#this was emotionally exhausting to write

[wanderingnork]

So, tldr for the folks who don’t know: what edda is asking about here is the issue of the Tanis site in North Dakota. The geology of the site may record the actual minutes to hours of events that occurred right after the asteroid impact that ended the Cretaceous Period (the KPg or KT extinction). In the last few days, accusations of falsified data related to the Tanis site have been leveled at a major figure involved with its description and excavation. That’s the Drama and it is…not good. We’ll hit that at the end.

Since I started yelling about it to edda and everyone else who’d sit still long enough to hear me thank you all for your patience I love you all, I’ve been reading as many papers as I can get my hands on related to the Tanis site and the extinction event in general. I’ve cited the most accessible-to-average-readers and key papers under the cut below. The story is...incredible.

The asteroid that caused the KPg extinction struck the earth off the Yucatán Peninsula, at the Chicxulub impact crater. Ten kilometers in diameter, leaving behind a crater a hundred and eighty kilometers across which is still intact today, the asteroid set off an instant apocalypse. Megatsunamis, firestorms, and earthquakes, and debris falling from the sky were followed by clouds of dust that dropped temperatures around the world. Oceans acidified and plants couldn’t photosynthesize. Evidence of this impact is found all over the world, from seafloors that fossilized with the ripples of tsunamis still intact to layers of charcoal and soot left behind by wildfires. (For a comprehensive review of all this, including a response to counterevidence, see the Kring 2007 paper specifically, that citation links directly to a PDF with no paywall.)

Most importantly, though, the impact left behind a clear, visible boundary line: a layer of iridium-rich clay found worldwide. That’s an element rare on earth, but not nearly as rare in extraterrestrial bodies. Above that layer, there are no non-avian dinosaurs. It marks the KPg extinction boundary. Wherever you find it, you know exactly what you’re dealing with.

At the Tanis site, this iridium layer is directly above a dramatic bone bed and a cluster of geological features that also align with other signs of the Chicxulub impact. The site is described in “A seismically induced onshore surge deposit at the KPg boundary, North Dakota” by DePalma et al. 2019; the citation I’ve included takes you directly to the article, open access. If you don’t feel like reading the entire article, here’s the most relevant piece from the abstract:

“Associated ejecta and a cap of iridium-rich impactite reveal that its emplacement coincided with the Chicxulub event. Acipenseriform fish, densely packed in the deposit, contain ejecta spherules in their gills and were buried by an inland-directed surge that inundated a deeply incised river channel before accretion of the fine-grained impactite. Although this deposit displays all of the physical characteristics of a tsunami runup, the timing (<1 hour postimpact) is instead consistent with the arrival of strong seismic waves from the magnitude Mw ∼10 to 11 earthquake generated by the Chicxulub impact, identifying a seismically coupled seiche inundation as the likely cause.” (DePalma et al., 2019)

In simpler terms: the site is located directly under the iridium layer and full of debris thrown up from an impact. Sturgeons and other fish, which are packed in a deep river channel, have tiny spheres of ejected glass in their gills and were buried by a surge of mud and water coming upstream in the river. The timing of it (determined by methods that are beyond my limited understanding as a highly enthusiastic amateur) indicates that the surge was triggered by massive earthquakes caused by the Chicxulub impact.

So we are almost completely certain at this point that this site is a record of the hours and minutes immediately following the asteroid impact. The current mess surrounds two papers released last year and this year, both of which have claimed to determine the exact season in which the asteroid hit. Please note that, although I’ve cited both papers for the sake of comprehensiveness, I would at this moment believe Melissa During’s claim that the discovery is hers and her paper from 2022 should be considered valid, not the DePalma paper from last year (which has been accused of falsified data to “scoop” the story before During could publish). The DOI links for both papers will take you to open access versions of the papers where you can read them in their entirety.

It was spring in the northern hemisphere on the day of the impact.

The bones of the sturgeons and other fish, when closely studied, reveal growth patterns consistent in all other relatives with seasonal dietary fluctuations. The growth records in the fossilized bones indicate that they were still in the middle of the springtime feeding season. The speed of their death froze the growth of their bones in time, preserving that moment to be seen millions of years later. No matter how this conflict surrounding the papers shakes out...it was spring.

Did you know that flowering plants evolved during the Cretaceous period? In North America, there were flowers of the same order that includes heather, phlox, and primroses. There were magnolias and buttercups. Even the ancestors of roses.

There were flowers blooming in the moment that the asteroid struck.

Alvarez, Luis W., Walter Alvarez, Frank Asaro, and Helen V. Michel. "Extraterrestrial cause for the Cretaceous-Tertiary extinction." Science 208, no. 4448 (1980): 1095-1108. http://www.jstor.org/stable/1683699

DePalma, Robert A., Anton A. Oleinik, Loren P. Gurche, David A. Burnham, Jeremy J. Klingler, Curtis J. McKinney, Frederick P. Cichocki et al. "Seasonal calibration of the end-cretaceous Chicxulub impact event." Scientific reports 11, no. 1 (2021): 1-9. https://doi.org/10.1038/s41598-021-03232-9

DePalma, Robert A., Jan Smit, David A. Burnham, Klaudia Kuiper, Phillip L. Manning, Anton Oleinik, Peter Larson et al. "A seismically induced onshore surge deposit at the KPg boundary, North Dakota." Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 116, no. 17 (2019): 8190-8199. https://doi.org/10.1073%2Fpnas.1817407116

During, Melanie AD, Jan Smit, Dennis FAE Voeten, Camille Berruyer, Paul Tafforeau, Sophie Sanchez, Koen HW Stein, Suzan JA Verdegaal-Warmerdam, and Jeroen HJL van der Lubbe. "The Mesozoic terminated in boreal spring." Nature 603, no. 7899 (2022): 91-94. https://doi.org/10.1038/s41586-022-04446-1

Friis, Else Marie, K. Raunsgaard Pedersen, and Peter R. Crane. "Cretaceous angiosperm flowers: innovation and evolution in plant reproduction." Palaeogeography, palaeoclimatology, palaeoecology 232, no. 2-4 (2006): 251-293. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.palaeo.2005.07.006

Henehan, Michael J., Andy Ridgwell, Ellen Thomas, Shuang Zhang, Laia Alegret, Daniela N. Schmidt, James WB Rae et al. "Rapid ocean acidification and protracted Earth system recovery followed the end-Cretaceous Chicxulub impact." Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 116, no. 45 (2019): 22500-22504. https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.1905989116

Hildebrand, Alan R., Glen T. Penfield, David A. Kring, Mark Pilkington, Antonio Camargo Z, Stein B. Jacobsen, and William V. Boynton. "Chicxulub crater: a possible Cretaceous/Tertiary boundary impact crater on the Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico." Geology 19, no. 9 (1991): 867-871. https://doi.org/10.1130/0091-7613(1991)019%3C0867:CCAPCT%3E2.3.CO;2

Kring, David A. “The Chicxulub impact event and its environmental consequences at the Cretaceous–Tertiary boundary.” Palaeogeography, Palaeoclimatology, Palaeoecology 255, no. 1-2 (2007): 4-21. http://www.ela-iet.com/EMD/Kring2007ChicxulubK-TReview.pdf

Nixon, Kevin C., and William L. Crepet. "Late Cretaceous fossil flowers of ericalean affinity." American Journal of Botany 80, no. 6 (1993): 616-623. https://doi.org/10.1002/j.1537-2197.1993.tb15230.x

Pope, Kevin O., Kevin H. Baines, Adriana C. Ocampo, and Boris A. Ivanov. "Energy, volatile production, and climatic effects of the Chicxulub Cretaceous/Tertiary impact." Journal of Geophysical Research: Planets 102, no. E9 (1997): 21645-21664. https://doi.org/10.1029/97JE01743

Schulte, Peter, J. A. N. Smit, Alexander Deutsch, Tobias Salge, Andrea Friese, and Kilian Beichel. "Tsunami backwash deposits with Chicxulub impact ejecta and dinosaur remains from the Cretaceous–Palaeogene boundary in the La Popa Basin, Mexico." Sedimentology 59, no. 3 (2012): 737-765. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1365-3091.2011.01274.x

Schulte, Peter, Laia Alegret, Ignacio Arenillas, José A. Arz, Penny J. Barton, Paul R. Bown, Timothy J. Bralower et al. "The Chicxulub asteroid impact and mass extinction at the Cretaceous-Paleogene boundary." Science 327, no. 5970 (2010): 1214-1218. https://doi.org/10.1126/science.1177265

Vajda, Vivi, J. Ian Raine, Christopher J. Hollis, and C. Percy Strong. "Global effects of the Chicxulub impact on terrestrial vegetation—review of the palynological record from New Zealand Cretaceous/Tertiary boundary." Cratering in marine environments and on ice (2004): 57-74. DOI: 10.1007/978-3-662-06423-8_4

[otakubimbo]

Hey! Can I request for an angst romance with the very first sentence prompt with Satoru? They break up but Satoru refuses to believe that it actually happened and that it was only a joke. Like, he is in denial about it.

Hi anon! You're my first official request so thank you! I hope I did this prompt justice for you. My heart hurts.

angsty romance prompt. "tell me it was a lie, tell me you're playing with me right now "

Warnings: None really, just angst and no happy ending, which yes is so unlike me but we ball! I didn't proof read cause it made me sad writing it.

“Tell me it was a lie. Tell me you’re playing with me right now!” Satoru’s voice was at a higher level than it should being at this café. The people around pretending not to be easy dropping on the conversation that you and the man across form you were having.

“Lower your voice, people are staring.” The hushed tone of your voice, attempting to not betray the facade you were putting on.  This wasn’t easy for you, breaking up with Satoru Gojo, if anything you were breaking your own heart.

“How do you expect me to react when my girlfriend brought me out to lunch to break up with me?!” His tone is harsh, in a way you have never heard before. You flinch at his abrasiveness, making him shrink back into his chair.

Satoru’s anger and disbelief confuse you. It was as if everyone saw the signs of this impending breakup but him. The relationship had been going downhill for some time now, how could he not see that? How could he not see what he was doing? How couldn’t he see what it was doing to you?

After a year and a half of dating, you told him, you told him you loved him and you meant it with every fiber of your soul. It had been six more months since then and he never said it back. You were understanding at first when he didn’t say it back, albeit hurt a little but you knew at least a little of his past and what he has gone through. You could understand that it may be hard for him to tell you he loved you, you knew he loved you because of the way he cared for you and that was enough.

Well, you thought it was enough. After your confession, Satoru didn’t immediately become distant, but it started with small things. He stopped texting you good morning and would only say good night. The small touches, the holding hands, and the comforting hugs became few and far between. Any time you brought it up, he would play it off like nothing was wrong, everything was fine. Then it became as if the two of you were barely even friends, it seemed he was always busy as if he never had time for you anymore. And it hurt, it hurt like hell and even then you kept pushing it off just hoping he would tell you what was going on behind those piercing blue eyes of his but he never did.

That’s what lead to today, the day of your 2 year anniversary. Truthfully, you hadn’t even planned on breaking up with him today but when you sat across from him in the same café that you had your first date at, his eyes never met yours. He didn’t hold your hand across the table, he didn’t kiss your forehead on his arrival, he wasn’t your Satoru.

You could feel the tears threatening to spill as you looked up at him, “Do you know what today is? Or why I asked you here”

His jaw tightened, “It’s Tuesday and I don’t know maybe because I’m your boyfriend and we go to this café a lot.”

Is this all a joke to you? Was he just a joke to you? He knows he hasn’t been the best boyfriend lately and that he’s been a bit distant but that wouldn’t make you break up with him. Would it? You were too kind, too patient, too pure for that, right?

“This is the café that we went to on our first date, two years ago.” You aren’t even facing him anymore when you say that, just reminiscing on a time when it felt as if you were just two kids in love. Satoru froze, not even realizing that he had forgotten. He had been trying so hard to keep you at an arm’s length after your confession that he had seemed to just push you away.  He didn’t even say anything as you turned to him, tears threatening to spill down your beautiful face at any single moment. What had he done?

“Do you even love me, Satoru?”

The question hung in the air, making his mouth go dry. He did, he loved you more than he should and that was the problem. His love for you scared him, you scared him. You didn’t know the power that you held over him; you made him weak. You were his weakness. But he was the strongest, he couldn’t afford a weakness, but he wasn’t strong enough to let you go either. Now here he was, unable to speak the words that have been written into his heart from the moment he saw you.

With a sad smile, you take his silence as your answer gathering your things and leaving you there. His heart shattered as he watched you leave out of the door, fading from his vision. Satoru’s worst fear came true, the strongest was defeated, the strongest was broken by you and it was all his own fault.

[daffi-990]

Seven(ish) Sentence Sunday ✍️

Tagged by @diazsdimples @giddyupbuck and @wikiangela. Thank you lovelies mwah 😘

Have a little something from LA Lonely -> this is after the fun and orgasms of Buck and Eddie’s hook up. Still don’t know if I’m going to go full spice 🌶️ or just do a quick little run down of things.

Prev snippet & mood board here

Buck expects him to start pulling his clothes on and to give him the whole “this was fun, but I gotta bounce” speel, but Eddie surprises him by climbing back into bed and nudging Buck to roll onto his side so Eddie can scoot up behind him and hold him.

Buck freezes for a moment because no one does this. They have their fun and then they leave. They don’t stay and they definitely don’t cuddle.

Eddie must feel him go tense because his hold loosens and he moves as if he’s about to pull away. “Is this okay?”

Buck grabs at the arms that are wrapped around him, stopping Eddie’s descent. “Y-yeah. It’s-it’s okay.” He pulls at Eddie’s arms and the man settles back behind him, burrowing his face into the juncture where Buck’s neck meets his shoulder as he shuffles closer.

Soft kisses are pressed into his skin and Buck is helpless but to relax back into Eddie, letting the comfort and warmth of whatever is happening wrap around him.

“Stay?” He whispers, not sure if Eddie can hear him but not being brave enough to say it any louder. He feels like he’s asking too much.

A kiss behind his ear. “Okay.”

No pressure tagging: @hippolotamus @puppyboybuckley @exhuastedpigeon @spotsandsocks @devirnis @wikiangela @hoodie-buck @honestlydarkprincess @homerforsure @monsterrae1 @missmagooglie @mellaithwen @nmcggg @lover-of-mine @ladydorian05 @loserdiaz @bekkachaos @wildlife4life @watchyourbuck @weewootruck @elvensorceress @eddiebabygirldiaz @evanbegins @rewritetheending @rainbow-nerdss @captain-hen @jeeyuns @jesuisici33 @glorious-spoon @fortheloveofbuddie @fiona-fififi @disasterbuckdiaz @thewolvesof1998 @try-set-me-on-fire @theotherbuckley @steadfastsaturnsrings @tizniz @athenagranted @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @spagheddiediaz @sunshinediaz and as always, anyone else who wants to share something -> consider this your tag ☺️

[likegemstone]

I was thinking about my story and I accidentally emotionally wrecked myself

[letteriwillneversend]

having parents that are nothing more than unfriendly strangers wearing familiar voices that say familiar things makes you wonder if there was ever any such thing as home.

it makes you wonder what it might be like to have a bad day and have someone you can call or talk to. what it might be like to have someone you can to for advice or comfort. what it might be like to have a shoulder or lap you can finally rest your head on. what it might be like to have a bowl of cut fruit that spells out unconditional love.

some days i find myself looking for home even when i don’t know what to look for.

[darasnotesapp]

[thewolvesof1998]

Seven Sentence Sunday

Tagged by @spotsandsocks @alyxmastershipper @wildlife4life @wikiangela @loserdiaz @disasterbuckdiaz @mangacat201

Here's part 3 of my heatwave fic, Part 1, Part 2 (by the way this is seven sentences 😂 I might need to work on sentence length)

His jaw doesn’t drop in shock but it’s a close thing, “What?” “I feel like we’ve been dancing around each other for months, if not years, and tell me if I’m reading this wrong, but I really want you to touch me and I think you want to touch me too,” Buck’s rambling now, like he does when he gets nervous, “I mean, I want to kiss you too, like a lot but, gods Eddie I can’t stop think about your hands, I just need you to touch me.” Eddie's hand is on Buck before he can really think it through, he’s pretty sure he aimed for his usual shoulder squeeze but his brain short circuit between deciding to move and reaching Buck and now his hand is on his peck and by god it takes everything in him not to squeeze.  Eddie can’t look away from his hand, lines of black ink peaking in between splayed fingers, heat is radiating off of Buck, his skin slick with sweat, mixing with coarse chest hair to create sensations that Eddie’s never experienced before, something he never knew he wanted to experience before Buck. His hand slides down until his fingers brush against Buck’s pink nipple, his breath catches, and Eddie’s gaze flickers up to Buck’s face, he’s biting his bottom lip so hard that he’s surely going to draw blood.  “Should I tell you how much I’ve wanted to touch you, how much I’ve wanted to get my mouth on you?” Buck moans, “Eds please.”

No pressure tagging: @try-set-me-on-fire @jesuisici33 @bekkachaos @buddierights @forthewolves @911-on-abc @hippolotamus @shitouttabuck @911onabc @exhuastedpigeon @eddiediaztho @your-catfish-friend @ladydorian05 @watchyourbuck @king-buckley @chaoticgremlinwholikescheese @fortheloveofbuddie @sammy-souffle @steadfastsaturnsrings @theotherluciferr @cowboy-buddie @eowon @rainbow-nerdss @nmcggg

[sexynetra]

“Look, I don’t know if you’re gay or straight or bi or what, but if you hate kissing me so much, why don’t you stop fucking kissing me?” - One second, Marcia was staring into Anetra’s uncertain gaze, fingers ghosting against Anetra’s thighs. The next, her eyes were fluttering closed in surprised relief as she felt Anetra’s mouth, warm and soft, against her own. It was just as good as she remembered. She cupped Anetra’s cheek, a breathy whine escaping as Anetra parted her lips, deepening the kiss. - Marcia started to open her mouth and closed it, twice. She was floundering, drowning trying to find a response, and Anetra was watching her, stone-faced. “I’m not gay,” Marcia repeated.

~~~~~~~~~~

HAPPY 7-ISH MONTHS SINCE CHAPTER 6 ITS FINALLY UP <33333 this was SUCH a labor of love and I hope that you love it just as much as I do <3 thank you all for being so patient with me and I hope that the insane length of this chapter makes up for the wait 😅

[syntax6]

Some Truest Truths about Publishing

Being a published author is a lifelong dream of mine, and many aspects of it are indeed awesome. I love telling stories and sharing them with the world. Seeing my books in a bookstore or a library will always be thrilling! Meeting new readers from all over the globe is huge fun. But there have been a bunch of “being a published author is bad for your mental health” threads lately, and I think part of why this is true is that people don’t understand how the industry works before they get into it. So, here are some things about how publishing functions that I did not know before I became part of the machine:

1. You can know your book’s likely trajectory at the time you sign the contract. The publisher decides how well your book will sell. Large publishers sell more books than mid-sized publishers, which sell more books than small- or micro-publishers. A large publisher doing minimal publicity for your book will probably still sell more copies of it than a small publisher, simply because they already have the machinery in place. But, if your large publisher does not offer you a large advance at the time of signing, they are not going to do much more than their basic-level publicity for your book. They are going to focus their efforts on books they paid a lot of money to acquire because they want to get that money back. So, if your large publisher is not offering you at least a quarter of a million dollars to acquire your book, they aren’t going to be gunning to make it a NY Times Bestseller.

2. Books are a hit-driven industry. Most books lose money so everyone is counting on the few bestsellers to finance the whole industry. This is why big names like Stephen King or Danielle Steele suck up huge amounts of the publicity budget. Publishers need their books to sell sell sell, which means reaching fans who only buy Stephen King and Danielle Steele books. These fans aren’t paying a lot of attention, so publishers need to get that “GO BUY NOW” bat signal into the sky to wake up these fans. They pull out all the advertising stops. This is why big-name authors eat up so much of the publicity budget despite being household names. Publishers need to reach those fans for each new book to ensure the book makes the $$$$ that the publishers are counting on.

3. Everyone who is in the industry is riding the same train. So when the large publishers decide which books to push (because they have paid a lot to acquire them and/or the author is already a household name), booksellers and librarians have to get on board too. Yes, librarians and independent booksellers can also promote smaller titles that they really love, and that’s GREAT, but they mostly have to march to the tune set by the large publishers. Bookstores are usually operating at razor-thin margins. They need to sell the books that people want to read. Which books do people want to read? The ones they have heard of! How did they hear about them? The big publishers spent the $ to advertise! See how it’s all connected? Libraries, too. They need to stock the titles that will rotate well; books people want to check out and read. Which ones will they stock? The ones that the large publishers are pushing, because these are the titles that people will ask for.

4. Almost nothing good happens to your book without your publisher paying for it. Often, even things that look like awards or editorial decisions involve money changing hands.

5. Because of points 1-4, the author can do very little to influence the sale of their book. Giants like Amazon or Barnes and Noble already know which books are going to be the lead titles because the publishers told them so. Outlets like the NYT know too. Libraries, indie bookstores...they all know the signs of big publisher investment. For example, if the publisher says they are going to print 250,000 copies of your book, then everyone knows the title is going to be pushed HARD. If they say they are publishing 10,000 copies, then the author has no hope of competing with the lead title. So, the author can’t, on their own, do anything to change the fate of their book. However, the author is held accountable when their book doesn’t sell, despite the fact that everyone in the industry does understand that publishers sell books, not authors.

6. Because of points 1-4, how well a book is written or how talented the author is has not much to do with how many copies the book sells. Often bestsellers are really great and the authors are extremely hardworking...but not always. And there are zillions of hugely talented, diligent authors whose books don’t sell well at all because a large publisher has never shone that kind of spotlight on them. To exist in an industry where talent and hard work don’t influence the results is maddening, and a big part of why authors go a little insane.

[denimnan]

being medically unwell and voicing out about it

if that is wrong then how do you expect the person to feel

instead you blame the person for having issues

but have you tried to put yourself in the position of that person

to know what the person is going through emotionally and mentally

the person does not find joy in how they feel

if you can’t sympathise with them

the least you can do is not say anything

sometimes saying nothing and just being there is enough

instead you do things to hurt the person even more

making them feel worse than the way they are already feeling

when they shut down and stop confiding in you or sharing things with you

again you blame them for having issue and for being secretive

so what are you wanting from the person at the end of the day

maybe you just feel the need to feel superior than them

or you find happiness at their pain

- N.R.K.

[thedcvilherself]

i miss this place and writing and my threads 😔

[thetomorrowshow]

glass and grey hoodies

empires superpowers au masterlist (not up to date)

mind the content warnings on this one, folks. in an altered mental state, jimmy attempts suicide several times in the first portion of the fic. the rest of it is an account of his time in the psych ward.

this story takes place between chapters 9 and 10 of ‘poisoned rats’.

cw: past abuse, suicide attempts, blood and injury, hospitals, flashbacks

~

It’s loud.

It’s loud, and his head hurts, and he doesn’t know where he is and he doesn’t like it.

He opens his eyes to see blurry white walls. Figures standing over him. The pinch of a needle in his arm. An ache that spreads from his neck all the way to the tips of his toes.

He’s back on the table, then.

He doesn’t remember what happened before now, but he knows what this means. If he’s back on the table, something bad happened. If he’s back here. . . .

He suddenly knows. They’re going to take it away.

He’d misbehaved enough that they’re going to take away whatever they put in him all that time ago, whatever it is that lets him control his powers and makes his life the least bit livable. And it’s his fault.

He knows what he has to do, then. He can’t go back to that.

The scientists know he’s awake, he thinks, but either they don’t care or they want him awake, because no one reacts to him looking around, taking stock of things the best he can.

There’s some sort of surgical instrument on a rolling table near his left arm. Something sharp. Something that, if he can sit up quickly, he can reach.

He does a little test of his stomach muscles, tensing them and moving as if to sit up. Painful, but certainly doable.

He has to do it now, then. Before it’s too late.

He sits up, and maybe it’s a bit slower than it should be, because there’s a rubber glove of a hand pressing into his shoulder, loud words that he doesn’t understand—but he isn’t slow at all when he grabs the sharp tool and plunges it into his gut.

-

He wakes up again later, still bleary and with a stabbing pain in his lower stomach.

Funny, he thinks. He did stab himself, after all.

The problem is, however, that he survived. He didn’t mean to survive. He meant to be completely out of this world, away from the lab, away from the scientists, away from his master and all the blood he’s spilt.

Luckily, the room is empty. He’s sure it won’t be soon, not now that he’s conscious.

It’s not easy for him to sit up. It’s even more difficult for him to stand, going all lightheaded and woozy from pain.

So, pretty much the norm.

There’s scissors on the counter that lines the right side of the room, no other potentially dangerous items in sight. He glances toward the clear glass sliding door. The curtain in front of it is pulled back, and anyone walking by could see him.

He hobbles to the counter, stuck by a tugging in his right arm that he realizes is because it’s hooked up to some machine of some sort. It luckily has wheels, so he pulls it along a few steps until he can reach the scissors.

His hand is firm when he starts slashing the blades across his wrists.

-

He wakes up restrained after they knock him out again.

He doesn’t like that at all.

Restrained means velcro around his wrists, holding him to the hospital bed. Restrained means quiet sobs as he pulls against them. Restrained means wishing over and over that he hadn’t failed, because now he won’t have another opportunity.

However, they don’t really . . . do much to him. Someone in scrubs comes by every so often, asks him a bunch of questions that he doesn’t care to listen to, and writes things on a dry erase board on the wall. A man sits beside him, also in scrubs, scrolling through his phone and lazily eating a bag of chips.

And that’s it, for a while. He even stops crying out of confusion, just lies there and stares at the ceiling. He’s good at that.

He realizes, eventually, that he’s wearing something like a big t-shirt, but the back feels uncomfortably open. Maybe some sort of sheet with sleeves? It’s got little green clovers as a pattern, and he stares at it for far too long, knowing he hasn’t seen anything like it in all his time here.

The next thing he realizes is that he isn’t wearing a mask. That almost gets him crying again, but he’s overwhelmed by hopelessness before he can even start. What’s the point? Really, he doesn’t belong to himself, doesn’t exactly have a life of his own. This was the natural next step. It’s not like he had any sort of ownership over the mask.

The man beside him talks sometimes, but he’s too out of it to understand. He’s too out of it to process much, really.

He just lies there, drifting in and out of consciousness, dreading the moment the pain will truly start.

It’s late, he thinks, when he feels like his head has finally cleared a little bit—the man beside him is now a sleepy woman, and the lights in the room are dimmed, curtains drawn.

If he does this right, he might get another chance.

It takes a while to get any sort of adrenaline built up, but once he has some sort of spark going, he aims it at the restraint on his left arm. After a moment, the plastic part of the velcro snaps and his hand is free.

The woman looks up at the noise so he doesn’t move, leaving his hand in the velcro as if nothing has changed. After a moment, she returns to the book she’s reading.

The dressings on his right arm should be easy to get through—it’s the type with the cloth tape, the stuff that rips off quick. And underneath is a thin tube, which presumably has a hidden needle.

His next moves are fast. He pulls his hand free of the velcro, tears off the dressing, and yanks out the IV line, the machine suddenly beeping very loudly. He jabs it back into his arm—no needle. Where’d the needle go? Is it in his arm?

There’s got to be another needle—he checks the rolling table still beside him, but of course they haven’t left any sharp items out, they’re learning—

And then his left arm is being pulled back down and held there while another woman rushes into the room.

-

“You’re at the E. James Hospital in Empires City,” a strange woman tells him, and he doesn’t think he can be blamed if he doesn’t believe her. She waits a moment longer, then sighs and writes something on the whiteboard.

When she moves, he can see it. Unresponsive, she’s written.

“You may be feeling a little funny for a while,” she continues. “We’ve got you on some anti-anxiety medication, and it takes a little bit to adjust. Does that make sense?”

Well, it explains how numb he feels. He stares at her, trying to understand her place here.

“We’ll send in someone from psych to evaluate you later on today, but until then, Anthony is going to be here with you. Anthony, could you wave?”

A man—the same man from earlier—waves from the chair in the corner. He doesn’t say anything.

The woman says some more stuff, but he doesn’t take it in. He’s not even entirely sure that he’s conscious.

All he knows is that if he tries, he can shatter that glass canister of cotton balls on the counter. And some of the glass shards are likely to be sharp.

-

The person from psych is nice enough. She introduces herself, but he doesn’t catch the name. She asks him how he feels. She unstraps his left arm when he doesn’t answer and asks him to point at the scale of one-to-ten faces paper that she pulls out of a binder.

He points at the seven, the face that’s orange and frowning. She then shows him a poster that has emotions written on it, attached to images of kids acting out those emotions. She asks him to point to the emotions he feels right now.

This is the first moment when he starts to wonder if maybe he isn’t in the lab. Maybe the woman from earlier wasn’t lying.

The emotions on the poster aren’t complex enough to describe how he feels, but he eventually points at ‘confused’.

He’s not entirely sure what she says after that—he has vague flashes of her asking him to write something, and him not even looking at her (pets can’t write, who does she think she is?) before she leaves, writing a string of numbers on the whiteboard, then using a magnet to pin a list there.

He’s alone, if only for a moment.

She hadn’t left his arm unstrapped—she’s not stupid—but he can break the straps without issue. One splits down the middle, one just cracks enough for him to tear it the rest of the way.

He’s more steady than he was last time. And somewhere, deep down, he knows that they won’t give him the opportunity again. They want him alive.

This is his last chance.

It takes one touch for the glass canister on the counter to shatter. He picks up the largest shard, pauses as he aims it first at his wrist, then at the inside of his elbow as the bandages at his wrist deter him.

There’s an artery in the thigh, isn’t there? And his thigh is practically bare, due to the shirt-thing he’s wearing.

Wait. Is he . . . is this a hospital gown?

He stabs the glass into his thigh. It doesn’t go as deep as he would’ve liked, but it hurts like the devil, breaking through the numb state of his mind.

For a moment, he panics. That’s a lot of blood spilling out over his fingers, his grip on the glass slippery. He doesn’t want to die, does he?

But he has to get out. He can’t live in this place any longer. He can’t take it, can’t be a pet for the rest of his life, can’t kill person after person at the whim of a maniac—

He digs the glass in further, and feels his head go fuzzy before his vision blacks out and he crumples to the floor.

-

For a long time, life passes from blur to blur. He’s aware of what’s going on, he knows he is. He recognizes that the drugs are upped, that he’s a high-risk case and there’s always someone at his side. He hears when they tell him that his wounds are healing well and he’s gained a bit of weight, so they’re sending him on a seventy-two hour hold to the psych ward. They tell him he’ll be safer there.

He floats by all these blurry moments, crying one moment and unresponsive the next. The day they put him in a wheelchair and take him away is a day where he can barely feel anything, thoughts slower than molasses crawling down the side of a bottle.

When he arrives, they don’t give him much. A room. With a roommate. Some clothes.

He doesn’t really process any of it. He just lies on the bed and stares at the ceiling. He takes things that are offered to him—pills, food, water. When a voice tells him to shower, he obediently gets up and limps to the shower. When a voice tells him to go somewhere, he follows them and sits in that place until he’s led back to his room.

He’s not sure how long he’s there before things really start to register, but it starts with his roommate’s voice.

“Are you ever gonna stop being a zombie? When they told me you were a suicide risk, I thought you’d be way more exciting.”

He blinks.

“What?” he croaks, because that really is a weird thing to regain awareness to. His roommate laughs, and it’s a laugh that he recognizes as somewhat sad.

“Yeah, it’s okay, half the people here act real weird for the first couple of days on the meds. That’s what my last roommate told me, anyway. I’ve only been here for a week.”

He doesn’t remember much. But he knows now, with a strange clarity, that the horrible detached memories of that place from before are not of the lab. This may all be a dream, but he hasn’t been taken back to that place.

Taken back? When did he leave?

-

They call him TJ, for some reason. Drugged-up him had been happy to accept that, not really sure that there was another option.

But he’s TJ now, and that’s okay.

Josh (his therapist, who is actually really nice) explains to him, in as little detail as possible, what happened when it becomes clear that he’s confused.

Josh tells him that they know he’s the Canary, that he was rescued by a group of heroes and that Xornoth is dead.

Maybe it’s still the drugs working, but he doesn’t feel much more than a small sense of vindication at learning that. Not that he believes it at first, of course, but Josh explains at length the various pieces of evidence for him actually being here.

He doesn’t really believe that either, not until the next day, when he is suddenly vividly eating green beans in a common room, a dead-eyed woman eating the same beside him.

And Jimmy’s properly here, and he knows he’s here, and he wants to cry from the relief of it. Because that means it had all been real, and Xornoth’s dead, and he’s out.

He’s been rescued. He’s alive.

Maybe he does cry, a little. No one judges him.

Josh is proud of him for having that breakthrough. Unfortunately (or fortunately, according to Josh, despite their emotional exhaustion), that breakthrough is just the first in a line of many.

It feels wrong to talk. He hasn’t willingly spoken in close to a year, and it’s definitely taking some getting used to—but it’s really the easiest of his issues. He still thinks of himself as a pet, he still expects punishment at the slightest provocation, he struggles to remember to walk instead of crawl and sit on chairs—and each of those come with a plethora of their own issues, such as the hour he spent sitting at the feet of a nurse, the closest figure of authority he could find.

He knows he locked away a part of himself, compartmentalized his brain until he could truly be subservient for his master. But reintegration is difficult, and scary, and Josh is his only guide.

“I know I’m in here,” he tells Josh one day, his quiet, raspy voice not an adequate instrument for conveying just how frustrated he feels. He picks a bit at his sweatpants, not quite daring to look Josh in the eye. “I can remember. I know I’m different. Supposed to be different.”

“That’s a very normal feeling for those who have been under the influence of a telepath for a long time,” Josh says gently, and Jimmy just . . . doesn’t bring up that he wasn’t. He knows it’s lying, and he knows it’s wrong, but someone had given him that cover story and it somehow kept him from going to jail, so he’s keeping it.

“Is there anything I can do for you right now?” asks Josh not ten minutes later, when it becomes clear that Jimmy isn’t going to say anything else.

And there is something he wants, actually. The only way to find out is by asking, and he knows logically that Josh isn’t going to hurt him for such a request, but he can’t shake the fear.

“Long sleeves?” he whispers eventually, and he doesn’t miss the way Josh’s eyes fall to the word scarred on his left arm.

“We can do that,” Josh says. “That shouldn’t be a problem. I actually saw a nice hoodie the other day while out shopping, so I can pick that up on my way home tonight. They’ll take out the drawstring, if that’s all good. Or do you want, like, a long-sleeved shirt?”

“Hoodie,” Jimmy says, not wanting to cause more of an inconvenience.

The next day, he’s got a grey hoodie, a little large (but everything hangs loose on him) and without drawstrings.

He wears it every day.

-

Jimmy knows he’s getting better, even if it’s frustratingly slow. Josh helps him map out his progress one day, reminding him that he went from nearly vegetative to actually asking for what he wants.

Sure, he doesn’t really eat the way they want him to (he’s always got one of those terribly chalky protein shakes in hand now), but he’s trying. He wants to eat more, and he always tries to get at least a bite down at every meal (they’re too frequent, too regular, he never gets to eat that much there must be a catch).

And of course, all of his other problems that he hates to get into. Problems that have him changing bandages around his wrists and stomach and thigh. Problems that leave him crying on the floor at random times, mourning pieces of himself that he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get back.

But, like Josh says, he’s getting better. He’s really starting to think for himself again.

Until it all seems to reverse.

One day, he’s fine. He talks about a happy memory (as few as they are) with Josh. He’s brave enough for the first time to actually venture out into the common room, play a game of Battleship with his roommate Peter. He actually considers joining the group therapy session when it rolls around. He eats half his meal at dinner that night. He takes his evening pills without complaint and sleeps through some of the nightly checks.

The next day, everything is wrong.

The next day, Jimmy collapses on his cell—bedroom—on the floor of the place where he sleeps, certain that there are people surrounding him and grabbing at his clothes and pulling on his hair and he thought he was safe, they told him he was safe—

And then he’s back, Peter shaking him and calling for help.

It keeps happening after that. He can’t go more than an hour or so without believing he’s back there, without being strapped to a table or kicked by a heavy boot or having knives thrown at him. Each time he comes back to reality, he’s more exhausted and scared than before.

Josh calls them flashbacks, and as soon as Jimmy hears the word he knows it’s right. He has one during therapy (he’s so hungry, he was left here for hours with no one and nothing and it’s a test, he knows it’s a test), and when he comes to, he’s laid out on the couch with Josh speaking quiet words of reassurance.

“Sorry,” he mutters roughly, and Josh just shrugs and gives him a list of grounding activities, and breathing exercises for homework (not that he has a home to take it to).

It doesn’t work, though. It should work, and it doesn’t, because half the people here dress like they’re from the lab. The whole place smells like a hospital, sterile and awful. He’s alone—Peter had gone home that day. It’s just him, in a white room, and he’s fine by himself, he’s always been by himself, but he can’t help but think that maybe, if his caretakers had put a bit of thought into it, they wouldn’t have left him on his own. Not that he’s going to try again—he wants to be here, to some extent, he thinks—but he’s been alone for so very long and he can’t control what he does while in a flashback.

He tells that to Josh—Peter had apparently been here for a longer period of time than expected, struggling to handle an eating disorder, but had finally been deemed well enough to return to his life (with constant check-ins and therapy appointments). And while that was  all good for him, there don’t seem to be any other viable roommates at the moment—those safe to share already have roommates, but Josh assures him that he’s first on the list for either a new admittance or a leftover patient when their roommate leaves.

Jimmy has another flashback that session, one of a noose around his throat that he is being forced to tighten. He doesn’t know where he is afterwards, or what’s going on, and a smiling man with dark hair who smells funny leads him to a bed and gives him a pill to swallow. Jimmy doesn’t care if it’s going to kill him. He swallows it, and falls asleep shortly after.

The days go on like that. Jimmy wakes up, struggles through a day lived half in the past, at some point panics badly enough that he has to be drugged to sleep, and so on. His eating habits slowly go downhill, only managing half of the daily protein shake that he’d always pushed to finish before.

And he’s really, genuinely trying—on days when he can find his voice, he talks in therapy. He starts attending group therapy, even if he only listens. He sits in the common room and watches TV with other patients as often as he can drag himself there. He tries to eat every meal, tries to talk to other people, tries to get better.

It’s those vile flashbacks throwing a wrench in everything, of course. One day during therapy, Josh theorizes that the flashbacks are so frequent and so awful due to a constant trigger, and when Jimmy wryly points out that he has a lot of trauma around medical situations, Josh grimaces and tells him to keep a trigger journal.

Which only serves to prove what Jimmy had suggested. His most common trigger is the smell of rubbing alcohol or hand sanitizer, as far as he can tell. And right after that is the sound of someone snapping on a pair of rubber gloves. Things aren’t looking all that hopeful until one day in therapy, when Josh mentions a very familiar name.

Jimmy’s drawing during the conversation, little squiggles and spirals around various words—emotions, mostly. It’s something that Josh had introduced fairly early on, a place for him to identify his emotions without getting too far in his head trying to think about them. Here, he can just write them down and move on with the knowledge that what Josh just said makes him feel anxious, or sad, or angry. And then, Josh can ask why that statement made him angry, and it’s easier to explain with a marker doodling in his hand.

“Now, TJ, I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but Major made arrangements for you to be here.”

That draws Jimmy up short. His marker point bleeds into the paper as he looks up, forces himself to speak. “Um—but, the hospital—with the, uh, the hold—”

“Right, but Major had been in brief contact with them—along with some other important people, I’m sure—to make sure you got the help you needed. He offered to take care of any bills, I think.”

Jimmy bites his lip, jots down a quick ‘anxious’.

“He wanted to make it clear that you don’t owe him anything,” Josh says, clearly noticing what Jimmy’s written. “And I know that for a fact—I talked with him yesterday. I asked if he would meet with you, and he said yes.”

And if that doesn’t send his blood pressure through the roof.

What on earth does Major want with him now? To make sure he’s mentally okay before sending him to prison?

Not that that’s turning out very well for him so far.

“I think meeting with Major might help you get a proper goal,” Josh hints, and Jimmy frowns. This whole time, Josh has been on him about getting a goal. Doesn’t he realize that Jimmy hadn’t expected to survive? Doesn’t he realize that Jimmy was stuck with no future but the one that Xornoth had planned for him, that he’d been willing to kill himself to escape it and it’s a little difficult to regain his footing after that?

“It’s up to you, but I think talking with Major will help a lot. I think he’ll be able to open up some opportunities for you.”

Well. It’s not like he has much else to do, does he?

[traumatic-wildrose]

Your needs came first

Put your happiness above my own

The emotional support you craved

A confidante, your friend

But that wasn't my role

Forever indebted to you

For the food, the clothes, the roof over my head

So I became who you needed

Donned a mask to hide my feelings

In order to heal your mental scars

But that wasn't my role

You never accepted your pain

Never learned unconditional love

Instead you forged me into something I'm not

Forced me to grow up too soon

I became the parent

Because you weren't equipped for the task

I never asked for this role

[princessmacabre]

day 56 days of productivity

been too busy and tired too update each day…

edited and uploaded two new videos

continued watching the mandatory viewings for my module (‚Angels in Ameica‘) which made my current depression even worse because the themes explored are so dark and gruesome

had some actual fun shooting new footage for my video(s)

had a tearful phone call with my maman

doing my daily French practice

and as if depression isn’t enough, I am so damn sleep deprived because of the sleeping terror my father is doing to me, I am constantly on the edge of crying and facing some major life decisions while also reflecting on my current behaviour towards the people that are important to me, my mistakes and all and I just wish I was able to call out for help when I need it but I dont want to be a burden to anyone somI am just being toxic af towards myself. Sounds great doesn’t it? And I have no f king idea what do to

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

No would believe Eddie if he told them that you are a softie--like the biggest one around. You love it when he runs a steady stroke over the apple of your cheek and presses kisses into your forehead and temples. You love it when Eddie tells you what you're having for dinner. You love it when you're curled up in bed and Eddie reads to you.

You are soft. But only around Eddie.

It was a slow process--to see it fully, the way you liked requinlishing some of the control to Eddie.

Eddie only started putting something together after one particularly rough shift at the hospital for you.

You came home and you slid down the front door, head buried in your head. It shocked Eddie a little to see you not even get a fully step into the house before crumbling. But it did sort of make sense. Your job demanded a lot. You were holding life and death at all turns in the hospital. You had to have your head on straight. You had to sometimes comfort families when the news was bad. You had to walk to your next patient like nothing had happened. You were always on. You had to be.

But that day--the day that Eddie started to realize that you were strong and put together because nearly the other facets of your life demanded it, but that you really wanted someone else to take over for you in specific spheres of your home life--changed nearly everything.

Eddie tried his best to console you, settling onto the floor next to you and rubbing a hand over your back as you sobbed. He kept asking what he could do, what you wanted from him, how he could help. All you get out was 'Off, I want it off.'

It didn't make sense to Eddie. He couldn't fathom what you wanted off. But after twenty minutes of you sobbing and curled into his arms, he just decided to put his foot down. He half carried you to the bathroom, got the water started, and started to strip you of your scrubs.

You didn't stop him. Not even after he added the bubbles that you liked. Eddie got you into the tub, leaning over the side of it to help you clean yourself off from the day. There were few words. Only Eddie's soft voice asking you to lift your arm so he could scrub your underarms or a warning that he was going to wash your pelvis. Eddie fixed dinner--though it was breakfast for dinner one of the few things Eddie could fix without burning a pot--and he tucked you into bed. The only thing you could muster in all of this was a soft thank you. You said it with a tiny smile and though your face still wore of the shadow of the day, a hollowness to your eyes, the smile was bright. You meant it and Eddie had gotten something right--even if he didn't know what it was exactly.

Again--this was only the start. The light bulb being screwed into place.

Then things started to add up.

It's not that you like being bossed around--heaven forbid Eddie try and tell you to go get your car's oil changed or the tires rotated or to not buy a specific item of clothing because you would go right in the opposite direction. However, you liked not having to think about certain things--you liked when Eddie started the grocery list or even just took care of it himself. You liked it when Eddie took your car for you for tune ups. You liked it when he'd have your favorite pajamas out on the bathroom counter after a twelve hour shift and he was fussing over the rosisteerre he was trying to get right.

You liked turning your brain off at home.

And no one, absolutely fucking no one, would believe any of this.

Because in public, you still corrected when Eddie's order was wrong for him, when he was indecisive about what to get--food, drink, clothes wise--you always had an answer. When Eddie couldn't get the words right on his tongue, you had them. When you walked the streets, you still wore the practiced, but albeit still aided by genetics, pout. You still had it together.

Like the time you and Eddie were looking at new mugs and a lost child wandered your way, Eddie froze up--trying to find anyone else that would be better equipped to help. Yet, you swooped in. You got to the kid's level asking gently for his name and offering yours when the kid didn't answer. You asked the little boy to describe his parent, or who he had come in with, and you carried him on your shoulders so he could see above the shelves. You got the kid reunited safely with his father. Eddie would've never been able to do that. But you could.

Even strangers seemed to gravitate towards you--though you tried your best to repel them--they'd strike up conversations and you were always polite but firm as you exited those conversations. You had an air about you that said you had your shit together. And you did--you always did.

But you didn't always want to have it together. You want someone else to be there for you--not to ask you to do something, but to do it for you so it was one less thing on your mental list. You liked turning your brain off.

Like now--he can see it. The look behind your eyes where the light is dimmed. Your eyes look a hollow. Your face looks a little dull.

"Gimme," Eddie states, hand stretched out. It's metaphorical. There's nothing to actually give Eddie. But you know what he means--you can let it go. You can drop your shoulders and you press your forehead into his shoulder. "I got you," he whispers, letting you have just a moment to take him in.

He doesn't let you linger long. He's gentle as he slings one of your arms over his shoulder and walks you to the bathroom. He closes the toilet lid and sets you down. Your shoes go first, socks with them. The tub starts to fill and you can get your scrubs off.

It's silent, but Eddie gets the water just right and helps you down into the tub. "I'll be right back--just relax, okay?"

You nod, meekly, as the bubbles fall over your chest. He exits the bathroom and then returns a moment later, a book in his hand. "We can chat or I can read. Those are the only two options you've got to worry about." Eddie holds up the book, The Princess Bride.

You shut your eyes just for a moment. You don't really want to have a choice.

"Hey, look at me," Eddie's voice sounds closer now. When you turn your head and crack open an eye, Eddie's kneeling next to the tub. "Last thing for today, promise."

The soft exhales ghost of your skin of Eddie's breath. The sound of his voice still rattles around in your brain. Promise. "Book, please," you whisper.

Eddie nods, pulling himself up onto the closed lit. "Close your eyes. Sit back. We're going to be in here until you literally shrivel up into a prune."

"Sounds lovely," you chuckle and do as directed. Eddie's voice--in all the accents and variations that he slips into easily, bounce around in your skull. You can feel the way the octaves drop in his throat or raise. You can imagine the dramatic hand gestures as Eddie switches his hold between his hands to emphasize certain characters, or pieces of dialogue and exposition.

You don't even have to care about the story--you don't think you've made it through one full novel without missing half the middle because you check out--and Eddie doesn't care if you care. He doesn't care if you want to listen. He knows that you need it. You need the sound of his voice. You need this not to be a choice all the time.

So Eddie's slowly worked through his tattered copies and he thinks maybe soon he should invest in a library card so he could check out a few more books in a vein you like more. But until his stack is thinned some more, he just picks one from the top of the unread pile.

It's like magic. After you do help with dinner--though Eddie declared it a left over day--you rest your head in his lap and he keeps you covered in the blanket you two keep on the couch, you are melting into his touch. "We gotta go to bed earlier tonight, yeah? Tomorrow we both have early shifts," Eddie warns as another commercial break interrupts the rerun you two are watching.

"Okay."

It's all you say. It's so soft as it leaves your throat it nearly melts Eddie's inside. He strokes the apple of your cheek with his thumb--the rings on his other fingers pressing softly along your jaw. You return the gesture with a kiss to his knee over the flannel pajama pants.

If only anyone would believe how much of a softie you could actually be.

[morverenmaybewrites]

Writing this one shot is taking so much from me that they're going to find me lying face-down on my keyboard, stone-cold and dead.

I am exhausted.