types often stop producing them as they get older and frailer.

[cherrybomb107]

After making that essay about all my gripes with act three, I wanna delve into what rubbed me the wrong way about episode seven. Now, don’t get me wrong, it is my second favorite episode of the season (right behind episode four) but everything just felt off, and now I’m able to explain why.

It felt fake. Artificial. Too good to be true. Too polished. Everyone in Zaun was basically a Piltie lite and I hated to see it. I know Zaun doesn’t even technically exist, as it never did officially get its freedom, but Piltover and Zaun are known as twin cities for a reason. They are intertwined, yes, but also completely different. Zaun has its own vibe. It’s punk, patchwork, unpolished, mismatched. But also vibrant, brilliant, thoughtfully crafted and beautiful in its own way. It’s unique. It feels so real, and for the au to strip all that away and make Zaun feel like a shell of its former self was not it.

Zaun has such a rich culture. Not without its own host of flaws ofc, but what culture is perfect? And obviously there are political reasons for why Zaunites do things the way they do (it’s because Piltover’s oppressions forces them to get creative). While I resent the reasons as to why Zaunites have to be so resourceful and creative, I adore the things they were able to build in spite of their hardships. Makes me identify with Zaun even more. The au took all that away. Everything that made Zaun what it is wasn’t there, and I didn’t care for it.

Furthermore, the whole au falls apart if you stop and think about it. Why would Vi’s death be anything more than a drop in the bucket to Piltover? They had been oppressing Zaun for centuries? Vi is not only a Zaunite, but she was also a teenager. There’s a lot to be said about how teenagers aren’t really seen as kids by a lot of folks, and are “less innocent” and their lives are seen as “less important” (though ofc no one would admit that have that kind of bias). Plus when you consider that by virtue of being a Zaunite, Vi would already be considered “less than”, her life would not matter to Piltover WHATSOEVER. Best case, and I do mean best case scenario, they give Vander some financial compensation so he could afford to give Vi the proper funeral she deserves. But I’d bet money they never would’ve even considered doing that if I’m being realistic.

Also, that’s just a horrible message to send. Vi, the parentified child, who spent her whole life fighting like hell to protect her loved ones, had to die in order for not just her family, but her city to flourish. HUH??? That’s an awful thing to imply! Vi dying would NOT have lead to everyone else being fine. It would not have led Vander and Silco to forgive each other. It would NOT led to Zaun prospering economically. It would not have led to Zaun becoming just like Piltover in the worst of ways. That doesn’t even make any sense! Correlation does not equal causation, but those two things have no correlation to begin with! Obviously I know that’s not the message the writers meant to convey, but that’s what they ended up doing imo, and I don’t like that.

Lastly, why are we acting like Hextech is the problem? The oppressive system of Piltover existed way before Hextech came along, so why would its lack of being there affect things that much? Cause if not Hextech, some other revolutionary technology would’ve been invented that somehow only benefits some and hurts everyone else who isn’t as privileged. And yes, ofc I know Hextech only exists precisely BECAUSE of the systemic inequalities between Piltover and Zaun, but it is by no means wholly responsible for these inequalities. Responsible for widening the gap between Piltover and Zaun? Yes! Responsible for the existence of the gap in the first place? Hell no! And it felt like it was framed that way.

Coming back to this post to add something in light of Amanda’s recent comments. I love this episode. I do. Nothing will change that. But it feels like Amanda is going out of her way to make me hate this episode because of her dumbass comment. No an au episode is not a substitute for proper development of main universe Timebomb. I’d even go so far as to say that au Timebomb and mu Timebomb dealt with such fundamentally different circumstances that they might as well be two different couples, and showing mu Timebomb develop isn’t “rehashing” at all. I love the au episode. But that’s not what I’m here for. I’m here for MY Timebomb. I care about the development of THEIR relationship, not some au bottle episode with their au counterparts! Timebomb didn’t share a single meaningful interaction/conversation onscreen. They have no shortage of things to talk about or issues to work through. But we never got to see it. It has to be “left up to interpretation” which will only give fuel to the antis who insist that Ekko only loves au Powder and not his Jinx. Cause that’s all that was shown! God forbid you call using dms and interviews as a crutch to supplement what should’ve been made explicitly clear in the show bad writing though. Here come the dick eaters rattling off excuses about “media literacy”🙄🙄🙄

Anyways TL;DR I wasn’t a fan of the au episode because I felt like it unintentionally sent a horrible message and didn’t stay true to what makes Zaun, Zaun. It ripped out all its best parts and functionally turned it into Piltover Jr. and a fan of that I am NOT

[athenagc94]

Dear Daddy Long Legs - Chapter 10

Jason Todd x Fem!Reader

TW: Underage drinking, sobriety, triggered PTSD

First | Prev | Next

Chapter 10

Dear Weird Mr. Rich Man—  

Sorry. Tell me if I’ve gone too far with these.  

I’ve made friends! I know that has nothing to do with my studies, but We can both agree that socialization has its benefits. It’s an important piece of one’s college experience. I’m sure you have a few stories from your wild college days…  

Maybe you could tell me about them sometime?  

Or not.  

Probably not.  

But it’s nice, feeling like I finally have a foothold in this strange new world. At first, I felt out of place, but I think I’m finally getting the hang of this. It only took a few months.  

Colored lights flashed in time with the heavy bass pouring through the speakers over Jason’s head. It was only slightly louder than the shouts and clink of glasses happening around them. He teetered on the cusp of a sensory nightmare, but he shoved the discomfort aside to focus on what Roy was saying.  

He rarely went to clubs. The noise, the lights, the sheer number of people packed into a confined place spelled trouble for him, but it was Roy’s turn to pick their hangout spot. Even though he stopped drinking a year ago, he liked to surround himself with the noise and bustle of the club. Jason couldn’t relate, but it had been months since they’d had a chance to get away from their busy lives and catch up. He could suck it up for his sake.  

It wasn’t the ideal place to talk, but Roy managed it just fine. “Lian lost another tooth this week.” He angled his phone toward Jason.  

He leaned forward, squinting at the offensively bright screen.  

“Put on your glasses,” Roy said before muttering a soft, “Stubborn fuck,” under his breath.  

Jason scoffed as he grabbed the glasses that hung off his collar. He avoided wearing them when he could. Not only did it not help the nerd allegations, but glasses weren’t the most practical for his line of work. “I wear them to block blue light.”  

“Uh huh.”  

A dunk in the Lazarus Pit fixed a lot of things, but his penchant for splitting migraines was not one of them. He also had a bad habit of reading without an overhead light, but correlation did not equal causation in this scenario. He slid the glasses up his nose with a soft huff and he could finally focus on the photo on Roy’s phone.  

Lian smiled back at him, showing off several gaps in her teeth. He could see Roy the slightly crooked smile and the wrinkle of mischief around her eyes.  

“She’s getting so big.”  

“Tell me about it.” Roy sighed wistfully as he straightened his frayed ball cap. “I fear the day she starts calling me dad instead of daddy . Or God forbid she switches to father like that little demon spawn does with Bruce.”  

“How will you ever survive,” Jason teased as he sipped his soda.  

Roy smirked. Ah, there was that wrinkle of mischief. “I heard through the grapevine that I’m not the only one getting called daddy these days.”  

Jason sputtered, the carbonated fizz burning his nostrils. He wiped his mouth and sneered. So, this was his plan all along. An ambush. It was suspicious for Roy to call him out of the blue. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy hanging out with him, but it was odd that it happened to coincide perfectly with his return to Gotham.  

“I told Artemis it wasn’t like that.”  

“Hey, man, I’m the last person to judge. I like to be called—” He stopped himself, much to Jason’s relief. That was information he could live without. Roy settled on a light punch to the arm instead. “Do you want to talk about it?”  

“No.”  

He downed his drink, despite the unpleasant roil in his belly. The song filtering through the speakers switched to something more upbeat. A cheer ripped through the crowd, and he flinched.  

“But if I did, what would you say? Hypothetically, of course.”  

“Hypothetically, I would say that I’m glad to hear you’re putting yourself out there again. I know you’d never admit it, but the breakup with Artemis hit you hard. This is good…” He bobbed his head thoughtfully. “Though the execution seems a little eh, but I’m not as romantic as you are, so what the fuck do I know? It wouldn’t hurt to try your luck with a civilian partner. Heroes have their perks, but so do civilians.”  

Jason chewed his lip. “I never said I wanted to date her.”  

“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face.”  

Jason thought things would get easier once he distanced himself but not seeing you for nearly two months left him feeling oddly empty. He thought distracting himself with the Outlaws or Park Row patrols, but his mind always wandered back to you. He tried to pinpoint when exactly this crush developed, but he couldn’t settle on a singular moment. It just kind of snuck up on him.  

Still, he stayed away. You never asked for his attention, even if he to sit on your floor and read to you until you fell asleep, to touch—  

Roy waved a hand in front of his face, dragging him back. He forced himself to refocus. “What?”  

“I lost ya there for a second. Care to tell me where you went?”  

Not particularly, but Jason tried anyway. “My life is dangerous. It’s inconsistent, and I have a habit of disappearing when things get tough. I can’t put a civilian’s life needlessly in danger like that. It’s not f—”  

“Shot time!”  

Jason looked up as you passed their table, dragged by none other than Stephanie fucking Brown, in all her sparkly purple glory. And you—  

His eyes widened.  

He’d never seen you wear anything except that ill-fitting button up and slacks. He now realized that was a small mercy granted by the heavens because hot damn . You wore a pair of torn black jeans and a tight red shirt that showed off the contours of your body. It was the jacket though, beaten brown leather, two sizes too large, and obviously thrifted, that dried his throat.  

You looked like…  

He muffled the pathetic whine that pressed through his lips. You and Steph stopped at the bar, the latter muttering low in your ear with a twinkle in her eye. You threw your head back and laughed. Jealousy reared its ugly head as Jason stared.  

Since when were you two friends?  

“Jay?” He tore his eyes away from you to look at Roy. Concern furrowed his brow. “Are you sure you’re alright? If this is too much, we can go somewhere el—”  

Over his shoulder, you and Step clinked glasses before knocking back a shot.  

“No!”  

His expression grew more severe. “No?”  

Jason splayed his hands flat on the sticky table. “I mean, we just got here. Next round is one me. Club soda with a twist of lime, right?”  

Roy looked conflicted, but only for a moment. “Yes.”  

He shoved out of his chair. “Be right back.”  

Sweaty bodies pressed in from all side as he aimed for the bar. Your back was to him as you spoke with the bartender. God, you looked great. Casual, but effortlessly so. You didn’t have to do much to turn heads, and you had certainly garnered the bartender's attention.  

You can do this , he told himself. Make it look natural. Jason could strategize and plot with the best of them. Talking to you wasn’t nearly as complicated as infiltrating Black Mask’s base or apprehending a—  

“Babe, get down before you hurt you—”  

Before Jason could react, he hit the ground. Beer dripped from his curls and soaked the front of his shirt. He straightened his glasses as he turned his ire on the dumbass that had fallen on top of him. “What the fuck, man?”  

Tim stared at him with flushed cheeks.  

He stared back.  

“How’d you get in?” Tim muffled a hiccup as he stumbled to his feet. Jason jumped up to catch him before he fell back onto his face, though it would have been objectively hilarious to see. “You don’t have a valid ID.”  

“This is front for one of my dealers. I’m technically their boss, so they couldn’t turn me away if they wanted to.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re underage. How’d you get in?”  

“I’m Timothy Drake.” Jason could smell the mix of hard liquor and beer on his breath. “Do you really think they’re going to kick me and my friends out?”  

God, the entitlement.  

“Friends?” Jason seethed, “How many people did you smuggle in with you?”  

“Bernard and Steph. She brought a friend too. Whatever. The more the merrier. I don’t usually take the night off, so Bart came in from Central, and Kon flew down from Metropolis…”   

He counted them off on his fingers, but he quickly lost the plot and trailed off. He went a little cross-eyed as he tried to find his train of thought again. Jason crossed his arms and waited. He wiggled his fingers as if it were the most fascinating thing.  

“Tim,” Jason pressed.  

He finally refocused. “A few others too. I’m not going to list them off. It would take too long. I know that’s not something you’re used to.”  

His nostrils flared. “I have friends. I’m here with a friend now.”  

“So, Roy.”  

He searched for the right answer. There wasn’t one.  

“Did someone say shots!” Steph pushed through the crowd with two more glasses. She shoved one into Tim’s hands before throwing her shot back. Her expression puckered before she opened her eyes, zeroing in on Jason. Her smile turned feline. “Well, well. This is a surprise.”  

His attention shifted over her shoulder to where you hung back. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. You met his gaze with a narrow look. God, he missed your blatant distrust.  

Steph clocked the tension between you immediately and decided to help by introducing you. “And this is Ja—”  

“Jacob,” he cut in quickly, “My name is Jacob.”  

His heart raced. While objectively the smart move, he’d just dug himself a bigger hole by giving you a fake name. Steph would never let him live this down, and Tim—Jason dreaded to think what Tim had to say about all this. He willed the ground to swallow him whole.  

“Have we met before?”  

He struggled to catch his breath. “Don’t think so. I just have one of those faces, I guess.”  

“Right.” You nudged Steph. “I’ll go wait for our drinks.”  

“Don’t forget to put it on my tab,” Tim insisted as you turned away. His knowing smile rankled Jason. He curled and uncurled his fists. A quick punch to the throat. That was all it would take to wipe that smug look off his face.  

“You knew it was her.”  

Tim shrugged as he downed his shot, confirming nothing, but this was Tim. Of course, he knew who you were.  

“Um, hello, am I missing something?” Steph flicked a damp curl over her shoulder. “Why are we using fake names? Unless that’s what you want to be called now? If so, I’m totally in support of your journey, though Jacob is a little basic. You look more like a—”  

Tim mercifully cut her off, “He can’t let her know his real name.”  

She blinked. “Why?”  

“Drop it.” Jason craned his neck to keep an eye on you. “It’s not important.”  

“If we’re changing our names, it’s gotta be somewhat important.”  

“I’ll tell you in the morning,” Tim assured her.  

“Is it juicy?”  

“If by juicy, you mean kind of pathetic, then yeah.”  

Steph bounced giddily on the balls of her feet. “Oh my god.”  

Jason tuned them out as he settled solely on you. God, that jacket looked amazing on you. For a second, he imagined it was his instead. If it was, that bartender would stop looking at you with those heavy bedroom eyes. He was tall, but Jason was much taller. His skin was smooth and unblemished.  

Did you like that kind of thing?  

He glanced down at the discolored knicks and scars that marred the back of his hands. They didn’t bother him as much anymore. Each mark told his story. At least, that’s what Talia tried to instill on him when he lived in Nanda Parbat. You liked a good story.  

Fuck it , he thought as he abandoned them to head toward the bar. It was too late to pretend he never saw you, and there was no way he was letting this moment slip through his fingers. You did a double take as he sat next to you, effectively startling the bartender who had leaned across the bar to flirt with you.  

“A club soda with lime and a Coke.”  

He cleared his throat and moved to make Jason’s drinks.  

You studied him for a second, your expression unreadable. “Not drinking?”  

Jason forced himself to look at you. It had been easier with the helmet, but tonight, there was nothing to protect him from the full brunt of your gaze.  

“My friend doesn’t drink, so I don’t either when we hang out.”  

“I’m sure they appreciate that.”  

It wasn’t a direct compliment, but his heart swelled all the same. “Nah, it’s not a big deal. Drinking by myself isn’t all that fun.” He cleared his throat. “Not that I would know.”  

“I never assumed that you did.”  

He forced himself to laugh. It effectively killed the mood, and you turned back to the bar, seemingly content to have things end there. Jason was not, but he struggled to come up with something to say. His gaze fell to your jacket once more.  

“So, leather?”  

“Leather?” you echoed as you bit back a smile.  

“I mean, your jacket. It’s leather.”  

You feigned shock. “Really? I had no idea.”  

He choked on another laugh. Fuck, this was going a lot worse than he pictured it in his head, but he pressed on anyway, “I have one too.”  

“Yeah?”  

“I mean, I think it looks—” His head spun. “You look—”  

A hand clapped down on his shoulder. “And here I thought you left me high and dry.”  

Jason sagged with relief as Roy settled next to him, sparing him from the embarrassment of finishing that thought. His relief faded when Roy’s gaze shifted to you, his easy smile turning rueful.  

“Is he bothering you, sweetheart?”  

“Not at all,” you said as the bartender dropped off your drinks. Two in front of you, and two in front of him.   

It barely registered, his beef with the bartender forgotten now that he was faced with the terrifying realization that every conversation with you ended in him acting like a bumbling fool. His mouth worked, but no words came out.  

“But I think he might be short-circuiting.”  

Roy chuckled. “Yeah, he gets a little shy around a pretty face.”  

You smirked as you sipped your drink. “Flirting on his behalf. Now, that’s a good friend.”  

Jason shoved him away, gritting his teeth. “Ignore him. We were just leaving. Sorry to both—”  

“Please. No need to stop on my account,” Roy insisted, ever the helpful one. Jason resisted the urge to smack him. “I think you were about to compliment her jacket, right?”  

“He was,” you agreed, “But I’ll spare him from doing so in front of you.” Your hand fell to his shoulder as you leaned in. Tequila sharpened your breath, fanning across his skin. If he turned his head just a fraction, you’d be nose to nose, your lips sinfully close. He stayed still as stone, shoving that mental image from his mind.   

You whispered in his ear, “If you want to try again, you know who I came with. I’ll even pretend this isn’t our first time meeting, Mr. Darcy.”  

Ice coated his veins.   

“A pair of glasses isn’t enough to fool me, though I’d be lying if I said you didn’t look good.” You squeezed his shoulder and walked away.  

He stayed facing the bar, too stunned to move, to speak, hell, he wasn’t even sure if he was breathing any more.  

“That her?”  

A low whine wrenched from his throat.  

Roy took a long sip from his drink. “Everything makes sense now. Your lifestyle has nothing to do with why you’re against dating. You suck at flirting.”  

“That’s not true.”  

“Did you hear yourself before?”  

He ran his fingers through his hair. “Okay, fine, but that’s only part of it. I know all this stuff about her, but I can’t tell her that without looking like a weirdo. I want to do this right, but I don’t know how to begin. What do I do?”  

Insane that he was turning to Roy of all people for dating advice. He loved the guy, but his track record with women was not the best.  

“You could ask her to dance?”  

If Jason had pearls, he would have clutched them. “Have you lost your mind?”  

“Dude.” He flicked him between the eyes. “I know you haven’t had a whole lot of experience with flirting, but that —” He pointed to where you disappeared in the crowd. “That was a clear invitation to follow her. And if you play your cards right, you could end the night like them.”  

Roy then pointed to where Tim balanced precariously on another table. He dragged Bernard up with him this time, his mouth sealed over his in a sloppy kiss. Bernard held a beer in one hand as he grabbed his ass with the other.  

Jason averted his gaze. “Yeah, okay, let me try making it through a conversation without looking like a dumbass first.”  

“Whatever floats your boat, man, but this your shot. Take it.”  

He wiped his sticky palms on his jeans. “I thought you wanted to hang out with me.”  

“I can survive,” he insisted, “Who knows? Maybe I’ll call Dick so we can watch the shit show together.”  

“Dickie is too busy being Bludhaven’s golden boy to care about my non-existent love life.” Jason hadn’t heard from his brother in months, which was probably for the best. Things were easier when they didn’t talk. Reminded him of the days before he bit the dust.  

“I think he’d make an exception for this,” Roy countered with a sharp smile, “This is the best entertainment I've had in years. Now, I need to know how you bagged a baddie like Artemis. I thought you had hidden charm, but that’s clearly not the case.”  

Jason clamped down on his irritation. “Are you done?”  

“Almost.” Roy considered him thoughtfully. “Is it the curly hair? It must be, right? I can’t think of anything else that would—”  

“Roy.”  

He waved him off. “Alright, fine. I’m done now. Are you going to ask her to dance or what?”  

Continuing his relationship with you as Jacob wasn’t the worst decision he’s made where you were concerned. It was closest he’d ever get to being himself around you. No more skirting around under the guise of protocol or chance meetings on fire escapes. He could finally meet you halfway, on equal footing.   

He stood with hardened resolve.  

Roy clapped him on the back. “Atta boy. Go get her.”  

Anxiety prickled his skin as he headed into the crowd to find you. All the while, he tried to convince himself that this was an invitation and that you wouldn’t laugh in his face when he asked you to dance. He didn’t dance, but he would do it for you.   

Jason could picture it now. His hands dipping under that jacket to grip your hips, pulling you flush against his body as you moved to the music. Your breath mingling with his as he pressed his forehead to yours. Words had betrayed him tonight, but he could make his actions count.  

He caught a blur of red hair, then blonde hair, then the outline of a man who was undoubtedly half-Kryptonian. He found Tim’s entourage, so that meant you had to be—  

Someone laughed.   

It grated on his ears, warping until it bordered on hysterical.  

Something snapped inside him.  

It couldn’t be his laugh, he tried to rationalize.  

He was rotting in Arkham.  

He closed his eyes, starbursts painting the back of his eyelids. They looked an awful lot like explosions. His breath shallowed as he pressed his palms over his eyes in a vain attempt to shove the image from his mind.  

No.  

No.  

No .  

Not here.  

Not now.  

He staggered back as a familiar panic twined through his chest.  

It was suddenly too loud, too bright, too warm—like fire. Flames. He smelled smoke. He tugged desperately at his collar, but it failed to alleviate the tension in his throat.  

Suddenly, he was moving.  

A chill it into his skin as he exited the club. Where he went, he had no idea, but he needed to get away. Somewhere quieter, somewhere darker, somewhere that didn’t remind him of that night.  

Eventually, he sank to his knees, slush and snow soaking through his jeans as he willed his head to stop spinning. He focused on the ground, the feel of the rough asphalt under his palms. He counted his breaths. One, two, three —all the way to ten . His fists tightened as he held his breath, then released the tension on the exhale.  

His vision felt too sharp, too real, but his mind finally slowed as he slowly regained control of his body. He released another shaky breath, tears in his eyes.  

Jason hadn’t had an episode this bad in a while.  

Small things could trigger him—like forcing himself into a packed club with all that stimulation. God, he was an idiot to push himself like that. He should have left when Roy suggested it.   

Roy.  

He abandoned him.  

Fuck .  

On top of everything, he was a shit friend too.  

Anger twined with his shame and fear. He punched the ground. And again. Over and over until his knuckles bled. His next breath broke on a sob as he folded in half, his forehead pressed to the concrete.  

To think, he almost fooled himself into believing he had a chance at something normal—something good. Things would never pan out between you two. You deserved someone better. Someone less fucked in the head. He distanced himself for a reason. This was why.  

---------------

A/N: Haha. That was fun until it wasn't. Until next time!

[purpurship]

ANTIS, THIS POST IS NOT FOR YOU, AND THIS POST IS NOT AN INVITATION FOR YOU TO STALK THROUGH MY BLOG AND BE A CREEP.

~~~~~

You can't call yourself proship and then turn around and start yelling about "bad fiction."

There's no such thing. Not if you're proship anyways. Antis "know" all about "bad fiction."

If you want to be progressive, then you HAVE to put aside your ick. You have to stop equating correlation with causation.

Because what you draw or write about has no relation to what you actually believe or what kind of person you are, we've all established that right? Lolishos aren't pedophiles right? Furries aren't zoophiles right?

So logically that would apply to RPF and its enjoyers too right???

What you write about in RPF isn't what you want to happen to the people in real life. It's fiction. Real person fiction.

Like, I do not want Tommy to suffer and get groomed by Phil in real life, but I think it's hot fictionally. Can you please stop siding with the antis?

If you feel uncomfortable, you can leave. Even if you find RPF made of you personally. You can leave. Nothing actually happened to you irl because of the fic, and the person who made it does not automatically want that to happen to you either. (Sidenote: if your abuser made RPF of your pain then this is because they're an abuser, not because of the RPF. Don't punish everybody who likes RPF just because somebody who hurt you likes it too. Please.)

~~~~~

ANTIS DO NOT INTERACT.

[eqt-95]

💖 rough kiss / hot and heavy / making out

please👉👈

oh anon, i am definitely the wrong person for this one, but here goes nothing:

- - - - - -

Lena has a secret. 

No, it isn't that she’s doubling as a superhero in her free time. That’s Kara.

And no, it isn't that she has an unquenchable crush on her best friend. They'd solved that eons ago.

And definitely no, it isn’t that her toy collection is extensive and well-stocked. Everyone at game night already knows about that.

The secret went like this: 

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Lena replied with the innocence of a Luthor.

“So it just so happens that the bartender who has been making eyes at you all night is now being sized-up by my sister?”

“Correlation without causation. I thought you were a scientist,” Lena shrugged and tried her best to conceal a knowing smile.

“Uh-huh,” Alex replied with an arched eyebrow that said much more. “And that fact he grabbed your ass on the way to the bathroom?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Well I for one am not about to do a bunch of paperwork over an NDA because Kara can’t keep it together over this ass-hat groping you, so if you will excuse me-”

- - - -

And this: 

“Hey babe?”

“Hm?”

“What’s this?”

Lena looked up from her work and squinted at the letter gripped in Kara’s hand. 

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just some administrative stuff,” Lena hummed and returned to her work.

“Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’. It looks like you were served.”

The scowl that followed was one that could be seen from space which meant it was impossible to ignore from across their apartment. Lena rolled her eyes. 

“It’s just Morgan Edge playing bully again, darling.”

“Yea but,” Kara continued, eyes skimming the multi-page document that now had a few extra crinkles in it. “He’s suing for patent rights? Who does he think he is-”

“It’s nothing, really. I’ll handle it tomorrow.”

“You shouldn’t have to handle it in the first place.”

“It’s fine. Let’s just-”

But Kara was already gone through the terrace door and halfway across the city.

- - - -

And most of all, this:

“Ms. Luthor, The Sun has accused you of covering up nearly a dozen fatalities since-”

“Lena Luthor, it has been alleged that Obsidian North’s stolen technology was found in L-Corp’s latest-”

“Ms. Luthor, how do you explain the recent deaths associated with-”

“How do you sleep at night when your maniac brother is still on the loose-”

“No comment,” Lena repeated for the eighteenth time. She pushed ahead, trying to find a path between L-Corp’s front door and the waiting car that would take her home. Unfortunately, the best path was also the longest. Worse, when she looked ahead, her car was nowhere to be found. What she did find was wall-to-wall traffic and no chance of freedom.

Great.

More questions were hurled, a flash sent blotches across her vision. Another came an inch away and sent her staggering. It felt like a garbage compactor except worse because garbage compactors weren’t sentient creatures known for shouting lies while doing its job.

She clambered through the crowd and found a gap. She glanced around for her security guard who was lost amidst a second offshoot of angry journalists and misinformed citizens. Now wasn’t the time for manners as three journalists and an oversized camera pivoted toward her, so instead of waiting, she booked it down the sidewalk.

They followed with vigor and ignorance and a stubbornness that would have made Lillian proud, shouting rather uncreative conspiracy theories and growing closer by the second. Lena turned a corner then, in a move she might have patted herself on the back for, slipped into an alley. She breathed a sigh of relief until-

“Ms. Luthor-”

“Lena Luthor-”

“-you can’t hide from the truth.” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Lena heaved, staggering backwards in the kind of stereotypical way she mocked television shows for.

The cameraman was fastest, breaking into her personal space and jamming the lens into her face.

“Ms. Luthor-”

“-is it true Supergirl won’t speak to you?”

“-how does it feel having National City’s Darling reject you?”

What happened next might have been comical if Lena weren’t breathless, irritated, and fuming that her anniversary dinner was being interrupted by a wave of wannabe reporters hanging onto the coattails of the marketing dollars that funded their tabloids. 

Be that as it was, she was not in her usual smirky-mood when the burst of air sent all of them turning on heel to find an equally irritated and equally fuming Supergirl towering over them with the kind of anger usually reserved for the extra-bad baddies.

“S-supergirl,” they all seemed to whimper in unison. 

The camera was fumbled then dropped. The lens splintered with a deserved crack. A few short seconds later, it was the only evidence anyone with a press badge had been there.

“Where’d you take them?” Lena asked when Kara whooshed down moments later. She pushed off the brick wall and closed the distance, raising her hands to fix Kara’s ruffled cape.

“I considered the middle of the Pacific-” Kara shrugged.

“Oh is that right?” Lena smirked, letting her hands climb to brush an errant strand of hair into place.

“But then I remembered the whole ‘hope, help, and compassion’ thing,” she continued, her own hands finding a home on Lena’s waist. “So I dropped them off just outside the city limits instead.”

And there it was: the secret. Somewhere between Kara, all beet-faced and rage hovering over the cowering reporters and then dragging said group of gaggling reporters to the edges of town, Lena felt it - that tiny pang of warmth and safety and appreciation that always came with her overprotective Kryptonian. It also usually sent a tiny pang of something else through her.

“Well that was very big of you,” Lena replied, the gap between lips narrowing. “But just so you know,” she continued, her breath ghosting across Kara’s lips, “I had it handled-”

Kara skipped her lines and closed the gap, pressing lips, hands, and body against Lena until her back found the brick wall again and nothing but the taste, touch, and smell of Kara consumed her. Lips dragged to Lena’s jawline then neck then exposed shoulder. Hands grabbed against the restrictions of fabric. Lena cursed (again) the constraints of a supersuit.

“I really need to design you a new suit,” Lena huffed.

“Probably for the best.” Kara replied, fingers venturing dangerously close to public indecency. “Alex says we need to leave before someone sees us anyway.”

“Tell Alex to stop committing voyeurism. There are websites for that.”

“Oh, she did not like that,” Kara snickered, lips pressing a final kiss to the crook of Lena’s neck. 

“Turn that thing off and take me home, Supergirl.”

“What about our reservations?”

“I have other dinner plans tonight.”

- - - - -

ask game

[burningcheese-merchant]

When Burning Spice was introduced a lot of people made comparison with Capsaicin, and even thought they were related. You have any thoughts on that?

I do, and you're all probably going to be very disappointed lol

Not only do I NOT vibe with the idea that they're related, I'm actually really annoyed that it's as popular as it is lol. It doesn't even make sense. Burning Spice was in prison for thousands of years; when, where and how did he have a kid? At what point in time did this occur? Capsaicin is a young man. A regular mortal, outside of his "Spice Overlord" thing. I ask you all again: when? Where? How? WHY? Has anyone ever actually thought this through?

"ThEy LoOk SiMiLaR" okay, and? So fucking what? Neither of them own the concept of "long hair" or "muscles" or "sharp teeth". Pitaya has those too, and he has an arguably more substantial connection to Capsaicin because they're actually from the same fucking area. Happenstance. Lots of characters in this game have similar attributes, that doesn't necessarily mean anything

"ThEy'Re BoTh SpIcY" Refer to point A. Do you all think all the nut-based cookies are related, too? That's the logic you might as well be operating on. Correlation is not causation

"Blah blah both go 2 jail" you know how many characters in this wack-ass phone game count as felons, bro? How many of them SHOULD count as felons lol? The Cookie Run universe might as well be one giant Alcatraz with all the shit these little affronts to God get up to every day, I ain't making them all each other's relatives because of it

They're the wrong ages for them to be family. Burning Spice was serving a life sentence since long before Capsaicin was even thought of, he literally got out after the guy was already a grown ass man. They're not even from the same fucking CONTINENT! Capsaicin has probably never even HEARD of Beast-Yeast! Even that little comic the CRK Twitter account posted makes fun of all this shit!!! The Wild Spices mistake Cap for Spice from behind, and then get confused when he turns around because THEY VERY CLEARLY DO NOT KNOW WHO HE IS AND HAVE NEVER SEEN HIM BEFORE! Wouldn't an army know if their general had a son, even if it was only mentioned in passing? Wouldn't THIS army have a vested interest in having their general's son around if he existed, and stop at nothing to bring him home should he vanish, to gain favor with Spice and because of how powerful Capsaicin is and how useful he could be to them?

I wouldn't be so bent out of shape about all this if it wasn't LITERALLY FUCKING EVERYWHERE!!! I cannot enjoy any content of Burning Spice OR Capsaicin without having to endure a fucking barrage of "hurr durr father and son" posts!!! I just want to ogle my hot, sexy, deliciously evil spice man BY HIM-FUCKING-SELF in peace, I never asked to have to hear the exact fucking same "hi son I came back with the milk" joke over and over and over again

I know I sound like a massive dick right now and I'm truly sorry. You are more than welcome to think of these two as related in some way if you wish. I am not your mother, nor your leader, nor your god, I'm just some cringe loser on the internet. Enjoy this game and its characters in whatever way you choose. I even actually like a good bit of the father/son art, a lot of it is cute and funny. I'm able and willing to say that with complete sincerity.

I just wish I didn't have to feel like it's being forced on me. That is one of the biggest issues I have with this fandom: how oppressive it often feels. You MUST ship this particular pairing, you MUST headcanon these characters as family, you MUST take this one-off joke that was clearly just a goddamn joke and preach it 24/7/365 like it's the gospel truth that Devsis themselves wrote on stone tablets and delivered from the top of Mount Sinai. And then when someone doesn't want to do that, everyone else descends upon them like a plague of fucking locusts. I actually saw a Dad Spice + Son Cap post on here with the person who made it saying something like "ok since everyone agrees that these two are family [...]" and I just got so fucking irritated. No, actually, not everyone agrees. Not everyone agrees on a lot of the fanon that's shoved down the entire community's throats on a regular basis. PLEASE stop acting like they do. I still remember when people would get flat-out harassed for not acting like Herb is Sea Fairy's son (old ass drama lol).

Say what you will about me, I'm just one person and you can block me or whatever dumb tags I use for my dumb shit. There is NOWHERE I can go to avoid this. Twitter? Plagued. Tumblr? Plagued. Even fucking reddit is on this nonsense (only in my personal opinion). But that's what I get for acknowledging Reddit in any capacity lol

I shall once again sincerely apologize for my harsh tone here, I am not attacking you personally or anyone who headcanons these two as relatives. I am just generally, profoundly frustrated and I need to get it out. I appreciate you taking the time to ask me an honest question, I hope you can forgive me for my painfully honest answer

[transmutationisms]

is there actual proof there's a genetic component to alcoholism? I've been searching and most articles I've read seem to agree it accounts for about half of your predisposition. I'm both skeptical and worried I might be going too far in my questioning to the point of denying science

genetic variants play a role in alcoholism. this is a decently readable overview on the topic from 2013. there are a few main points that should be clarified when discussing this.

often when people ask about this, they're thinking of genetic variants that affect a person's psychology, something like an inherited and inescapable 'addictive personality'. this is not really borne out by the research. as the paper above points out, the strongest genetic effects wrt the development of alcoholism are due to genes that change how we metabolise alcohol. having genes that make your alcohol metabolism more physically unpleasant in various ways (for example, you may have heard of so-called 'asian flushing syndrome') generally lowers the chances you will drink lots of alcohol, and thus lowers the chances you will qualify for a dx of alcohol use disorder. it's not a perfect protection; the paper also notes that, for example, businessmen exposed to cultural and economic pressures to drink heavily were more likely to do so even if they carried the normally protective genes. so, these aren't genes that control our behaviour directly or change our personalities; what we're seeing is largely the result of the fact that people like to do things that feel good, and if drinking makes you feel like hell, you are in general less likely to do it a lot.

this paper, and many papers on this topic, also mentions twin studies and adoptee studies to back up the claim that alcoholism is partially genetically determined. keep in mind that these studies are very hard to control for economic confounding factors, because even with adoptees, genetic siblings are also disproportionately likely to be adopted into families of a similar economic class. this is a general sticking point in a lot of genetics research.

many of the genetic variations believed to contribute to alcoholism are identified by studying families with multiple diagnosed alcoholics. this is tricky because it again has a lot of confounding factors; it identifies broad regions of the genome that then have to be broken down into more detailed analyses; and there are causation-correlation questions in this approach. some of the genes identified by these types of studies have replicated; many have not.

genomes and epigenetic variation are just extremely complicated. that doesn't mean the research isn't worthwhile, but understand that these types of questions turn up hundreds or thousands of potentially relevant genes, whose functions are often completely unknown, and which may be up- or down-regulated in ways no one understands. there are a lot of points of uncertainty between asking "do genes influence alcoholism" and generating an actual working list of such genes. i wrote a little about some of the uncertainties associated with epigenetic research here.

alcoholism itself is, like any psychiatric dx, heterogeneous (there are many different ways to qualify for the dx and the judgments inherently include a degree of clinician subjectivity). so, and this is a problem with studying the genetics of any psychiatric dx and many physical ailments as well, we're not really talking about a single clinical or psychological entity, and thus to even say which genetic variations may contribute to developing it is already pretty dubious in its discursive formulation alone.

[prettyboysdontlookatexplosions]

ok i do have one thing to get off my chest that has been uhhhh made more acutely irritating by bleak house discourse but preexists it and extends way beyond it. there's this really really really annoying thing that people do when they have like had their minds totally blown by someone telling them the most 101 basic ways to "critique" a study and/or its design, and also have been really (understandably i guess) activated by e.g. bad health journalism that loves to sensationalize or make unreasonable claims based on a single study, where now like... whenever they encounter any study (well not actually any study. any study whose conclusions they disagree with lmao), they immediately jump to LMAO LOOK AT THIS TINY ASS SAMPLE SIZE! THIS IS JUST ONE STUDY! CORRELATION IS NOT CAUSATION! CAN YOU BELIEVE THESE STUPID RESEARCHERS DID XYZ? NO CONTROL GROUP! NOT A RANDOMIZED EXPERIMENTAL TRIAL! I CAN'T BELIEVE THESE IDIOTS GOT THIS BULLSHIT PUBLISHED!

and like... is there a lot of dumb bullshit research published? sure, at least in some fields (replication crisis alert... but like i feel like the kids in materials science are probably doing better?) but the appropriate response to that is like... developing a nuanced framework in which any individual study is a single attempt to contribute to a larger body of knowledge that should be assessed in that context. it is not just looking at any finding that crosses your path and assuming (1) the researchers didn't understand or didn't care about the limitations of their study design and (2) any study "flaws" - which certainly any study in the social sciences or social-adjacent sciences will have because humans are complex - mean a study is totally worthless. that is, sorry, anti-intellectual. i don't think the people who do this consciously realize that they are, implicitly, arguing against the entire project of learning anything about human beings and their functioning ever... but they are. because there's no way to study human beings that is not flawed. if you throw out any study that is flawed, you throw out the whole endeavor. and, it would really shock some people to hear this, but at least some of the people who spend their entire lives researching human beings... know this. they know that learning about humans requires taking a lot of imperfect raw data and carefully considering how to interpret it. some of them actually do know this!!!! i promise!!!!! nobody better understands the fallibilities of statistics than a statistician. and yet, statisticians have not en masse abandoned their careers... they simply understand that what they're doing is complicated and never going to be perfect.

anyway. this is a major factor in why maintenance phase became totally unlistenable to me after a while... i simply could not take their ongoing "lmao, look at this dipshit researcher," especially since they are sooooooooo blatantly hypocritical about not holding up things they want to use in support of their own arguments to the same level of scrutiny. (one example that really made me insane... they had a whole episode about how 2000 calories a day is a random arbitrary number not reflective of human needs etc.... but then when they were doing an episode about some high-fiber fad diet aubrey was like "and the amount of fiber recommended was way higher than the FDA's [or whatever agency i'm not looking it up] recommended amount!!!!" oh... now we trust government recommendations? fuck off lmao) (i'm not simping for 2000 calories i just thought that was like sincerely quite egregious and made her look stupid as hell. to be clear michael also does this and it also makes him look stupid but i can't think of any michael examples because i haven't listened in years and this one was so transparent it's what stuck with me.) and like, it's annoying because it's annoying when people who aren't that smart act like they're way smarter than everyone else in the world, but it also matters because like... they tend to dismiss population studies out of hand because Too Many Factors, but population studies are what first pointed to the association between cigarettes and lung cancer - an association later investigated with other analytic tools, but for which, guess what, there has still never been a randomized control trial, because that would be evil. like, i'm sure that the lung researchers of the 1940s knew that correlation doesn't equal causation... but wow thank god they didn't follow that up with "so, basically this is probably worthless, nothing to see here"! assuming you know better than any study before you've even read it is literally anti-science and honestly not that far from how people wind up on the anti-vax train (including in the way that it rests on the assumption that it's probably pretty easy for the lay person to wade through statistical analysis in a specialized field and decide if it's good or not - no! it's not easy!). (cigarette history link)

this has been on my mind again with bleak house discourse because i have had to restrain myself about 1 million times from saying to someone, no fucking shit it's a single imperfect study, you sophomoric dickwad. i'm really not sure how you read that post, which was pretty measured in its appreciation of the study and also very explicitly drew on my firsthand professional experience, and assume that i need to be lectured to about taking every single word of a single small study as gospel... unless you are walking around the world smugly convinced that you are the first person in history to whom it has ever occurred to "question the design of a study" (as opposed to, say, take note of the pros and cons of the study design and think about what implications its limitations may have for interpreting its data and for future study). like... i have spent almost a decade thinking about these topics near-constantly... i would not describe myself as well-versed in the literature of ilteracy but i have DEFINITELY!!!! read more about it than any of these motherfuckers... but sure. i need some really big brained person to sit me down and explain to me that, omg, there were only 80 participants! why are you attacking all college students in america with such a Small Sample Size!!!! why would you have them talk out loud about the text they were reading? wouldn't it be better to have them answer questions at the end (which they did lol) or write their summaries (which would be complicated by the intersection with writing skills lol) or Some Other Imaginary Methodology That We All Definitely Would Accept As Valid Instead Of Also Instantly Condemning Because It Cannot Perfectly Capture Every Nuance Of Human Cognition? like of course one should [alec baldwin in glengarry glenn ross voice] always be critical. but parroting things you have learned sound like critical thinking isn't actually critical thinking. and drawing a hard binary between "true" and "false" in a realm of research that is much more complicated than that... is not critical thinking. it actually is just making it impossible for anyone to say anything about the topic ever lol.

and again... is this really personally annoying for Me, Personally? yes. yes it is. do i find it a really astonishingly unattractive personality trait? oh yeah. big time. but! this matters, in this case, beyond me being a hater, because, like, that thing i said above, about how all human-related studies are inherently always going to be flawed? that goes about six billion times for education. education is unbelievably difficult to study. it's a dark land of confounding variables and minuscule effect sizes. every education study in the world is going to be flawed. all of them! so to look at study, deem it flawed, and determine that therefore it has nothing we can learn from... is like really really literally, in the world of ed shit, to say, fuck it, just go based on vibes. which... has not served the profession well, to say the least.

(i swear to fucking god some people would read the second shift and be like, ok but hochschild only talked to 12 couples? lmao what kind of sample size is that... obviously her in depth interviews have no value compared to administering 500000 questionnaires that we would then nitpick for being insufficiently unambiguous in wording. basically this book has nothing to teach us about the distribution of domestic labor in heterosexual partnerships, which means i never have to think about this topic again since it's made up and doesn't matter!)

[sirenstanfordpines]

Laid Up in Lavender

a stancest drabble for my dear friend @thegatewaydrug for photoshopping my pfp! the request was "some kinda pining/tension in the Stan O War II crated by their fucking constipated feelings for each other." Enjoy, bestie 💚

There’s a curl spiraling down the wrinkled slope of Stanley’s forehead, pinned beneath the wide brim of his red beanie. The coy coil of its end taps against Stan’s brow, jumping in time with the strong breeze whipping across The Stan-O’-War-II, forcing Stanley and Stanford to huddle beneath the same blanket as Stan lazily casts another line out into the Atlantic. 

Stan bats the curl away absentmindedly, but the capricious thing springs back into place as if he'd had never touched it at all, that red beanie holding it in place.  It does something strange to Ford’s stomach every day that Stan wakes up and pulls that particular hat on above all his others – and Pythagorus knows that Mabel has knitted Stan enough hats to outfit a small army. Correlation does not in any way, shape, or form equate to causation, Stanford Pines knows. 

So it’s rather strange to explain why his stomach flips every time he sees Stanley adorned in the same color as Ford’s sweater.  Ford’s color.

Stan shifts, shoving uselessly at his hair again as it dances closer to his eyes. “This damn mop is getting too long,” he grouses beneath his breath. “I'm going to get it cut at the next port, I swear.” 

“Don’t you dare,” Ford says automatically, then leans forward. “Here, let me.”  He is already reaching for his brother, moving quickly as soon as he has allowed himself to move at all like a magnet released from its holdings, flying to its opposite pole.

Gently, he coils the end of Stan’s curl around his finger, peeling the brim of his red, red, red beanie up just enough to tuck it inside. 

“Honestly, Stanley,” he huffs as he leans back, fingertips burning with the residual heat of him.  “You’d be a mess without me.”

“Gimme some credit here, Sixer,” Stan says, and his eyes are the sepia of a childhood memory, just as soft, just as fond, just as distant. He brushes his fingers against his own forehead, as if Ford’s touch, too, lingers like a brand.  “I’m a mess with you too.”

Stan has quit smoking sporadically, in fits around the holidays and his birthday and whenever he can’t stop that wheezing old man cough of his in the morning. He’d lasted the longest when the twins were around, but once they left, he’d scarcely made it a week before he was digging out one of his good Cuban cigars, eyes lidded in pleasure as the warmth crept into his chest. There’s always a point that his craving crests, that the itching beneath his skin writhes into a frenzy, that his legs bounce and fingers twitch and his mind is abuzz with all-consuming hunger. 

It’s so easy to light up, to breathe in, to let the snarling cravings turn to docile, purring urges.

Yet, when the smoke dies away, his hunger only grows.

Here, on the deck of the Stan-O’-War-II, he knows being with Ford again is just like that breaking point – dangerous and heady and addictive as a smoker’s first hit months after quitting. He never should’ve gotten a morsel. Now he just wants it more.

Stanley has never been good at denying himself, except for this one thing.  Because there is one, only one, thing he wants more than the warmth of Ford’s hand in his own, his lips moving against Stan’s, for that deep voice to rumble out “I love you” the same way that Stan means it – and that is his brother.  He wants Ford more than anything, and that means he will never have him, despite everything. Stan spent thirty years trying desperately to get his brother back; he will not survive another if he pushes him away now.

Stanley Pines is a consummate gambler.  He knows when to fold. 

“C’mon, Sixer,” he says, and reels the line in, no fish in sight.  It relaxes him, this time sitting, staring across the open ocean meditatively, Ford at his side.  What Ford gets from it, he has no idea.  “Sun’s about to go down.  Let’s see what we can rustle up, alright?”

Dinner is an affair of inside jokes, of thrilled speculation, of comfortable silence. Ford has had luxuries in his life. He’s met kings of distant galaxies, tried strange delicacies, eaten his fill and been offered more – he’s been sated, been delighted by culinary inquests.  He thinks, vaguely, as his brother throws his head back to laugh, the column of his throat stained silver with moonlight, that he would give each and every bite of those feasts up for a shitty can of reheated beans, so long as it was split with Stanley.

There’s only one bed.  It’s the oldest cliché in the God-damned book, and Stanley would know; he’s pretty sure he was around when the damn thing was written.  He’s not sure which one of them fabricated the bright idea, which one concocted the excuse, eyes averted and chest puffed and voice too-loud, too-cheerful, as if that would make the whole thing any less odd.  The result is the same: a queen sized bed – queen, something inside of Stan snorts derisively, remembering the ache of his arches after hours in heels – tucked away modestly in the corner of their too-drafty cabin, as if they can both forget what it means if they don’t have to look at it directly.

It’s a small ship.  There’s only so many places they can look. 

Mabel had certainly been delighted by the discovery, squealing and making kissy faces through bouts of laughter after she spotted it over their shoulders over Skype. They’d explained it away to her just as they’d done to each other at the beginning, in overlapping babble, noises of “saving space” and “maximizing efficiency” and “keeping an eye out”. For their own ears, thrillingly, Stanford had muttered fast and quick, as if he just couldn’t help it, “might be nice.”

Their bedtime routine has turned into a well-choreographed dance – one of those complicated, whirling, achingly structured promenades straight out of The Duchess Approves. Ford twirls, facing the wall, as Stan tugs his shirt over his head. Stan bows low to avoid looking as Ford emerges from the shower, water still clinging to the hair on his chest. It’s the sort of dance where the partners orbit each other, mirrored in their steps and turners, rises and falls, close enough to feel but not to touch. Never, ever, ever, to touch. It’s not the sort of thing done in polite company, after all, not without a family-ruining scandal. Stanley has caused enough of those for a lifetime.

So he half-steps and turns, just on cue, and his eyes do not linger on Ford’s thighs peeking out from his worn-soft sleep shorts. They waltz around each other one-two-three as they fold into the bed – Stan with his back to the wall, Ford with easy access to the door, to escape. 

The dance concludes. There is no rapturous applause, although Stan feels he deserves it for being so damn normal about the whole thing, circumstances considered. 

“Good night, Stanley,” Ford says, instead of I'm sorry I’ve done all this. “Sleep well,” he says, instead of I love you. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he says, instead of how is it possible to miss you when you’re less than a foot away?

“‘Night, Sixer,” Stan says, instead of I’m sorry I’m like this. “I‘m kicking you if you snore again,” he says, instead of I love you. “Don’t let the bugs bite,” he says, instead of how can you not see I love you?

There’s a little lie Stan tells himself, to stay sane.  Well, more than one if he’s (rarely) being honest.  He lies to himself about his feeble charm, he lies to himself about how Ford’s eyes linger on him because shit, what if he’s wrong, he lies to himself about how much his back (and knees and shoulders and fuck, everything) hurts. And every night, laying there, staring across the impossible space of four inches between himself and Ford, he lies to himself and says tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow will be the day he finally, finally says something. 

And then he rolls over and faces the warped ceiling of the Stan O’ War II with a wry grin.  Nah, he thinks. Probably not. 

But there’s a maybe hidden there somewhere, the sliver of a real possibility, a lock he could pick to the future he’s always wanted, and that maybe keeps him going.  He falls asleep like that, unsurpassable four inches away from his brother, and neither knows that they’re dreaming of the exact same impossible thing: eleven fingers, intertwined in the light of day. 

They get up with the sun the next morning. It’s achingly cold out, and when Stanley tugs on his red beanie, a trapped curl spirals down the wrinkled slope of his forehead.