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mangoisms · 10 months

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circle k (back to you)

summary: in which you're just the graveyard shift employee at circle k bombarded by vigilantes.

━ chapter one: on my way to circle k

━ pairing: tim drake x f!reader

━ word count: 4.3k

━ warnings: none

━ masterlist

The Slurpee machine is broken again.

It isn’t that big of an issue, not particularly world-ending, no, especially since you get regularly held at gunpoint (or knifepoint) and occasionally used as a hostage.

But for you, working the night shift from eleven PM to seven AM, you kind of need the sugar boost. The Slurpees are easier on your stomach than the coffee is. Even if they do stain your mouth.

You sigh, continuing to stare at the machine; it whirs and sputters strangely and you set aside the cup to shut it off. You’ll also need to file the paperwork for it to be fixed. That seriously blows.

You get it unplugged just as the gust of wind hits.

You stumble. Shelves groan in protest. Several rows of granola bars and trail mix are sent flying.

Oh, great, who is it now—

You hear your name in a question, from a very familiar voice.

You spit out a mouthful of your hair. “Flash?”

Sure enough, in the flesh, the Flash grins at you, blue lightning fading from his body. He spreads his arms as he exclaims your name again.

In a blink, he is there, arms wrapping around you, lifting you off the ground as he squeezes the life out of you. Another blink and you’re on the ground, looking at him, his hand on your shoulder.

“Look at you, kid. It’s good to see you. I can’t believe you’re still working here.”

A stupid grin forms on your lips. “It’s not the same here without you eating up our inventory.”

He laughs. “I bet!”

You shake your head, fixing your hair and your shirt. Flash notices the state of the granola bars and trail mix, sends you an apologetic smile, and in the next blink, they are back on the shelves, neatly arranged.

“So, what brings you here? If you can answer that.”

He waves a hand, flitting around, emptying the sausage grill and making himself several hot dogs.

“One of the rogues got a little, shall we say, ambitious and wanted to try his luck here. Just trying to snatch him up before Batman finds out.”

“Let me guess—Trickster?”

He points a hot dog loaded with mustard and ketchup at you. “Bingo.”

“It’s dripping.”

“Aw, shit.” He shoves the rest of the hot dog in his mouth, grabs a napkin, and starts dabbing at the spot of mustard on his suit.

You watch him, amused, but also morbidly fascinated as usual at seeing him eat so much. When he finishes the hot dogs, he goes for the pizza. It makes sense when you think about it, that a guy who can run faster than the speed of light should need to eat so much, but it’s been a while since you’ve had the pleasure of watching him refuel. Six months, actually, since you returned from Keystone City.

You scratch your head. “I’m not sure why Trickster would want to come here. Batman, I think, is a worse punishment than you—”

“Agree, even if that’s also a little insulting to me.”

“Oh, you know what I mean. You’re avoiding him, aren’t you?”

Flash nods. “This is true. Carry on.”

“Well… Gotham already has a joke-themed guy. I don’t think Joker is going to take too kindly to someone encroaching on that. Unless he’s back in Arkham. Though he might’ve escaped again…”

“Y’see, that’s what I thought. It’s gonna sound bad, too, but I’m kinda hoping those two take care of each other, then I can get Trickster back to Iron Heights without any issues. But—”

You crack a smile, guessing his next words immediately. “When is it ever that easy?”

You had once believed the Flash to be just about infallible. After all, he is the Flash. This is the guy who, like you said, can run faster than the speed of light. He can canvas a city in under a minute. That’s how he takes care of Central City and Keystone City. (Well, the addition of the other Flash and Kid Flash probably help, too, but you know.)

But it’s not that easy. It’s why, you think, Metropolis has issues, even when they have Superman.

No rest for the wicked and all.

“Well, it’s still good to see you,” you say, a tad more hesitantly this time. Unsure if you can say that.

Flash looks back at you, sending you a warm smile. “It’s good to see you, too. How’s school?”

“No classes now. Financial aid doesn’t cover the summer, so.”

He frowns. “You’re still on track to graduate next year, though, right?”

You pause, surprised he remembered you saying that. “Yeah, yeah, I am.”

Flash nods, worries assuaged, then his gaze strays to the Slurpee machine, its lights turned off. “Aw, it’s not working?”

“Not today, sorry.”

He purses his lips, head tilting as he looks at the counter where the machine and your abandoned cup are.

“Wait a second,” he says, then the food that was in his hands is on the counter and he’s gone with arcs of blue lightning following him, a tingly feeling spreading through your fingertips and toes, like when you used to be a kid and dragged your hands across those old TV screens, feeling the static.

True to his word, in the next second, he is in front of you, two Slurpees in hand. One blue raspberry and another cherry.

You grin as he proudly presents the blue raspberry Slurpee to you.

“Thanks.”

He winks. “My pleasure.”

He collects his food again then gestures to the front with his head. Sipping at the ice-cold Slurpee, you follow him, sliding behind the counter.

“Time to head off?” you guess, ringing up the food he already ate, then the rest of the stuff.

He slips out a few bills from a hidden pocket at his hip. “Yeah, I need to go before—”

“Flash!” The door opens roughly. You balk as you see who it is. “Seriously? You can’t just run off. You’re just as bad as Impulse sometimes, I swear.”

Red Robin stands there, hands on his hips, scowling, doing a good impression of a teacher scolding a student, which is really weird for you, since you’ve always held a good dose of fear and respect for the Bats and this doesn’t really… go on par with that. And also, you’re pretty sure Flash is older than him.

Flash frowns. “Now that’s seriously uncalled for. I’m much better than he is. We were done talking, weren’t we? You’d call me if you found anything and it’s not like it would take me time to get there, would it?”

Red Robin doesn’t respond to that, mostly because he’s looking at you now. You’ve never seen him up close — any of them up close. Black fair falls sharply over his forehead, a black domino mask hiding his eyes. Not like a normal one; this one allows for more coverage under his eyes, going down to his nose, the end of which curves in a way reminiscent of a bird. But under the bright fluorescents of Circle K, everything else is easy to make out. Pale skin, a sharp jaw, a soft-looking mouth.

Great. He’s hot. And something else… something that niggles at you. Familiar in a way that bothers you because you’ve never seen him in person. Not like this.

You swallow nervously, giving him a half-hearted wave. The action jars him and he looks away from you quickly.

“Hey, don’t be mean to her,” Flash chides. “Seriously. Look at her. You’ve made her nervous.”

“Flash.”

He shoots you a troublesome grin. “Nah, don’t worry about him, kid. He’s harmless.”

“Flash,” Red Robin hisses out, his voice sounding stranger than before, modulated, in a way.

You compose yourself, giving Flash a look. “You know better than that. Perception means everything.”

“That is true,” he says. “But believe me. If fear worked as well as they’d like it to, Gotham would be the safest city in the country.”

A long-suffering sigh. Red Robin is turned away now and by the movement of his arm, pinching the bridge of his nose, exasperated.

“Hey, I’m not wrong,” he says to him, even despite you silently waving for him to drop it. “Look, fear is fine and all. But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with nurturing relationships with the people you protect. That’s what I did with you, isn’t it, kid?”

“Yeah, but I’m also not, you know, from there…”

He collects his change. “Which is why it’s even more embarrassing that these guys make you nervous and I don’t.”

Red Robin huffs.

Flash shrugs, smirking. “Just food for thought. I’ll see you around, yeah, kiddo? Gotta get going before this guy gets annoyed enough to just tell Batman about me and then I’ll really have problems.”

Then he’s gone, blue lightning arcing in his wake. Red Robin sighs again and leaves without a word or backward glance.

You stand there for a minute, unsure if that really happened. But the signature Slurpee cup of blue raspberry, already sweating because the June heat in Gotham is unbearable and the AC is not up to task, assures you very much that that did just happen.

A little unsteady, you take a seat on the stool, shaking your head and dragging the cup to you.

At least you got to see Flash again.

You don’t see him again, which is what you expected.

What you don’t expect is the appearance of Red Robin the next night.

You’ve grown up in Gotham City. Like anyone else, you have a healthy dose of fear and respect for the vigilantes that prowl the shadows. You also, unlike Vicki Vale or any journalist or obsessive conspiracy theorist, have absolutely zero interest in interacting with them.

Usually, interacting with them means you are in grave danger.

(You had to unlearn some of that during your brief tenure in Keystone City; the Flash was a little bit different from them. Maybe more than a little bit…)

So, when Red Robin shows up at Circle K at half past one in the morning, you are… a tad wary.

It doesn’t help that he seems awkwardly frozen, too, as your voice catches in the middle of your perfunctory Hi, welcome in as you realize who it is.

For a minute, it is painfully, painfully quiet.

“Is there something—”

“Do you have any—”

You both stop. You purse your lips. Red Robin is… blushing a little bit? Holy shit.

“Go ahead,” he says, clearing his throat after. His voice still sounds off like yesterday—modulated.

You grimace. “Sorry, I was just asking if there was something going on? Should I lock down the shop or hide or something?”

He looks briefly confused. “No? I mean, no… Everything is fine. I was just wondering if you guys had any, uh—” he seems to falter, scrambling a little bit “—hot… chocolate?”

Hot chocolate in June? What a weirdo.

You keep your face straight, though.

Flash might’ve let you off the hook when it came to formalities but you’d be an idiot to think you could get away with that with these guys.

He exhales the briefest laugh at something, then—you, you realize, your expression, which should be perfectly polite, what the hell. He turns his head away as a smile curls his lips. That niggling feeling—which began as soon as you realized he was here—strengthens. You push it away for a second.

“I know. Late night. Don’t like coffee, so it’s a good alternative.”

How did he—?

Must be the detective thing.

You apologize anyway.

“Sorry. My, uh, friend’s like that, in a way,” you say, your tongue again moving faster than your brain can grapple with. He won’t care about the fact that your friend, Tim, is like that, too. Well, Tim likes the occasional energy drink if he’s staying up late because he doesn’t like coffee. Not this hot chocolate business. But maybe? Doesn’t sound like a bad idea, actually. Probably better than Red Bull, even if he doesn’t drink it often, maybe once or twice a month. And, anyway, it’s not the point. This guy doesn’t care. He probably couldn’t care less. You’re just trying to show him—oh, it doesn’t matter. This entire thing has gone straight to shit. All because he managed to read your judgment.

“Oh?” It’s a question but it’s a bit strangled. See? He doesn’t care. Poor guy. Probably trying to think of a way to get out of this. Well, you’ll do him one better.

“Uh, yeah… he’s—well. Doesn’t matter. Yeah, the machine is working. It’s over there.”

“Thanks.”

You nod and glance away, leaving him to cross to the other side of the store. You can’t help but watch him go, watching the way the heavy black cape swishes with his movements, boots soundless on the shitty tiled floors. He disappears behind the shelf, but his head is visible. A head of dark, dark hair that seems… familiar to you.

Ugh. What is with you?

It’s Red freakin’ Robin. You’ve glimpsed him and the others briefly. Shadows in the night, swinging from buildings, jumping from rooftops. Anybody who lives in Gotham long enough has seen the same. Doesn’t mean you know him enough to be this way, to be so bothered by something that won’t even come to mind.

You shake your head briefly.

You should think more on why he’s even here.

Though, it seems obvious, given what happened yesterday night.

Flash has a way of getting beneath your skin and inciting the most childish tendencies. You imagine his little comment about trust between vigilante and citizen bothered Red Robin.

Well, rest assured, you understand the position they are in. You enjoyed the way Flash visited you but they can’t afford that. Perception is gold. It is true, in some ways, that if it were as effective as they wanted it to be, Gotham would be less crime-ridden than it currently is.

(But that was also a conundrum with the corrupt government. So long as the systems were in place, crime would always happen, and it would take more than the Bats to fix that.)

Either way, they cannot afford for that mask to slip—metaphorically and literally.

There is a level of trust, you think, between the Bats and the people but… it’s not the same kind Flash fosters with his own.

You feel obligated to let Red Robin know that, with that, he has no obligation to do anything out of the ordinary.

So, that’s what you do when he comes back over to the counter, two small cups of hot chocolate in hand.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.”

He turns forward with a five dollar bill in hand. “I can’t just not pay—”

“I’m not talking about that.”

He is paying. You are moderately appreciative of what they do but not that appreciative.

“So, what else is it that I don’t have to do?”

You gesture between you two. “This. Come here to try and prove the Flash wrong.”

“I’m not—”

You try to level with him.

“It’s cool, man. He can be annoying. Annoying enough that he could make anyone want to prove him wrong. I get it. But he’s also a little bit of a doof when it comes to matters of the public. Though I’m betting he was trying to aggravate you more than anything. Either way, I get it. You have an image to keep up. Do what you have to do.”

“So, you don’t want me to come back?” Not an accusation. A genuine question.

You blink. “That’s not what I said. I don’t mind. I’m just… letting you know.”

“What do you know about it, anyway? Upholding an image? You seem very confident on the do’s and don’ts, despite being a civilian.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You guys actually refer to us non-vigilantes as civilians? Like, unironically?”

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you with the emotionless white lids of the domino mask, lips pressed in a line.

You smile and roll your eyes, finally taking his five and opening the register. “I’m majoring in communication with a concentration in PR. Did an internship at Quickstart Enterprises last semester working with their PR department. You can say I know a thing or two about it.”

“What year?”

“Just finished my third. Starting my final in the fall. Look, I’m not saying you have to take my advice, I just wanted you to know. That’s all. I’m not holding it against you.”

“I’ll take it under advisement.”

You slide his change to him. “That’s all I ask.”

He picks up the cups, says, “Keep the change,” and then, he’s gone, dark cape fluttering, his figure swallowed up by the darkness of the night.

The only traces of his presence is the door slowly closing and the change still sitting on the counter.

These hero-types and their dramatic exits. Honestly.

You meet the Flash in your second week of work at Circle K.

The stipend from QE covered your housing and groceries but didn’t allow for much options regarding the latter. At least not the fresh produce kind.

So, you picked up a job at Circle K. Part-time only, which worked well with the schedule you had at QE. You typically worked evenings—not the graveyard shift you do now, which you took only because it paid better during the night—so from seven to eleven.

The Flash was different from the Bats in that regard. While Signal worked during the day, the rest of them worked during the night.

Flash told you he liked sleep, so he would take care of things during a reasonable hour in the evening to accommodate that, which meant you were beheld to his presence.

Frequently.

And the first time…

You have no idea what to make of the superhero currently raiding the sausage grill.

A larger part of you is suspicious, hoping that the Flash isn’t about to come up to you and say something arrogant about not being required to pay. A lot of the cops you get say something to that effect. It takes so much willpower in you to not roll your eyes.

But another part of you right now, the Tim part of your brain, is fascinated. Wants to ask some geeky questions about his power. Presumably, the fact that he is the fastest man alive means he has to eat a lot to sustain it, right?

Well. That one is a bit self-explanatory. At least if the way he’s stuffing his face tells you anything.

Suspicion wins out, though.

Keystone City is a nice enough city. Central City, across the river, is the same. They aren’t Gotham, that’s for sure, and sometimes you don’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse.

It’s mostly that Keystone City is situated in Kansas and across the Mississippi, in Mississippi, is Central City. These regions of the country, historically conservative, make you a bit tetchy. Not at all helped by the fact that for a very long time, Keystone City was suspended in the fifties. Or rather, what they thought were the fifties. Time passed normally outside of it until the Flash fixed everything.

It gives Keystone an aesthetic old-timey vibe to it but with all the modern luxuries of the late 2010s, like phones and, you know, civil rights.

But things have been okay, for the most part. The people you encounter here at Circle K are amiable enough. (Well, except for the cops you get. You could go without dealing with those idiots.)

Though, admittedly, between work for QE and here and trying to keep yourself fed and (mostly) rested, you haven’t gotten out much.

The Flash, though… you haven’t directly encountered him. Not in your few weeks here. Sometimes when walking to the subway, you feel the sharp gust of wind, commonly associated with him as he makes his way through the city faster than a speeding bullet, glass windows and cars rattling dangerously in the aftermath of his path. On the news, when he takes down whichever rogue woke up on the wrong side of the bed, and in the newspaper. But nothing beyond that.

People speak fondly of him, for the most part. Rumors are solid sources of information but you just can’t help but be a little bit suspicious. There is such a thing as too good to be true, after all…

You reach for your half-empty cup of blue raspberry Slurpee. Though it’s the beginning of September, summer takes longer to leave the midwest, you’ve learned, and the summers here are loads worse than ones you’ve experienced in Gotham.

Before you can even get your mouth around the red straw, a breeze hits and you blink, finding the Flash in front of you, depositing mostly empty cartons of hot dogs onto the counter, with a few of them still full. On their way to being empty, though, as he crams more into his mouth. A cup of cherry Slurpee finishes it off.

The Flash points a half-eaten hot dog at you. “You aren’t from around here, are you?”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m sorry?”

“No, no, not like that. You’ve just got this suspicion to you. This… paranoia. A paranoia that can only belong to someone from Gotham,” he says, nodding to himself.

Well, that’s—

Hm.

A bit embarrassed to be caught out like that—because it isn’t the first time—you attempt to make up for it.

“I’m from Metropolis, actually.”

Best to stay on the east coast. Even you couldn’t pass as someone from the west coast, like Star City or Coast City or something.

Flash grins at you. “Liar.”

You aren’t used to this kind of playful banter. Certainly not from a literal superhero, from someone who regularly saves the world with the likes of Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman and more. You don’t think you expected the cold brutality the city gets from the Bats back home but… you didn’t expect this, either.

To get a much-needed sense of normalcy, you scan one of the hot dog cartons, adding them up on the screen.

“Was it that obvious? I wasn’t trying to be… I mean, I was, but, you know, I didn’t, um…”

You stop, cringing. Very eloquent and more than a little annoying, given your career choice. Can’t be like that when you get put on the spot. Even if it’s by a superhero. Especially if it’s by a superhero. Journalists are even worse, anyway…

“Relax, kid,” he laughs. “To tell you the truth, it was hard to miss but I’m sort of geared for that kind of thing, what with my choice in career.”

“Right.” You scan the Slurpee and take a drink of yours while he fiddles with some zipper in his suit. A deep red, with a purple tinge, a silver Flash symbol on his chest, and a cowl, but with the top free, showing off a shock of red hair, and his eyes still exposed. Pretty green.

“But I do have an unfair advantage,” he goes on. “I see a similar look every time I have a League meeting.”

You blink. “The League…?”

“You should know. Your caped crusader, Batman. Of course, that’s also because he doesn’t like me—and the feeling is mutual, trust me—but, you know. Schematics. He sits right across from me and that’s all I get, this classic brand of Gothamite suspicion on top of the usual wordless Batman disapproval.”

“Should you be telling me that?”

He hands you a twenty. You pop open the register to break it. Another breeze hits and the empty cartons of hot dogs are shoved into the trash, with him eating the last one and on his way to finishing the large cup of cherry-flavored Slurpee.

“I mean, what are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know,” you say lightly, calculating his change. “I could go to the press. Breaking News: Strife within the League. Tenuous relations between Batman and the Flash.”

“Oh, really?”

“That’s the press. A common dislike will absolutely turn into that in their headlines. They would take it and run.”

“That is true. You a journalist?”

“Oh, no. Communications, with a concentration in public relations.”

Flash thinks on it for a second, finishing his hot dog, then the Slurpee. You partially expect him to get angry. It would be a justified reaction. He doesn’t know you and you don’t know him. You can admit that some of what you just said is a bit… imperious. Who are you to lecture him, right?

“You aren’t wrong,” he finally says, repeating his earlier words as the last hot dog carton and Slurpee cup disappear from the counter—thrown in the trash.

“But,” he presses, accepting the change from you—a few dollars—then dropping it into your tip jar. “I know you aren’t going to take that to the press.”

“How’s that?”

He points at you. “Because I don’t think you’re the kind of person to do that.”

“You’re appealing to my morals?”

“Yes. Is it working?”

“Not much work to be had,” you admit. “I was never going to. I was just…”

“Being nice and telling me I should watch what I say,” he finishes, grinning. “Which is true. All true. I just couldn’t help myself. What’s your name, kid?”

You tell him. He extends a hand.

“It’s nice to meet you. Welcome to Keystone City. Hope you enjoy your stay.”

A bit bemused, you nod politely and say, “Thanks.”

Before he can say anything else, he visibly tenses, lifting a hand to the Hermes-like wings at his ears, then, in the next blink, he is gone, off to stop someone or something, leaving you with a sharp gust of wind that rattles the windows and knocks the candy from the shelves under the counter onto the ground.

Well, then.

Talk about a first impression.

reblogs are appreciated!

taglist: @peachesona @knoxx-seresinbradshaw @kikis-writing-service @sweetistic @soundsfunbutno @ginevraxrogers

[if you'd like to be added to the taglist (or removed), let me know here or in my inbox! ^_^]

#tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #dc comics imagine #tim drake imagine #red robin imagine #dc comics x reader #tim drake x you #red robin x you #tim drake x y/n #red robin x y/n #batfamily x reader #batfam x reader #batfam x you #batfam x y/n

622 notes · View notes

fractiflos · 1 month

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How do you think that Yoichi and AFO survived as newborns if their mom died and they were in such a terrible enviroment that literally the first thing that happened after being born was that they almost got eaten by rats and drown in a river?

Babies can't eat anything but milk after certain age, because, not counting they don't have any teeth, they can't digest it, in the best case scenario, consuming another thing that is not milk, would cause them to develop a serious allergy to that specific food that could kill them later with an anaphilatic reaction, and in the worst, kill them right away.

Besides, a newborn has so many needs besides the food, specially a malnourished one as Yoichi.

A baby as him, a donor baby, would have been left several months in the hospital until he gained certain weight.

And even AFO, the receptor baby, could have several health problems that could kill him.

The fact alone that Yoichi was not born dead, is a miracle itself, almost none of those donor babies survive. And as I said, there is a chance that the receptor could die as well.

Wow, I wasn't expecting to be asked for my thoughts on this question!

(Before I answer, I should say I haven't actually read those chapters, I just saw the leak translations on here because I don't know where everyone else is able to read it.)

Anyway, I do think that they managed to get a little milk. ShigaMom hadn't been dead for too long, so she still had some, which is why Baby For One bit her breast, to get to the milk. Plus, he was strong enough to carry Yoichi, so he might've helped him get the milk on the other breast, as Baby Yoichi still should've been able to smell her.

But, that wouldn't have lasted long.

I'm of the belief that someone found two newborns suckling on their dead mom and thought, "I should get these children to a hospital".

So, the milk helped them hold on for a little bit until someone came and called an ambulance or something and they were taken care of. From there, I say they got abandoned once people realized the white hair was there to stay, about 2-3 maybe. And I can see AFO not wanting to admit someone other than him cared for Yoichi as the scene seemed to be his POV (but his thought process is a different topic).

However, I do have a very stupid theory that I can't get out of my head, so thank you for giving me the excuse to talk about it.

They were raised by animals.

Humans have been breastfed by animals before and survived (though it's not ideal), so it's not totally impossible for.

Except there's the health issues. I think part of it is that quirked people are hardier than regular people and human bodies will do all sorts of stuff to avoid dying. The reason this is a stupid theory that no one should take seriously is because I can't think of another reason.

#yoichi shigaraki #all for one #jane's asks #Still in disbelief I got asked this!#I hope my thoughts were articulate enough. I'm not used to answering these but it was really fun #Don't be afraid to ask me more stuff :)

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i-need-some-advice-on · 2 months

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CW mentions of death, suicide, mental health issues

What am I supposed to do when my parents die? I (F25) have severe mental health issues including ADHD, anxiety, autism and severe dyscalculia (basically dyslexia but with math instead of numbers, my math is at like a 3rd grade level).

I've always been extremely clingy and dependent on my parents, especially my mom. Every time it's her birthday I can't even feel happy anymore when celebrating because I know it's another year closer to her dying and leaving me forever.

I feel like a pathetic, disgusting leech. The only "jobs" I've ever had have been working for my parents. I try to make art but no one cares about it. Due to my ADHD and anxiety I absolutely refuse to drive. The last time my mom let me drive her car I almost immediately crashed it into a tree because I got distracted.

I don't know how to pay bills. I don't know how to use a credit card. I don't know how to use a bank account. I have severe memory issues from my ADHD and constantly forget things, and my even with medication my executive dysfunction is so bad I can barely do any work around the house. I don't remember the last time I brushed my teeth or washed my hair.

Growing up I always assumed that everything would be okay, because I would have a husband/wife who can help me with things. But due to my autism I can barely make friends. Pretty much every friend I like either gets angry with me because I phrase things wrong and piss them off, or they get bored and leave me.

Why should I try dating or get married if they're just going to get rid of me eventually like everyone else. And besides, no ones going to want to date someone who's too stupid to survive on their own. Who looks at someone who doesn't know how to pay bills and says "Yeah, I'd love to spend the rest of my life with them!" People want a wife, not a child in an adults body.

When my parents pass I'm not going to be able to handle a funeral. I'm lucky that we're not poor, we own our duplex and my dad has a successful business. I could rent out the other side of the duplex but again, I can barely take care of myself, let alone deal with tenants.

At this point, when my parents pass away I'm either going to:

Try to survive off of the money they have and hope for a miracle

Find a safe place for any pets we have and then kill myself.

A group home is not an option, I would rather die than be treated like a prisoner and told what to do, not allowed to leave or stay up as late as I want, and be forced to live with a bunch of other strangers.

#mental health #suicide mention #death mention

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doggernaut · 3 months

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INJURY FIC INJURY FIC

Oh hello, you've found the fic most likely to be published sometime soon, if only because when I was looking at it I realized it's really just a short little Jack character study and only needs a little bit of work to make it publishable.

I have posted about this more on my main Tumblr account, but I'm a runner and in the past year and a half have been struggling with what seems like endless post-Covid lung issues and injuries. I went from running a PR marathon in April of 2022 to barely being able to run three miles at a pace five minutes slower than my PR pace. For somebody who has never really had to contend with injuries over almost 30 years of running (I took several months off when I strained my calf in 2016, but got into barre classes during that time), it has been humbling. And frustrating. I spend like an hour a day doing my stupid PT exercises and it feels like I've accomplished nothing. And I figured I could take all my feelings about being an aging athlete and give them to Jack. Because you know who would be pissed off about being forced to slow down due to a minor injury? Jack Zimmermann.

(Projecting all of my feelings onto Jack, by the way, has not really helped. But maybe other readers will see themselves in this fic and feel not-so-alone?)

“Can you explain it to me?” Bitty asks. “Euh … I’ll try.” Jack isn’t sure if he can explain what he’s feeling to Bitty because he’s not sure he understands it himself. Bitty gives Jack’s shoulder a little squeeze, a nonverbal cue that he’s ready to listen whenever Jack’s ready. It takes Jack a minute to gather his thoughts. “I know I need to rest,” Jack begins. “I know I need to slow down and let things run their course, and I know it’s good for my body. Healing. But my mind just …” Bitty presses a kiss to the back of Jack’s neck. “I know.” “Sometimes my thoughts get a little out of control,” Jack admits. “Not in a bad way. Not like before. But I’ve been wondering if this is it. Maybe this time I won’t heal. Or I’ll fall so far out of shape that I’ll never get back to where I was. And I’ll just keep falling behind until they tell me I’m done. I’m not as young as I used to be. There are new guys who are faster, hungrier. Whenever I face off against some young kid I think about how I was at eighteen, how I thought guys my age had one foot out the door.” “Well, first of all,” Bitty murmurs soothingly, “nobody is gonna tell the Jack Zimmermann that he’s done.” Jack manages a smile in spite of himself. “I know it’s not rational.” Bitty presses another kiss, feather-light, to the back of Jack’s neck. “Honey, I know how you feel about slowing down, but maybe you should try to change the narrative,” he says gently. “What do you mean?” “Well, instead of telling yourself you’re lazy, try thinking of it as recovering. Right now the best thing you can do for yourself is rest a little so you can start the new season healthy and strong. When’s the last time you gave yourself permission to slow down?

Permission? That’s a new concept. Jack can’t recall ever giving himself permission to slow down. His overdose forced him to slow down, but that wasn’t a choice. This doesn’t feel like a choice either, but Bitty is right. Jack’s been in therapy long enough to know that there’s a difference between then and now, that slowing down now is something he has to do if he wants to keep moving forward. “Just remember,” Bitty adds, “every rest day, every easy PT session, is an investment in a stronger, more resilient you. And it’s all gonna pay off big time next season.” “You’re good at this. You sure you don’t want to get into coaching?” “Oh, it’s hardly me at all! I’ve just been spending a lot of time on the inspirational, body positive side of Instagram.” “You have?” Seven years together, and Bitty’s still surprising Jack. Bitty shrugs. “I know it was a million years ago, but I used to be an athlete, too. Long enough ago that my body definitely isn’t the same.” There’s a hint of resignation in Bitty’s tone. “I know that’s not a bad thing, but it’s still hard to accept sometimes. Especially living with you, looking like you do.” “Bits, you’ve never said anything,” Jack says, feeling a little guilty for not picking up on the fact that Bitty’s been going through this too. “And I wasn’t gonna,” Bitty says, “because most days I don’t think about it. My life is a lot different now, and that’s a good thing! But I can’t lift as much as I used to at the gym, and you know I can’t always keep up with you on our morning runs. And it’s my choice, I know. I’m happy with my yoga class and running most mornings and doing the Turkey Trot once a year, but sometimes it’s still—” Bitty shrugs. “Honey, you’re a professional athlete. It’s hard not to compare myself to you. Or who I was just a few years ago, for that matter. So I follow a few accounts that help keep things in perspective. There’s this whole community of former athletes, and people who are recovering from illness or injury, and people who are just starting on their fitness journey, and they remind me I’m not alone. Your pace isn’t my pace, and that’s okay.” Jack laughs in spite of himself. “Okay, now you sound like an influencer.” “And you honey—” Bitty places a gentle hand on Jack’s chest—“your pace today doesn’t have to be your pace yesterday, or last year. We’re all works in progress.”

#wip ask game #sweatersinthesummer

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valrvn · 1 month

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Been thinking about kink and my body all week and have to get this down into words for my own sanity.

So like... I have a pregnancy kink and a weight gain kink. Getting the pregnancy stuff out of the way now, I'm not stupid enough to get pregnant just for the experience of getting pregnant, and the question of whether or not I want to be a parent some day is something that I've been going back and forth over for pretty much my entire adult life. If I do, it's not something that's going to happen anytime soon.

But like, weight gain is something that I am considering. Not a lot, mind you. I don't really have a goal weight, I don't even know how much I weigh now (somewhere around 170 or 180lbs? I think), but I do know how I'd like to look. I'm in this awkward spot right now where I'm not really thin, but I'm not chubby either. I think I look fatter than I actually am because I've always had a slight double chin, even when I was actually 100% skinny, so it feels like I'm already perceived as heavier than I am and I don't even get to enjoy having a belly. I do honestly think I'd look good fatter, and I think it'd help my dysphoria if I wasn't so small. I'm also asexual, so losing out on potential sexual partners because I'm heavier isn't really something I care about. And again, it's not like I want to get huge, depending on where you draw the line between chubby and fat, I don't even want to be fat. So basically, I do want to gain weight-

but

I have very little self control when it comes to food, which means several things. Firstly, it means that if I do gain weight and then decide I want to lose it, that will be hard. That's the most obvious issue, but just as important is the problem of changing my eating habits enough to gain weight. I don't eat healthy, at all, between the lack of self control and the ADHD induced sugar cravings, I eat pretty terribly, and it has led to some weight gain, but very slowly. And that's another problem, if I did get to a size I like, I'd probably end up surpassing it anyway, and I don't want that either.

**okay, as I'm typing this out, I'm realizing that what I should really do is learn to control my eating habits better. Like regardless of what I end up doing, it'd probably be a good skill no matter what. It won't happen in the next two years, because I have another two years of being a broke student, but I should really get on top of that shit when I'm out of school and have a. money, and b. time. Disregard the previous paragraph. I WILL learn to manage this. I will make myself manage this, no matter what I decide.**

I'm also really curious about trying to get a more temporary belly through bloat and stuffing, like, the prospect really does turn me on, but I'm an absolute baby about tummy aches. If I overeat even slightly, I will start acting pathetic (which may also be an obstacle for gaining weight). So idk if I can handle that sort of thing. Might try it once and go from there, but if anyone has any tips, I'm all ears.

Like, it's my body and I don't think I'm putting myself in harm's way by gaining a little extra fat, I also think the stress of grad school is the perfect cover to get fatter.

So yeah, I think I've actually talked myself into this, though there's still plenty of time for me to second guess my way out of it before this August when I'll have the privacy and opportunity to start.

#personal

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boblittlepage-blog · 1 year

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I'm Confused About Something...

A brief update for the uninitiated, which probably means everyone. Sometime back, I attempted to strike up a friendship with noted online semicelebritytype Indigo White, who you may know from her many productions of video entertainment not intended for younger viewers (do the math). Yes, I first came across her the same way most guys do (let's just say my prostate has never been healthier), but then I started watching her YouTube videos, and was very impressed with her intelligence, sense of humor, and levelheadedness. I'm very drawn to intelligence, and decided this is someone I'd actually like to know. And through chats during live streams and interactions on Twitter and Fansly, things seemed to be proceeding nicely. I'd like to think that I made it clear that I wasn't just another dweeb who'd parasocially bonded to some e-girl, that this was genuine affection for her as a person. Seeing that in writing makes it sound weird, but so be it, let's move on.

Some time ago, Indigo came out as trans, and was now a boy. Despite the change in personal pronouns to he/him, and now sporting shorter, Beatle-ish hair, nothing much was going to change content-wise, no plans for surgery or hormones (which begs the question of just how trans was Indy actually, but we'll not deal with that here, or anywhere else for now, it's largely irrelevant).

Okay, fine, I'll play along, so long Indy didn't feel the need to undergo anything permanent, (again, usually an indicator that something else is going on, not gender dysphoria), so no harm no foul.

In the meantime, I've gotten to know several detransitioners online, and heard their horror stories about how they'd been suckered into the whole gender ideology thing (which, by the way, is the creation of a very sick man, John Money, a pedophile who should be listed right alongside Joseph Mengele for the work he did directly with a couple of twin boys, both ending in suicide, but also for his sham "work" being baked into the psychiatric and medical industries before the true horror of his acts were finally made public. The result is that actual gender dysphoria, the kind where major gender reassignment surgery is the only workable treatment, has largely been pushed aside for people who are suffering from other, less serious issues, generally from some childhood trauma, like puberty in general, and turning garden variety identity crises into reasons for these sufferers, largely teenagers, who we must remember are still highly impressionable are generally stupid, to permanently wreck their biochemistry and mutilate their bodies).

So, during one live stream, I get wind of Indy trying to work up the courage to get what is euphemistically referred to as "top surgery", i.e., a double mastectomy, for no other reason than a long time hatred of them. Turns out Indy got those DD tiddies pretty much full force, virtually overnight, and besides being literally painful, anybody who's been to school between the ages of 9 to 15 can fill in the blanks of what the reaction of the other kids was. Also keep in mind that the amygdala, the lizard part of the brain that handles trauma and triggers the ol' fight-or-flight response, doesn't differentiate between actually life threatening situations and a snide comment from a 4th grade teacher at the wrong time, trauma is trauma, and can have life altering effects, especially in kids. We're generally not even aware of this happening until pointed out to us. Digging through Indy's Tumblr, apparently there's some additional trauma back there, that is triggering enough that I'm not going to even try and ask about it, but we're still talking a response to trauma. One day, it'll have to be dealt with, not just painted over with a big ol' "Congrats! You're Trans!" label. That's not therapy, that checking a box so somebody can make a boat payment. Since lives are at stake with this nonsense, I get very pissed off.

Anyway.

Back to the case at hand. I, hoping to spare Indy the kind of life wrecking pain I've seen others going through, began pushing for the alternative of breast reduction. Less invasive, faster recovery, and coming to the conclusion that, yes, Indy's tits WERE too big (5'4", 110 lbs, shouldn't be any bigger than a B, maybe closer to an A).

Enter the Affirmation Brigade, standing by and cheering Indy forward to go forth and be sliced up like a Sunday roast, to advance the cause of TRANS RIGHTS! Which I see as an attempt to validate their own sorry existences at the expense of someone else's health and well being. Well, during an engagement with one of these ghouls, things got rather heated, and more than a little ugly. I don't particularly regret anything I said, I would've preferred it didn't have to be in the form of calling out the other person as a butcher. Not because it was inaccurate (it wasn't), but because it was somewhat undignified.

Cue another set of angry DMs with Indy, demanding that I knock it off or get banned. I'd said everything I felt needed saying, so feeling no need to press the issue any further, certainly not publicly, I agreed. And things got more or less back to normal.

However, I reached out to a noted doctor who deals with the whole trans issue, and, with a couple of links, one to Indy's Twitter profile, the second to the coming-out video on YouTube, and asked for a professional opinion. Mainly, I wanted some guidance on whether I was doing the right thing by trying to be the lone voice against the affirmation chorus, trying to make the point that major invasive surgery over a personality issue is probably a very, very bad idea. Had I pushed too far, or should I stand my ground? One of the recurring themes I'd been hearing from detransitioners was that nobody ever challenged them, made them stop and think it out, WHY did they think they were trans? Could it be something else? Let's figure this out BEFORE we start lopping off perfectly healthy body parts, and see if we can find a less bloody and traumatizing solution. We live in a world where unless you blindly affirm the choice, you're a (fill in the blank). Well, sorry, but if the Emporer is walking down Broadway bloody starkers, I'm gonna say something.

Fast forward to a couple days later, this has gotten back to Indy, and the response in DM was thermonuclear. What right did I have to do this, I'm insane, etc., etc., and that was it, I'd been given too many chances already, I was banned, with the final shot being, and I quote, "Unblocking you to say one final thing. If I didn’t have the support i have and live where i do, what you did could have gotten me killed. Think about that. Fuck you."

Okay, back that up a little.

I posted a link to a PUBLIC Twitter page, with a link to a PUBLIC YouTube video (which Indy posted herself/himself TWICE, and has pinned to various other social media sites), disclosed no information, and only asked for "a professional opinion." (For the record, the only response I got back from the doctor was "Nope.") How in this, or any other reality could that endanger anybody? Did I overstep? Okay, I'll grant that. Wasn't the first time, pretty sure it won't be the last. But possibly getting Indy killed? Sorry, but I need to hear the twisted logic that comes to that conclusion, because I ain't seeing it, and I took Logic in college, I know a thing or two about false premises and the strange places they lead.

I would like to rebuild this relationship, if possible, but I'm not holding my breath. Clearly what I did incensed Indy, and it's not likely it'll be easy to walk that back. I would still like to have that explanation, though. If you're gonna throw down something like my being responsible for possible manslaughter, I think I'm at least owed that much.

Again, Indy (if you've read this far), my DMs are open, and I did give you my phone number, provided you haven't deleted the DM (doesn't seem like it, because I've still got 'em on my end). I'm ready for peace when you are.

#itsindigowhite

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manhandlememando · 1 year

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Gravity Ch. 2

din djarin x f!reader

TW: SA (not incredibly graphic but still), PTSD symptoms, violence, depictions of injuries, minor character death, Razor Crest is alive and well, written in 3rd person POV (she/her)

word count: 2,437

(series is ongoing)

The trade had not gone as planned, clearly. She knew going alone was a risk so she made sure to go armed, however she wasn’t prepared for there to be several other men along side the young man she had struck this deal with. Her skin began to crawl the second she stepped into the cantina, a shiver working its way slowly down her spine, settling deep in her gut, telling her to leave. But she could handle this, it wasn’t something that should be too difficult. Looking around she spots the young man, Alec, whom she was trading with, sitting in the corner with two other men at his flank. His eyes slowly looked up from their fixed position on the floor as she walked over to them, his face twisting into a torturous grin.

“Well hello ma’am,” he greeted her kindly, a poison almost palpable in the honey that dripped off his tone. They exchanged acquaintances and sat for a drink, and she relaxed slightly. As she brought up the topic of the trade she tried to make it clear she wasn’t trying to stay for much longer in the dusty cantina. He shot her a glare at her statement, that knot forming in her gut once again.

“Yes, well you see, I’m fine to give you what I have in surplus supplies at this moment. However… I’m looking for something different in return now,” his hand sliding over to hers across the table and she all but jumped back from him. Immediately understanding his insinuations, her voice faltering in panic with her next words.

“I have the credits, the money shouldn’t be an issue, I can give you extra if need be. But I am going to have to decline, I am not interested in trading my body for anything of yours,” she spat the last sentence a little too harshly for his liking. His eyes grew dark with anger and she stood quickly, but not as fast as he had grabbed her wrist, yanking her roughly towards the edge of the table. Her temple meeting the seam of the wood, she gasped and suddenly her vision was dark. She must have been unconscious for no more than a minute because when her eyes had opened once again she was in the alleyway behind the cantina. Her body pressed to the hard stone of the building, digging into her shoulder blades as the man holding her there was nipping at her neck. The other men had seemingly vanished, leaving her pinned between cold stone and Alec’s body. Thinking quickly, she uses her left hand to hit him in the stomach and as he doubles over she grabs the blaster out of his hip holster and put it snug within hers. Her blaster being taken from her, no doubt. Turning to wiggle out of Alec’s grasp caused him to just hold her tighter, anger now coming off of him in waves as he grabbed her throat and started to squeeze. She felt as though she may be seeing the last of this earth tonight as he crushed her throat in his grasp. The starry sky above darkening even more so at the edges as she began to slip into unconsciousness. In a stupid attempt to establish even more dominance Alec lets the forearm he’s been holding over her wrists loosen in order to tighten his hold on her neck. She slips her hand free and quickly grabs the blaster from her holster and brings it to his temple. Without another thought she pulls the trigger and blood replaces his hot breath over her face as he falls limply to the ground. Stumbling in the opposite direction of the body she almost gives into the gravity pulling her body to the sand. Fear guides her forward as she gasps for air she hasn’t been able to taste fully in minutes. Shaking and numb she makes her way out of the town towards the Razor Crest.

—————————

Din was going to kill someone, because after the first initial concern upon seeing her battered limbs and the deepening purple covering her neck; his next thought was fueled by pure rage at who must’ve done this to her.

She’s breathing heavily, not sure what to do as he stands silent in front of her. He had spoken nothing to her other than a small whisper of Mando’a, which she couldn’t decipher since the door had opened.

“The trade went bad, I didn’t get the supplies like you requested. I apologize.” She says flatly, cutting through the silence. With a small step forward she tries to move around him, her main course set for the ‘fresher before Din had appeared in front of her. He moves with her, almost countering her step with his own, caging her body in the doorframe, but not touching her. She winces at this, her body slowly sinking into the doorframe, the last memory of her being pinned to a wall by a man flashing before her. She couldn’t see his expression but he frowned at this, knowing that what had happened must have been worse than he previously thought. Becoming enraged once more he spoke.

“Who.” Din spoke, tilting his head slightly to look into her eyes. It wasn’t a question, it was a demand: and it rumbled through the modulator with the force of an oncoming storm. She gulped thickly knowing that even if he was going to avenge her, there wasn’t any way he could, the man was already dead.

“It doesn’t matter,” she mutters, moving her eyes away from the T of his visor. She couldn’t see those beautiful, deep brown eyes through the obsidian glass but she knew they’ve turned to embers with his rage. During some of their past hunts she’s seen that rage become unbridled and taken out on the bounties. Most of those outbursts resulted in the bounty being returned “cold”. She wasn’t scared of him, however she was intimidated.

“Don’t. It does, who was it?” He seethes, his chest plate rising and falling more rapidly by the minute with every breath he takes.

“He’s dead, I took care of it,” she grits out through barred teeth, shoving past him and shutting herself away in the ‘fresher.

Din couldn’t comprehend that she had killed him. Not being able to remember a time when she had killed anyone, if anything maiming them, but never murder. His breath slowed as he realized something more in the lack of cuts on her face, She wasn’t bleeding when she had first stepped onto the ship. The blood dancing across her face wasn’t hers, it was his. With this thought his stomach churned knowing she had to be incredibly close to him when she pulled the trigger. She had felt threatened enough to kill someone, and that made his insides twist into something devilish. Something dark and malevolent rose within him, more than anger, more than rage, someone had touched her. Someone had attacked her and he became irate. Turning towards the ‘fresher door, still closed, he raised his voice in order for her to hear him through the steel.

“Were there others?” She could hear him ask through the door, looking at herself once again in the mirror she held her arms across her chest and stifled a sob. She knew he would find every single one of them and dissipate them without a second thought, but someone was already dead. No one else should have to suffer the same fate, even if they had assisted in her assault.

“No.” She responded, trying to keep her voice steady as the tears formed small rivers down her cheeks. She hadn’t said it aloud yet, she had killed someone. It had never bothered her much before, death was as prevalent as spotchka in the crowded bars of Navarro. It was everywhere, it happens every day, but she was the cause this time. First hand.

“You’re lying,” he says it with malice, but it isn’t directed at her. He had never spoken to her like that, and he wouldn’t be starting now. The door opens slowly, the hiss of it almost prolonged in the silence. The moment he saw her tear stained cheeks all the anger in him broke, concaving in on itself. Replaced by an overwhelming sense to do whatever it would take to make those tears stop falling.

“I - ,” she starts to speak but breaks into a sob, still holding her arms to her chest she doubled over. Coming to sit on the floor outside the doorway of the refresher she curled in on herself. Din dropped to his knees immediately, reaching out to touch her discolored arm, trying to steady her as she slid down the wall. He stays silent and keeps about a foot of space between them, not wanting to crowd her. Not wanting to make her uncomfortable. She thought for a moment, mulling over the idea of telling him exactly what happened. Before she could stop herself, she had already begun speaking.

“The trade, well it went bad,” she starts. “It seemed fine at first, we had ordered a round before beginning to talk business, but…” she trails off, her eyes dissociating and blurring the vision of him in front of her. He was on his knees, his hands just slightly outstretched as if he was going to catch her if she fell. But they were already seated firmly on the floor.

“When I went to present the credits, he said he wanted something else instead.” She said, her voice quaking as the sentence came to a close. “He wanted me,” she whispers. Immediately Din tenses, realization painting his form as it washes over him. She wasn’t attacked, she was assaulted. With that thought he was convinced he may actually be sick.

“Are you ok?” He asks softly, his tone so gentle it was one she had never heard before. She scoffs, a small smile picking up the right side of her mouth, curving it into a sarcastic grin.

“Fucking dandy,” she responds, her tone flat and unwavering.

“That was - I’m sorry I didn’t mean -,” Din stumbled haphazardly over several different sentences afraid he had made things so much worse with one stupid question. He huffs in defeat. The space between them fell eerily silent. An incredibly solemn look has taken over her normally bright eyes, staring past him at nothing in particular. The thousand mile stare, Din thought to himself. He’d seen it in many warrior’s eyes, people who had suffered greatly getting swept away in the depths of their trauma. He moved slightly so his eyes would be meeting hers if his helmet was removed. She needed to see him, he couldn’t allow her to get lost in those waves right now. Din wanted so desperately to fix her, to just wrap her so tightly in his arms, to assure her this would never happen again. But she would probably fight his touch, and he would (again) have made the situation worse.

She finally meets his gaze through his visor and he swears his heart stutters for half a beat, just a slight hitch of his breath as her beautiful eyes meet his. Even with the storm clouds swirling over those waves within her irises, they were still the only ones he found himself wanting to meet the gaze of everyday.

“I don’t know… what to do,” he admits sheepishly, “Can I touch you?” He asks, his hands which have now been discarded to laying palm-up on his knees, move off of them and slowly towards her frame. She nods, her lip quivering slightly and he stops, not wanting to cause her any more pain.

“If it’s too much I don’t have to, I can just stay here with you. Or if you want space I can give that to you as well,” he rambled nervously.

“Din, please just hold me,” she sobs, her hand coming up to cover her mouth as her shoulders cave in on her frame. She leans forward into his open arms, his chest plate meeting her wet cheeks and providing a calm, cooling sensation to satiate her hot skin. She was shivering despite the sensation of also being overly warm. Relaxing somewhat into his touch he shifts, turning them so his back is towards the wall now, and his legs laying flat, splayed out with her between them. The majority of her weight pressing on his abdomen as she lay there shaking. He wraps his arms around her, his previous thought coming to mind from before, glad he is able to fulfill her needs. The cold of the room and the beskar against her skin was beginning to overpower her hot teared-stained cheeks, she was cold. Din noticed, of course he did. It didn’t take him more than a minute to know that she would need to get back to resting in her chambers soon. He would bring her more medical supplies, and if she needed him for anything else he would do it.

Din moves off the wall, cradling her gently between the beskar plates on his shoulder and chest, “I’m going to stand up now, get you back to bed,” he speaks lowly, the gravel of the modulator makes her shiver slightly. Feeling her sudden shake, he takes that as confirmation, moving to drape her form over his arms.

As he laid her down into her bed, she didn’t let go of his gloved hand as he went to pull away. Din knew, he knew she was going to want him to stay. Not wanting to crowd her personal bunk space he resorted to hauling a chair towards the head of her bed, never letting go of her hand as he did this. As she laid there, under the protective gaze of the Mandalorian she felt so entirely safe. In all honesty she was surprised how easily her body responded to his touch after such a brutal attack. She thought she would never accept a man’s touch again, but his was different. As she intertwines her fingers into his and slips into sleep, she thinks to herself what his hands would feel like against hers.

Her sleeping form looking so delicate in the dim light of the room, she looked fragile. Din knew she wasn’t, not in the slightest. But her skin, cascading with hues of deepening black and purples, looked almost breakable. She fell asleep not knowing that he had been wondering the same thing; what did that glass skin truly feel like?

#the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian angst #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin angst #din djarin x f!reader #star wars #star wars fanfiction

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emodennis · 1 year

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im not in the clearest headspace so this will be fuzzy, but basically i love fat mac because i am also fat and have severe body dysmorphia, and being able to laugh at my problems helps a lot. much in the same way im mentally disabled and seeing the gang make fun of charlie for his own makes me laugh, it makes me happy in a weird way to know that the gang would treat me just as poorly as theyd treat anyone else. i think if the gang Werent super mean to mac for being fat, then that would be out of character for them, especially dennis and dee. but i would totally love to hear your perspective on it!!!! sorry if this sounded like gibberish aksjsjdjd

this makes total sense, dw. everyone deals with their problems differently, and i think this show can be especially cathartic/comforting for people for different reasons. and i don't want it to seem like i'm trying to take that away from anyone.

i agree that the gang not being mean to mac for being fat would be out of character, which is why i wish that plotline was just not in the show.

but basically, i have three major issues with fat mac: the reason behind him, his characterization, and the way the gang treats him/the way that the show expects the audience to think about him.

so we all know that rob wanted to satirize the fact that often characters on TV shows look better as they get older because the actors get richer and have the means to maintain/improve their appearance. so he wanted his character to look worse, aka fat. already stigmatizing from the outset.

additionally, we see mac get stupider, lazier, and hungrier in season 7, moreso than in any other season (although he does get stupider in later seasons due to flanderization. but the change from seasons 5/6 to 7 was drastic). i don't have all the examples for this off the top of my head- i was going to gather those for a more thought-out post, but i'm sure some come to mind. they basically turn him into a fat stereotype for a season, and then subdue those traits immediately once he loses the weight in season 8. and every time he's shown wanting/eating food, it's in a way where we're meant to laugh at the spectacle of a fat person being obsessed with eating. and i know that's the intention because of how they utilize the gang as the straight person/people in those scenarios. which brings me to my next point.

i tend to compare/contrast the fat jokes to the way they make fun of mac for his gay behavior- the gay jokes are funny because they’re making fun of him for not realizing that what he’s saying/doing is gay. it doesn’t come across like his being gay is a bad thing, because we know that the characters accept him for it. the fat jokes are meant to be in a similar format- they’re making fun of mac for not realizing he’s fat. the joke is supposed to be about his delusion. but the difference is that they hate his being fat. the gang plays the voice of reason in those scenarios, the audience surrogate. they’re supposed to reflect what we’re all thinking: mac is fat and he needs to realize he’s fat and lose the weight because it’s disgusting.

also from the podcast, we know that rcg have very mainstream (aka fatphobic) views of health, which are especially visible in the who's more healthier episodes. i'm not going to get into the science of why fat does not equal unhealthy, but a quick google search should explain why correlation does not equal causation (and even if a fat person is unhealthy, there's the whole "why should we harass/discriminate against people for being unhealthy" part too but that's another thing). anyway, it's pretty clear that rcg view being fat as a bad thing and it shows up in their writing.

i know this show perpetuates all sorts of bigotry, and fatphobia is just one thing on a long list. but i have a neurodivergent level of fixation on fighting fatphobia, so that's one of the battles i choose.

i accept (and on good days, love) myself for being fat. i don't find catharsis in fat jokes. they just piss me off and make me sad for all the fat people who are going to have to hear yet another message about why their bodies are bad.

(btw, most of this was just a general rant/explanation and not a direct response to your message. i wish you the best on your acceptance journey and i'm glad that fat mac helps you through it.)

#phoenix talks #asks #i'm open to other differing opinions as long as they're respectful!

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thetomorrowshow · 2 years

Text

somewhere in the darkness

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i'm so excited. welcome back to the trust au. also posted on my ao3 (link in bio!)

cw: panic attacks, past injuries

Scott shoots up in bed, gasping out those stupid words—“I’m awake! I’m awake!”—for the third time that night.

He takes in a deep breath, one that pushes uncomfortably against the tightness of his chest, and shoves his blankets off. He’s not going to sleep tonight. Again.

He can blame it on the lingering pain, no problem. His left wing is still immobilized, his shoulders still stiff, his exhausted body still achy. The healer had checked him over again yesterday, clucked xyr tongue, and told him if he wanted to fully heal, his body needed rest.

Real helpful advice. Yeah, just as soon as he can close his eyes without having a panic attack, he’ll get to it.

He rubs his forehead, properly slides out of bed. Might as well get started on his work.

His daily itinerary has been relatively cleared for the next week or so, given his current state. Mostly he’s been focusing on ways to save the Ender Dragon.

He’s buried himself in the depths of Rivendell’s libraries since he returned to his empire a couple of days ago, searching and searching for any information about what, exactly, Xornoth may want with the End.

He’d stumbled upon the secret library completely by accident. There he’d found the well-known legend of Aeor and Exor, with added details about Alinar and chosen heroes and it takes Scott a long while, but he eventually realizes that he is quite favored by Aeor compared to . . . well, compared to all the past rulers apart from Alinar himself. And from what he’s noticed about Xornoth, he’s carrying quite a few of the hallmarks of Exor’s Blessing. And Exor’s full power is only restrained by the life of the Ender Dragon.

That’s not good. That’s not good at all.

But there’s nothing he can do about it right now. Lizzie’s set up a guard around the End Portal and there’s so far been no alerts of anyone even looking for it or entering the Ocean Kingdom unwanted.

Everything’s quiet. Too quiet. The calm before the storm.

And Jimmy’s right there. Right next to Mythland, where apparently Scott had been held captive for the past week.

It’s so very difficult to assure himself that Jimmy’s safe—it always had been, but even more so now, even more so after what’s happened to Scott. There’s nothing he can do about it—no communicator, broken wing, all that—except hope that Lizzie’s keeping a good enough eye on him that he’ll be at the next meeting.

Which happens to be tomorrow. Or, today, rather, a glance at his incense clock tells him. He’s meant to be meeting with the Cod Alliance in Lizzie’s palace around midday.

And he can’t fly, so he’ll have to leave several hours earlier than normal. Probably with a guard as well.

He really should be packing for the trip, or preparing in some way—but Scott’s just tired. He can’t sleep, can’t properly relax at all, but he can at least sit here at his desk and stare at the wall and pretend to be okay.

He’s rarely had problems sleeping before. Even when his brother was making an attempt on his life at every other turn, he’s almost always felt secure in his bed at night—and when he’s had trouble sleeping in the past, it’s always been out of concern for another issue, not the fault of the sleep itself.

Just another thing for his head to be all screwed up about. Right up there next to food and drink and people touching his wings. Great.

So Scott sits there. He doesn’t drift off, as much as he’d hoped he might, but he also can’t seem to focus at all on his research. Eventually, he stands, stretches, and pads over to his bookshelf. He skims the titles for a moment before finding one that he’s read several times over the past couple decades. Maybe a familiar story can ease him into sleep.

It can’t. Which is how, for the third night in a row, he’s awake to see the sunrise.

It’s not like he’s running on nothing, though. He’d slept almost as soon as he’d returned (he’d contacted his Empire that same day he’d first woken and had been home by midday), though it had been potion-induced. He hates sleep potions (even moreso now), but he’d accepted it begrudgingly and slept while his physician set his wing in place.

He’d woken up panicking. He’d sprinted for his quarters as soon as he could.

It’s time for a meal before he knows it, one that Scott surreptitiously oversees the cooking of. It still makes him uncomfortable to eat more than dry toast (toast is difficult to mess with, it’s a simple item of food that has a familiar texture and structure and he would immediately notice if something was wrong), but he also manages to force down some mutton for protein.

And then it’s time to leave. Usually he wouldn’t bother leaving until almost the meeting time, but he has to ride out with a guard of three to the pier, then board the small vessel there sent from the Ocean Queen (pulled by dolphins for maximum efficiency). It’s a much longer trip than normal, and once again Scott mourns the use of his wings (which will return to him, he’s just being dramatic, but still—two weeks of no flying?).

When they arrive, several pins-and-needles-filled hours later, Scott’s swept into a hug.

He freezes, staring almost uncomprehendingly at Lizzie’s arms around him. Her arms brush wrong against his damaged feathers, but it’s a touch that isn’t meant to hurt, isn’t meant to make him scream.

So, despite the twinges of pain, Scott briefly wraps his arms around her with a pat, then carefully extracts himself.

He sees a flash of some strange mixture of emotion on her face—guilt and relief warring for dominance—before it settles into a mask of welcome, one so believable that Scott had seen it dozens of times before without realizing its truth.

“It’s good to see you safe,” Lizzie greets warmly, eyes flicking for a moment to the brace around his knee (that one, unlike the one immobilizing his wing, will be off within the week) before meeting his eyes again.

Scott tries for a smile. He doesn’t think he quite manages it.

Lizzie leads him inside, taking him down winding hallways slower than she normally would to accommodate him. It’s not a long walk, but Scott can already feel his energy flagging by the time they reach the room where they’re meeting.

“Jimmy’s the only one we’re waiting on. Pix flew in about ten minutes ago—he likes being early. Joel’s hardly left all week, of course. We’ve set up one of the lounges, just so things are a little more comfortable—”

And with that, Lizzie opens the door to an open, airy room.

Cushions and pillows and blankets are strewn about the floor, a couple of low seats and chaises here and there. A well-lit pool extends out of the wall, a handful of colorful fish swimming through it.

Joel is flat on his back by the pool, one hand trailing lazily through the water. Pix is a meter or two from him, feet tucked under him as he kneels on a cushion.

Both men wave at him, and as Scott’s in the process of greeting them individually, a familiar cod head pops up from the pool.

“Scott!” Jimmy cries, heaving himself out of the pool. He goes to hug him and Scott takes an unconscious step back—Jimmy’s dripping water, really, he doesn’t want to be soaked—but when the same guilt (less guarded, longer lasting) flashes across Jimmy’s face as it had across his sister’s, Scott acquiesces to a quick hug.

Jimmy seems reluctant to let go of him when Scott pulls away, holding him at arm’s length while his eyes scan every inch of his body.

“You look tired,” Jimmy finally says, seemingly unconsciously reaching up to tuck a curl of Scott’s hair behind his ear. Scott swallows (Jimmy doesn’t know what he’s doing it’s entirely platonic), then tugs free, rolling his shoulders to feel that good almost-painful stretch.

“I’m fine,” he mutters. He knows that the shadows under his eyes, the braces on his knee and wing, and the bruises in various stages of healing that paint his skin all belie his words.

He sits on one of the two chaises in the room, the back of it swooping low enough for him to rest his wings there without discomfort. Jimmy plops down beside him just as Lizzie calls the meeting to order.

For the state of panic that the alliance is in, it’s quite possibly the calmest meeting Scott’s been a part of. Lizzie talks of the reinforced guard at the location of the End Portal, mentions that there have been zero reports of border troubles. Jimmy brings up that Mythland’s been almost silent.

That’s about it for the meeting, or Scott thinks it is before Lizzie jumps and turns to him, fishing something out of a surprisingly deep pocket in her skirt.

“Scott, one of Joel’s people found your communicator in a bush a little way down the road from the pier,” she tells him, handing the device to him. Scott checks it over. The screen is a bit scratched, but it otherwise is in as good condition as he can hope.

It’s good to have the familiar weight of it back in his palm. He runs a finger along the small gouge in the side, represses a yawn. Now that he has this, they can keep him updated without necessarily having to call a meeting. Maybe he can leave, duck out under the pretense of having work to do, and if there’s anything important remembered later, they can message him. Jimmy’s been side-eyeing him the entire meeting, so Scott can’t kid himself into believing that his utter exhaustion has gone unnoticed. Would it be suspicious to leave early? Would it be a weakness to reveal exactly how tired he is by leaving before everything is formally over?

The conversation has shifted to light discussion about the wedding, which, shockingly, was only something around two weeks ago. Scott blinks past the blurriness and black spots in his vision—he can’t sleep won’t sleep they won’t let him—and focuses hard on the conversation.

“—went over well,” Lizzie’s saying when he tunes in. “We were worried that guests from other kingdoms would be upset over missing the first dance, but everyone seemed really excited about keeping to tradition!”

“I think I distracted them from their disappointment,” Jimmy pipes up. “My speech was the best one there!”

“Oh, ‘course it was your speech that distracted them and not my radiant bride, makes sense to me. . . .”

“I mean, c’mon! Joel, your great-aunt pulled me aside just to tell me that I ought to be a professional speech-giver! I don’t recall her saying anything about Lizzie.”

“That’s just ‘cause Great-Aunt Winifreda hates Lizzie, and you know it, Jim—”

Scott’s slipping down on the chaise, more and more to the side, but that’s fine. His shoulders hurt, and this position is a good bit more comfortable. He lets his eyes flutter shut—he’s not sleeping, just relaxing a bit—and lets the conversation lull him deeper and deeper into the blackness behind his eyes. He’s not going to fall asleep, though. He’s just going to rest for a moment.

“I quite enjoyed your speech, Jimmy, but I think the best part was certainly the airshow the next day.” “Oh, I—” Jimmy’s voice falters a bit— “I missed most of that. Was it any good?”

“It was—”

“My people outdid themselves, Jim, you’ll never see anything like it again. . . .”

Scott’s head slips further and further down the cushion, and the voices die down to oblivion as he lets out a slow breath and fully lets his head fall.

“. . . like he’s not slept in days. Did he say anything to you?”

“. . . . No. He—well, he fell asleep while I was still carrying him out. Then, when he woke up—you guys were there—as soon as he ate something, he wanted to go home. He barely said a word.”

“Jimmy . . . I hate to say it, but I think they hurt him really badly. It doesn’t have to be us, but he needs to talk to someone about it.”

“What, you think I don’t know? I—I found him, Lizzie, I found him all chained up and bleeding—and the things they’d done—he was barely even coherent—”

He shifts, ever so slightly, and the conversation halts with a hasty shhh. He doesn’t pull himself out of the pleasant, drowsy darkness he’s floating in, just presses his head into the warm thing he’s up against. There’s something in his barely-tangible hair, and he nudges up at it.

The thing he’s against rumbles as someone chuckles, then a hand begins running through his hair again, having frozen when he’d moved. He sighs contentedly, relaxes even further.

“This is so cute.”

“I hate it.”

Slowly, with the comfortable warmth against him and the soothing hand in his hair, he slips back into nothingness.

He comes close to the surface again, a whisper partially rousing him.

“Do you want me to bring you something to eat?”

“Nah, I’m good.” An almost silent laugh. “My legs are asleep though, so I might have to take you up on that later.”

The hand is still carding through his hair, and it’s safe. So very very safe. So safe, in fact, that he can let himself sink back down.

“. . . him up soon, probably.”

“You think?”

“Look at the way he’s all bent, that can’t be good for his back. Besides, it’s getting late. They’ll think he’s been kidnapped again or something.”

Kidnapped. A not-nice feeling, a squirming deep inside, accompanies that word. He frowns, tilts his head a bit. The hand has stopped again. It starts back up at his movement, and he pushes minutely closer.

“I just can’t bear to wake him. I think you were right earlier, Joel—Scott doesn’t just fall asleep places. He probably hasn’t slept properly in a while.”

A snort. “Well, certainly not in Sausage’s torture dungeon, from the looks of things.”

An actual shudder runs through him at those words, the squirming feeling back full-force. The hand in his hair freezes, and after a moment, a voice asks softly, “Scott? You awake?”

He grunts a little—he’s not sure if he is or not, but he definitely doesn’t want to be pulled from this pleasant, warm darkness. The hand hesitantly returns to its motions.

“What do I do?”

“Is he awake?”

“I don’t know!”

“I don’t either! Ask him again, moron!”

A gentle rub of his upper arm. “Scott?” the voice asks again, a little louder. “Are you awake?”

He is now, he supposes.

Scott finally lets his eyes flutter open, just enough to see beyond his eyelashes. It’s a bit blurry, but across from him . . . Joel, he thinks, sitting up on a cushion on the floor . . . where’s Lizzie? Is she here too?

Joel’s staring at him, and when Scott meets his eyes, he smirks a little. “Yep. Those are some sparkling sapphire orbs if I’ve ever seen ‘em.”

“Hey, Scott,” the other voice says from just above him, and Scott cranes his neck up and around to see—

Jimmy’s smiling down at him, and it’s his hand in Scott’s hair, and something’s wrong about the angle he’s at and it takes Scott an embarrassingly long amount of time to realize that he’s laid out in Jimmy’s lap, for Aeor’s sake.

He shoots up, shoving himself off Jimmy clumsily as his body remembers how to work. “Exor’s antlers, Jimmy, I’m sorry—”

“No, no, it’s fine—”

“I shouldn’t have—” Scott’s cut off as a yawn pulls his mouth wide open. He can feel the blood draining from his face, shame thick in his mind because he’d somehow fallen asleep on top of Jimmy and his mind is going places it really shouldn’t go.

Joel’s laughing at him which makes things even worse, because of course people would’ve seen him asleep, he fell asleep in the middle of a meeting! It’s no wonder he was such an easy target for fWhip—

“Hey, it’s all right,” Jimmy tells him sincerely, a light pink dusting his cheeks. Great, Scott’s embarrassed him. “Really. I’m just glad you got some rest.”

“I—” Scott rubs at his burning eyes, glances around the room. It’s just the three of them, Joel still snickering into his fist. “How long was I out?”

Jimmy shrugs, but a voice comes from behind him.

“A couple of hours,” Lizzie says, striding into the room. Scott’s head jerks to follow her as she enters, and she sends him a smile. “If you don’t mind me saying, it was really quite cute.”

If he wasn’t white as a sheet before, he definitely is now. This is terrible. This is so—so humiliating, that he’s managed to fall asleep in Jimmy’s lap—and not only sleep there, but if he remembers correctly, he’d even been practically cuddling him at some point during his nap. That’s absolutely mortifying.

“Supper’s almost been prepared, and it would be lovely to have you join us, Scott,” says Lizzie warmly, gracefully lowering herself to a cushion beside Joel. “If you’d like, we can even have a guest suite made up for you.”

It’s tempting. Scott’s still so tired, his bones aching with the pull of sleep. He doesn’t want to have to sail back to the coastlands of Rivendell then ride up through the mountains. But. . . .

He can’t. For one thing, there’s no way any time soon that he’ll be eating food he didn’t prepare himself. It’s too easy for even someone trusted to miss the potion slipped in, or to poison it themselves. And he doesn’t feel like keeping the whole palace awake with his screaming nightmares.

Perhaps most prominently, he doesn’t think he can face Jimmy for an entire meal.

Scott takes a deep breath, tries to compose himself. He’s royalty. He has nothing to be ashamed of, despite the twisting of his insides that make him want to hide in a hole forever.

“Thank you for the offer,” he says stiffly, fighting to keep his heavy tongue from tripping over the words. “I believe I should head back to Rivendell, though.”

“Will you be okay?”

Scott waves off Jimmy’s concern, reluctantly pulling himself to his aching feet. “I—I’ll have my guards. I’ll be safe. Thank you for the concern.”

There’s a moment, a long moment where the other three in the room exchange a glance. Then Jimmy clears his throat, stands.

“Yeah, of course!” he says brightly. “I’ll walk you out.”

And Scott really doesn’t want to let Jimmy walk him out because he just fell asleep on the man’s lap and he’s not sure how to apologize, but he nods and follows him out the door.

Jimmy doesn’t leave him on his own until he’s boarded the boat, the dolphins ready and waiting to bring him home. He stands on the dock and watches as the boat is pulled away, and Scott subtly keeps an eye over his shoulder until they’re too far away to make out anything but endless water in the setting sun.

Just like every night so far, Scott’s up again before he can properly fall asleep.

He’s been laying in bed reading by candlelight for hours, waiting until his eyes droop and the words melt into each other. When he finally reached that point, he hurriedly blew out the candle and laid back, hoping he could trick his mind into falling asleep before it even realized what he was doing.

Yet here he is, barely ten minutes later, his heart pounding out of his chest as a phantom whip cracks across his wings.

It’s bad. It’s very, very bad that he can’t sleep, because he doesn’t function well on low levels of sleep and Rivendell is on the precipice of war and he needs to be able to lead his empire. He’s managed to avoid a meeting with his council on what happened so far because of his injuries, but he can’t put it off forever and he certainly can’t put off sleeping any longer.

He can’t sleep, though.

He just—he can’t.

At this point, even looking at his bed makes his anxiety spike. He can’t even think of closing his book without tears building in his eyes, and it’s horrible and the worst result of anything he’s gone through ever and he wants to murder fWhip—and Sasusage—and Joey—

Scott sits up properly, shoving his covers back and running both hands down his face. This is the worst. This sucks so much. He wants to cry he’s so tired, he can’t stop yawning, his head keeps falling of its own accord, but he’s certain that even closing his eyes at this point would send him into a manic episode.

Which is stupid, because he’s slept. He’s slept twice without any help since escaping, and he would think the problem was his bedroom if he hadn’t tried every bedroom in the palace and even a few choice sofas and armchairs and, last night, a patch of floor.

(The floor had been the worst. The floor had made him truly believe he was back there, and he was up on his knees and begging as Joey sneered before he realized where he was.)

He’s slept twice. The first time was right when he was rescued—that was possibly his longest period of sleep in years, thirteen hours if what Jimmy said was accurate. And then just two days ago he’d embarrassed himself at that alliance meeting by falling asleep on Jimmy’s lap, and Aeor he can still feel the shame.

There has to be a connecting factor. Scott stands, the bottoms of his feet protesting, and limps over to his desk. There he pulls out a sheet of paper and the quill he’d made from one of his own feathers, dips it in ink. Instead of making any sort of list, though, he just absentmindedly scribbles. Little spirals, piles of squares, an owl or two. He thinks, and while he thinks, he keeps his hands busy.

The first time there was a bed, the second time it was a chaise. No connection there. The first time he’d been exhausted out of his mind, but the second time . . . the same, actually. That isn’t helpful, though, because he’s still so tired that his entire body is shaking and he can barely force his eyes to stay open, let alone process what they see.

In the first instance, he had been in the Cod Empire, so maybe it was the muggy evening air? But the second time had been inside the Prisma Palace, and there the air is possibly more humid yet far cooler.

Scott drops his quill to dig the heels of his hands into his eyes, a frustrated growl escaping through gritted teeth. He’s an emperor, he’s one hundred and nine, he should be able to sleep! If the only times he can sleep are at Jimmy’s house and in Jimmy’s lap, what kind of—

He gasps, the quill falling from his suddenly limp fingers.

No.

Jimmy.

Jimmy’s the connecting factor.

Aeor’s got to be laughing at him. Exor, too, while he’s at it. They have to be, because of all the things to soothe him enough to let him sleep, it has to be Jimmy, the man he’s fallen into unrequited love with.

There’s no way. He can’t just turn up on Jimmy’s doorstep, asking if there’s room in his bed for two but not like that, just in a totally-friendly entirely-platonic way. He’s not that desperate.

“Can I sleep with you?”

Jimmy takes a step back into his house, face instantly flushing, and Scott feels the blood drain from his own as he realizes just what words have fallen from his clumsy mouth.

“Not like that!” he adds frantically, waving his hands to dispel the notion. “I just—it’s really—you don’t—” he’s already messed everything up, his eyes are burning and his vision blurring and the sun’s only just set but he’d been so afraid Jimmy had already gone to bed—

“Scott,” Jimmy interrupts kindly, opening the front door a bit wider. “Why don’t you come in?”

Scott closes his mouth, then follows Jimmy in. He immediately gravitates toward his normal spot on the sofa before halting. He’s here to ask Jimmy the most mortifying question ever, then Jimmy will kick him out and he’ll go home. He doesn’t have time to get comfortable.

“Are those—did you put a pair of elytra on over your wings?” asks Jimmy incredulously, handing Scott a glass of water. Scott glances behind himself, shrugs.

He had, but only because he hadn’t wanted anyone in Rivendell to know he was leaving. His wings are still bound for at least the next week, and though his shoulders ache like he’d tied boulders to them, he’d managed to get here in under an hour with no boats involved (and he hasn’t used an elytra set in decades, so it’s fairly impressive if he does say so himself).

“Don’t worry about it,” Scott tells him, taking the water and walking past Jimmy to the kitchen, where he places the glass in the sink. “I—”

“Do you want something to eat? I’ve already—”

“Jimmy, can I just say my piece and leave?” Scott says, and maybe his voice is so tense because he’s frustrated and maybe it’s because he’s close to tears. Jimmy, however, falls silent, waits.

Scott takes a deep breath. He already asked the question, he just needs to clarify. ‘I can’t . . . I can’t sleep,” he admits, gripping the kitchen counter to keep his hands from trembling. “I—I keep trying and I can’t, I just—I freak out and it’s not okay and nothing works. I can’t—I just can’t do it, and the only times I’ve been able to sleep since—you know—is when you’re here. So if it’s all right, I want to know if I can . . . sleep in your house tonight. To see if that helps and work things out from there. You don’t have to say yes, I’ll go, it’s fine I’ll figure something out I swear it but—”

“Yeah, that sounds fine.” Jimmy steps around Scott as his mouth falls open, pours out the water in the glass and sets the glass on the counter to dry.

Scott’s brain catches up a few seconds later and he spins around, barely daring to hope—

“You mean it? I can—I can sleep?” His voice cracks on the last word, and there are the tears again, but he’s just so relieved that he’s allowed to sleep, they’re finally letting him sleep—

Jimmy raises a brow, somehow managing to look both sardonic and concerned. “Wouldn’t make me much of a friend if I didn’t at least let you try,” he says. “Besides, I don’t mind sharing!” He laughs a little bit as he opens the cupboard, gestures for Scott to choose a glass of his own. “You were real cuddly the other day, it was nice.”

Scott doesn’t process that. He’s still stuck on the fact that Jimmy’s agreed, Jimmy’s going to let him sleep and then everything will be okay again. He does shuffle through the glasses in the cupboard though, wincing as his shoulders burn. He takes one, fills it with water, and drinks.

It’s safe water. Jimmy’s safe. Jimmy’s going to let him sleep and Scott’s so relieved that the tears he’s been holding back this whole time start to spill down his cheeks.

He dashes them away angrily, and thankfully Jimmy doesn’t comment on it, only rocks back and forth on his heels awkwardly.

“So . . . right now?” he asks, and Scott nods almost desperately. Jimmy nods back, leads the way through the living room and into . . . Jimmy’s bedroom. Where he’d stayed the last time.

“I—but you’re sleeping here—”

Jimmy’s already throwing back the tie quilt on the bed, scoffs when he hears the confusion in Scott’s voice. “It’s a huge bed, there’s room for both of us.”

Scott blinks at the bed. No. He can’t get into a bed with Jimmy, not when he’s already delirious from lack of sleep. But Jimmy’s stripping off his shirt right in front of him and Scott’s mouth goes utterly dry and his brain shuts down enough that he can barely shake his head when Jimmy asks if he brought nightclothes.

He somehow remembers to kick off his boots and tug off the elytra, but his body moves of its own volition, too desperate for sleep to even consider leaving the room to lie on the sofa. He’s in bed before he knows it, half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, and then Jimmy’s climbing in next to him. He’s in bed with Jimmy.

Jimmy turns down the lantern until it’s barely glowing, settles in and pulls the covers up over them. “Just kick off the blanket if it’s too warm, it doesn’t matter,” Jimmy yawns.

It’s sudden, it’s so very sudden, and Scott doesn’t know if it’s because within five minutes of being here Jimmy had actually led him directly to his bed or if more happened that he doesn’t remember. He’s here now, though, and sand is weighing on his eyelids, so he shifts until his wings are facing out (and, consequently, he is facing Jimmy), and tries to sleep.

Jimmy rolls over too, smiles at him. “Hey,” he whispers. Scott can’t help but snort out a laugh. They’re just two children at a sleepover, aren’t they? This doesn’t mean anything to Jimmy.

“Sorry about this,” he whispers back. “I just—I’m so tired, Jimmy.”

Jimmy reaches out, rubs his arm soothingly. Scott practically melts into the touch—safe touch, safe sleep, safe Jimmy—and lets his eyes flutter closed.

“It’s okay. Sleep, I’ve got you.” And Scott does.

The next night, he can barely look at his own bed without wanting to throw up.

Sleeping over at Jimmy’s is going to become a regular occurrence, then. Which would be fine, except his wings are still bound and his shoulders hurt badly from the harness of the elytra tugging on them. He can maybe stay awake for tonight, but that will put him back into that desperate, exhausted state that he just doesn’t have time for.

He’d managed to get away with his sudden disappearance by messaging Ilphas when he woke up late the next morning, reassuring them that he hadn’t been kidnapped again, he’d just been called away in the early hours to a rather urgent meeting. That isn’t going to work for every night of the foreseeable future, though.

He’s going to have to go about this in a smart way. If he leaves after dark, he won’t be spotted flying out. If he returns before the sun is risen, he won’t be caught flying back in.

That gives him probably six hours to safely sleep at the Cod Empire, seven or even eight when his wings are fully recovered and the elytra aren’t slowing him down. The flight to the Cod Empire is probably twenty minutes with good winds, thirty if not. He’ll have to watch cloud coverage as well, make sure a storm isn’t going to start during his stay.

But for tonight, he just dons his elytra over his covered wings, straps a backpack to his chest with nightclothes and safe food, and sets out.

Jimmy’s expecting him when he arrives, pulling the door open before he’s even properly landed. Scott skids into the house and would’ve fallen flat on his face had it not been for Jimmy grabbing him by the harness.

The both stand there awkwardly for a few moments, and Scott knows Jimmy’s searching for something to say to defuse the situation. “Let’s just cut the small talk,” he says, letting some of the still-lingering exhaustion leak into his voice. “Is it all right if I sleep in your home for the foreseeable future? I would attempt to work myself back up to sleeping at Rivendell, but I currently don’t have the time to be losing sleep.”

Jimmy’s tense smile grows soft, and Scott notices that he’s already wearing a nightshirt. “Yeah, of course,” he says, locking the front door. “If you brought anything to change into, you can use the bedroom. Or I’ve got some spare stuff.”

Scott pats his backpack, then stands there for a few seconds more, head still foggy enough for his actions to be delayed (bad, that can’t happen—what if someone attacks him or sneaks up from behind and smashes a potion over his head), before unbuckling his elytra and hanging them on a hook beside the front door.

He changes in Jimmy’s bedroom quickly, leaving his travel clothes in a folded pile on the floor by the side of the bed he slept on last time. Then he lets Jimmy in, and somehow more uncomfortable than last time, they climb into bed and Jimmy turns the lamp low.

Scott pulls the covers up to his chin and thinks about how unfair it is that he has to face Jimmy because of his wings while Jimmy can look anywhere he wants. He doesn’t say anything, though, just lies there and lets his breathing slow.

Maybe it’s because he actually slept last night, but it’s harder to drift away tonight. He’s just staring at the back of Jimmy’s head, fidgeting with the edge of the tie quilt. If he shifts, will it disturb Jimmy? Will it pull the blankets away from him? Will Jimmy be upset if Scott accidentally steals the covers in his sleep?

It’s not until Jimmy’s breathing evens out that Scott feels okay with closing his eyes. He settles deeper into the pillow, sighing slightly. He can’t think about just how awkward this is—he can’t think about how he’s in a room that smells like Jimmy with Jimmy right there, solid and warm and asleep beside him—he just needs to sleep. He can sleep here.

It’s just as the darkness behind his eyes begins to fade into oblivion that panic seizes his throat.

He’s up in an instant, throwing off the covers—too much, so much—and he can’t quite get a hold of himself. He’s—he can’t sleep, he just can’t, they aren’t here they aren’t going to hurt him but his brain doesn’t know that and they could be here at a moment’s notice. He’s breathing too fast, he’s breathing too fast but he can’t stop, even just the sound of crickets chirping outside is too much, he’s so tired and he’s about to fall asleep and he can’t sleep or it’ll hurt so so bad—

“Scott?”

He whips around; Jimmy’s sitting up in bed, covering his mouth to stifle a yawn.

“I’m awake,” he bursts out, flinching at how loud his own voice is, like he can feel the vibrations running up his throat and through his teeth. “I can’t—I can’t sleep, I can’t do it, everything’s so bad and I can’t do it—”

“How about you lie down, and try again?” Jimmy suggests.

Scott sucks in a breath, considers. He’s been able to sleep with Jimmy before. Jimmy being here is the necessary stipulation to sleeping. Maybe he can try again?

He nods cautiously, then climbs back into bed and tries to take a few calming breaths. His brain is still going a bit haywire, but everything’s okay.

Jimmy settles back in, on his back now instead of facing away from Scott. Scott lies there, tries to force the tension in his chest to ease. Everything’s okay. He is okay.

He swallows repeatedly, hoping it’ll do something to tamp down the fear. Jimmy’s here with him, and Jimmy makes it safe. He knows this.

When he tries to close his eyes twenty minutes later, he’s choking again.

He can do this. He just has to breathe through it. He just has to breathe, even though the bands on his chest are tightening and his wings are stuck in one position and the blanket is too scratchy and his racing heart is so loud in his ears—

He can’t, he can’t, he’s up before he even knows what’s happening and sobs are tearing from his throat. He dashes blindly until he runs into a wall shoulder first, and he’s crying and gasping and he wants to die because they’ve broken him, he’s never going to sleep, everything is so terrible—

“Scott, can you breathe with me?”

The words are too loud, far too loud but Scott opens his eyes (when had he closed them? He can’t close them, he can’t sleep) to see that Jimmy is once again sitting up. He’s doing something—demonstrating breathing, he’s taking in an exaggerated breath and holding it and then letting it out, and Scott tries to follow but his lungs won’t respond properly. He shakes his head mutely, hands clenching and unclenching, breathing speeding up—“I can’t do it,” he gasps out. “I can’t breathe, I can’t sleep, I thought it would work but it didn’t and I can’t—I can’t—”

“Breathe, Scott,” Jimmy says gently, and irritation is bleeding into the freakout because Scott just said he can’t breathe, wasn’t Jimmy listening?

The room brightens slightly, and Jimmy turns away from the lamp on the bedside table and stands, nightshirt wrinkled and hair tousled. His hands are still gesturing around his chest, miming breaths for Scott to follow. He can’t follow them, of course, he can’t do anything now that he’s broken—

“Scott, are you with me?”

He manages a nod, and his legs are wobbly under him but he won’t fall, if he falls they’ll just hurt him worse. . . .

“It’s okay,” Jimmy reassures, and Scott can’t help the anger in his response.

“No, it’s not!”

“I think you’re having a panic attack,” Jimmy continues, still in that unbearably calm voice. “Can you stop pulling on your hair?”

Scott hadn’t even realized he was doing it, but now that it’s been brought up, he’s acutely aware of his nails digging into his scalp and a couple of strands coming loose as he tugs. He stops, forcing his hands to grip his trousers instead.

He can’t look at Jimmy—Jimmy’s still doing that stupid breathing thing—so he looks beyond, and his eyes catch on the bed and his breathing (which had gotten marginally better) ramps up again. “I can’t,” he breathes, pressing himself against the wall. “I can’t sleep—I can’t do this—”

“Scott, I need you to listen to me.”

And Scott does listen, because it’s Jimmy.

“What they did—it doesn’t define what you can and cannot do,” Jimmy says seriously. “If you believe you can sleep, you can. You’re not broken.”

“You don’t know what they did to me!” Scott cries out, and flashes—fWhip, beating him with that halberd over and over—Sausage, forcing him to eat drugged food—Joey, whipping the soles of his feet—his wings—the shackles—his poor mind, broken for nothing because he’d given up the information in the end anyway—

“I don’t, you’re right.” Jimmy’s even voice cuts through the memories, and Scott blinks a couple of times until he can see Jimmy in front of him, blurry and wavering through the tears in his eyes.

“I don’t know what they did. And you don’t have to tell me. But I know it hurt you, and seeing you hurting is the worst thing in the world.”

Scott can certainly relate to that—he remembers just how terrifying it had been, months ago, to carry a bleeding and quietly crying Jimmy back from that clearing in the woods.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, but Jimmy shakes his head.

“Not your fault,” he says. “It will never be your fault that you’re hurting. Can you tell me what you’re feeling right now?”

Scott takes stock of himself, because Jimmy asked him to and he can at least try. “I’m—everything is too much,” he finally admits after going over every panicked thought in his brain to find the least offensive one. When Jimmy frowns, confused, he continues, “It’s loud, and—and the blanket was scratchy, and there’s just—there’s so much,” he finishes lamely. Jimmy nods.

“Like, you feel like your senses are overloaded with all the things?”

Of course. Of course he has to be having sensory overload during the worst night of his life. He nods.

“Okay, that’s good! Not—not the senses thing, but—you communicated that to me!” Jimmy looks genuinely proud. He can’t be, though. All Scott had done was nod, he couldn’t even remember what it was called, he hadn’t even really told Jimmy anything.

“Do you know what you need to make that better?”

And the funny thing is, Scott does know what he needs. If he’d been at home, he would’ve drug the weighted blanket out of the closet and curled under it in bed, earplugs in and eyes closed. He knows how to handle sensory overload, even though he shouldn’t be dealing with it—he’s an adult, after all; what would his parents think if they saw how pitiful and incapable he is now?

“Pressure,” he eventually croaks. “Weight. On me.”

Jimmy glances around. “All I’ve got is the blanket, but you said it was too scratchy—” and then he blushes, turning red to his gills. “I—well, if you’re all right with physical contact, I can—I can sorta lie—um, on top of you?”

It’s a credit to how bad he’s really feeling that Scott only sniffles and nods, not cracking any sort of dirty joke. Jimmy beckons Scott back to the bed and shoves back the covers while Scott, trembling, climbs in.

“Okay, I’m—I’m gonna get on top of you, yeah?”

Scott nods, and then ever so gently, Jimmy lowers his body onto Scott’s. Despite the care, the air in his lungs is forced out in a big sigh as Jimmy’s weight settles on his chest, and Scott feels himself relaxing without his own input.

This is nice. This is right. His wings are caught awkwardly under him, and he knows he won’t be able to lie on his back for long, but for a moment, he just lets his body loosen.

“Is this okay?” whispers Jimmy, his chin hooked over Scott’s shoulder, and Scott presses his face into Jimmy’s shoulder and breathes in the light scents of berries and vinegar and Jimmy. This is more than okay.

They lie there in silence for long enough that Scott feels the tears dry on his cheeks, feels his body start to slip into a doze. He’s so tired. He’s safe.

His wings ache, though, and he knows that while his head is still filled with a low-level buzz of peace and safety, he needs to try and sleep. So he taps Jimmy on the arm until Jimmy slides off, then shifts onto his side, pain in his wings giving way to relief.

“I think I’mma sleep,” he mumbles, and Jimmy laughs a little bit before curling up beside him, one arm still thrown over Scott’s waist.

And it’s unfair. It’s not fair at all that these are the only conditions under which he can sleep. It’s not fair that so many things have been taken from him.

Maybe it’s the bleary state of consciousness he’s in, maybe it’s the vulnerability, but he needs someone to confirm that what he went through wasn’t fair.

“Jimmy,” he says, and Jimmy blinks up at him.

“Hm?”

“It’s not fair.” “What’s not fair?”

There’s tears in his eyes again, but Scott’s too drowsy to do anything about it. “They wouldn’t let me sleep,” he confesses, voice barely-there. “They hurt me if I even closed my eyes. They only let me sleep once and it wasn’t even real, fWhip lied.”

“Oh, darling,” Jimmy murmurs, and he’s blushing again but Scott doesn’t know why. He forges on.

“They wouldn’t let me sleep, and—and the food was bad, there was stuff in it, they made me see things—” he shudders, buries his face in Jimmy’s chest. “It was so bad,” he manages, voice muffled against Jimmy’s nightshirt. “They were always hurting me, and no one was looking for me, and I—I thought I was going to die—”

“Shh, you’re okay. It’s all going to be okay now.”

“—and it wasn’t fair!”

“No, it wasn’t fair at all,” Jimmy soothes. Scott calms a bit at that—Jimmy agrees. He never should’ve gone through that.

Jimmy’s hands are carding through his hair, and Scott relaxes even further, letting himself be lulled deeper into darkness by the calming motion.

He’s safe here. Jimmy won’t let go of him, won’t let anyone hurt him.

With that in mind, Scott quickly falls asleep.

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cloudbattrolls · 6 months

Text

Fish in a Birdcage

Process | Present Night | Starsight

This drabble is set some time after Take it From the Top.

Blood rushed through Process, blood they had to breathe to refuel, that couldn’t be restricted nor redirected, blood that became saliva and so many other troublesome fluids, yellow blood that marked them as disposable to the empire.

Torvah’s blood.

Perhaps they should have taken comfort in that; that at least they had the exact same hue as their old friend, thanks to that friend’s descendant.

They didn’t seem capable. Comfort - once something they had not needed at all, now something they instinctively craved - felt as out of reach as the stars.

They laid face down on their couch, which was neither too firm nor too soft. Their clothing was light and breathable against their skin; the only kind of fabric they could bear. They wore headphones to shut out the world and their awareness of their own heavy body with its blood, skin, and bone.

But the headphones brought another issue.

“Set me free, Pro.” Came the usual singsong voice, the one they’d heard ever since being ousted from their Spine.

“You can’t do the job anymore! And let’s face it - Jastes needs the help.”

“Shut up.” They murmured, pointless as it was.

They were used to the incessant chatter by now. Yet sometimes it still grated, feelings they now couldn’t rewrite or nullify at will.

They suppressed them as best they could, by meditation and by asking Chimer for suppressants. Yet she only gave them so many, gently but firmly insisting they had to learn to adjust to life as a troll.

“You are no fun.” Sighed the voice breathily. “I have one person to talk to in the whole world and it’s you. This is not what Torvah wanted! Like, at all. I am posi.”

Torvah hadn’t always been right. Process had loved their friend, when they’d been able to…but Torvah had been as flawed as any other troll.

“Nothing? No retort? You knoooow I’m right. And you still let me sit here. Selfish! You’re toxic to me. I’m writing a chittr callout.”

“You aren’t funny.” Said Process, deadpan.

“You have like, zippo sense of humor, chummy chum pal friend buddy pal amigo buddy friend -“

Process put it on mute with a tap to one of the headphone buttons, for all the good it would do.

Five seconds later, the voice came back, petulant.

“When I get out of here, we are going to have a serious conversation. For real. Cross my heart!”

“I can’t set you free even if I wanted to, given what I am now.” Process said, blunt as always. “You must have realized that.”

A long pause stretched through the seconds like a spiderweb between two corners, fragile and tenuous.

“Huh!” Said the voice at last, cheerfully. “That’s neat. You’re telling the truth…or you think you are. I bet Jamie would have something to say about that. No, Pro, I didn’t know that. One of us got told everything.”

“Let me see if I can shed a few tears for you.” Said Process, drier than desert sand.

“Salty! Is it because you’re trapped in a fleshy husk and will definitely die some day?” It asked, even more cheerful.

“I don’t fear death.” Said Process calmly. “This existence is already a kind of death.”

“Ow, the edge! Stew away for all I care. I’m getting out.”

The last three words cut into Process’s ears, warped and rough, unlike the chipper or pouty tones they’d come to expect. Now they were rough, full of static, hungry even.

“It will be interesting to watch you try.” Murmured Process.

“Watch away! You wouldn’t want to miss the show. I have several star performers in mind.” The voice giggled, returned to its usual light tones.

“You sound stupid.” Deadpanned Process.

“Oh, you can give a whole monologue, but when I make one comment I’m cringe? You’re cringe.”

“Get off chittr.” Advised the yellowblood.

“You’re not my real dad.” Retorted the voice, singsong.

“Leeson is lucky he’s dead.” They responded.

“Harsh! If he had a ghost I’d tattle. If I could talk to literally anyone else. Leesoooon, Pro is bullying meeeee.”

Process sighed. The voice giggled again.

“Aw, am I getting on your nerves, Pro? Are all those chemicals shooting around your noggin a real pain? Sad! For you.”

Process shook their head, even though it was a pointless gesture. They felt compelled to do such things more and more, being in this body now. They shifted slightly, remembering their limbs would go numb if they didn’t move them enough.

“I’ll listen to you until I die if it means keeping you sealed.” They said. “Torvah was wrong. You aren’t ready.”

“Were you?” It purred. “You got beaten by children. Their children! What a night, the mighty Process brought down because Jastes tricked you. Did part of you want to lose? Did you feel a little bad, despite supposedly getting rid of all that?”

Process was silent.

“That’s the difference between you and me, Pro…I don’t feel bad.”

“I know.” Said the lowblood boredly.

There was a brief pause.

“Can you work with me here, commander killjoy?”

“No.”

“Lame.”

Process got up and got themself a glass of water. They still couldn’t stand anything more flavorful than the trace minerals in the plain liquid; and if it was too cold, they had to wait for it to become lukewarm.

All their nutrition came through purposefully bland chewable vitamins and what nutrient-heavy gruel they could choke down. Chimer had been concerned they would lose weight from their already slim build. They had dropped a few pounds before she had changed their diet.

They walked over to their viewing screen, glass in hand as they took small sips. They’d been allowed to have it recently, the tech giving them a feed to the street several floors below.

They couldn’t survive out there. The city they had watched over for so long would overwhelm them now. It was…yes, it was frustrating. That was the feeling.

They were so helpless. Even more than a regular troll.

If the one thing they could do was keep the Guardian in check, then they would.

That might be the last thing they’d ever do for their city, for of course the artifice was right.

One night they were going to die. It was true they didn’t fear it. Not for their own sake.

“Do not go gentle into that good night.” Murmured the former AI, watching passerby walk and cars speed through the street, even though it was almost dawn.

Civitrecce was always busy somewhere. Civitrecce always came back, no matter the natural or troll-made disaster. It had been built to last, ever since it was a much smaller, more peaceful place. Flawed and wretched as the city has become, Process still did not want its lowbloods and helms to endure further harm.

They would have to step outside their room to ensure that. To withstand the world without any true protection.

Some things were worth the weight of their overwhelming senses, dire enough to withstand the pain of it all.

The voice in their ears giggled, and finished the line of poetry with a far more gleeful, hungry tone.

“Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

#process #guardian artifice #cloud writes #I wouldn't worry about it #the sword of damocles

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gumnut-logic · 2 years

Photo

Apologies for spamming with Virgil pics. I haven’t managed to do much for him today. I’m suffering from fog brain and am sooo tired, so expect more later in the week when I’m feeling a little more energetic.

But in the meantime, after a day of zero writing, I thought I would highlight one of my favourite fics I have written that focusses on Virg. I really need to write a sequel to this one that happens after Jeff returns...and doesn’t realise something about one of his sons :D

-o-o-o-

The world was blurry as he let his head slide on one hand and stared out through the kitchen window. Gordon was in the pool, swimming his morning laps. The sun had yet to rise and Virgil had broken several laws of physics rising himself. This time of day should not exist. But then it didn’t, because it wasn’t day yet because there was no sun!

But no, supersonic big brother wanted to do some special training today. Training that for some reason had been scheduled at sunrise.

It was possibly important, likely scheduled just to get his ass out of bed at this godawful hour. Occasionally there were some issues with having your brother in command. Brotherly love only went so far, brotherly snark had more mileage, and Scott did have that twist of his lips when he announced the schedule.

Four pairs of eyes had immediately turned to him and his return glare had been insufficient to deflect the amusement that followed.

But it was okay. It was fine. He had his own skill drills up his sleeve. Two am would be convenient for him next time, definitely. After all, they all had to keep their skill sets up, didn’t they?

In the meantime, it was black coffee and repeated attempts to focus on Mateo. Mateo was distinctly blurry, and dark and...

“Hey, Virg!” Alan whacked him on the back.

His face nearly ended up in his coffee. “Alan? What the hell?”

“And good morning to you, too, big bro. Ready for this morning’s run?”

He stared at his bright and peppy, yes, peppy, youngest brother. Augh. “Go away.”

“Aww, did the big bear have to get out of bed a little early?”

“Alan...”

“C’mon, Virg, it’s gonna be fun. A race around the island, wind in your hair, blood pumping...it’s gonna be awesome.”

Virgil stared at him, his brain slowly picking up that something wasn’t quite right. “Alan, why aren’t you comatose?”

“What do you mean, big bro?”

A slow blink. “You hate mornings almost as much as I do. Who are you and what have you done with my little brother?” His eyelids drooped all of their own volition.

“It’s called prepared, bro. I’m in it to win it.”

Virgil’s eyes narrowed. “Are you on something? Because if you are, Scott’s going to kill you, and once I’m awake, I’ll resuscitate you so I can kill you again.”

“That’s violence, bro. It’s cool, I promise.”

An arched eyebrow that almost hurt. “What did you do, Alan?”

“Nothing. Well, nothing you aren’t already doing.”

“You drank coffee.”

“Noooooooo.”

“What did you do?”

“A little caffeine is all.”

The arched eyebrow flipped into a frown. “How much?”

“Enough.”

Virgil’s back straightened. “Alan.”

“I’m fine, bro, I promise. I know what I’m doing. I’m not stupid.” A blond frown. “Besides, it’s not like you don’t do the same with your coffee after coffee after coffee technique.”

Virgil’s lips thinned, but to be honest, the kid was right, he didn’t have a leg to stand on. But... “You’re not yet an adult, Alan.”

“Yet, I take the responsibilities of an adult, Virgil.”

“Your body isn’t fully mature!”

“Well, thanks for that, Doctor Virgil!”

“You have to look after yourself!”

“Hard to do anything else when I have four brothers mother-henning me all the time!”

“We worry about you!”

“Well, don’t! I can look after myself.”

“Alan!”

“Virgil!”

“Hey! What the hell is going on here?!”

Virgil found himself looming over his little brother, one brain cell after another slowly catching up with what the hell was going on. Bright blue eyes were staring up at him defiantly, his little brother’s shoulders tight and fists clenched at his sides.

Virgil forced his own fists to uncurl. There was a reason why he preferred not to see this time of day. Disturbed sleep disturbed his calm, his control, and things like this happened.

Scott loomed over the both of them and Virgil took a step back, slumping back onto his seat and hulking over his coffee almost in a pout. “Better ask Alan, he’s the one being stupid.”

“Speak for yourself, Virgil.”

“Both of you, shut it.” Scott could glare with the best of them, but Virgil had exhausted what little energy he had and ignored him. “Alan, dosed himself with caffeine.”

“Virgil!”

He could feel the laserbeams shooting out of Scott’s eyes switching targets and landing on Alan. There was no satisfaction, just blergh. Here we go.

And sure enough, Scott started in on his little brother. There was, of course, shouting. Virgil idly wondered how come Scott got to yell and he didn’t. But then Virgil didn’t really like yelling anyway.

Coffee. Its warmth drifted down his throat and spread into his bones. Oh god, he needed it. Maybe a second one after this? But then the word ‘caffeine’ came up amongst the explosions beside him and he reconsidered. No need to become a target himself.

He let his foggy mind drift a little. It was all his fault really. He could have gone to bed early, but he had made the mistake of getting into a discussion online with an engineering idiot. The topic had become heated, chemical formulas launched like bombs and laced with reactive equations enough to take out half the engineering community. In the end, he’d thrown a hissy fit and sat up to three am writing up his argument. He’d chucked it onto his blog with a great deal of satisfaction and was looking forward to rubbing it in the man’s face.

Just as soon as he could boot his brain.

Coffee, give me strength.

Gordon wandered in at some point, a damp towel around his neck. Being Gordon, he prodded the conflagration in progress and got burnt. The argument became three sided.

Virgil considered snoozing on the counter.

Then he hit on the idea that he could possibly sneak back to bed. He stood up slowly.

Brains bounded into the room, tablet in hand. “Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Brilliant, so b-brilliant!”

The argument came to a sudden halt, four pairs of eyes turning towards the engineer.

The engineer didn’t notice, eyes glued to his tablet. Max bounded in behind him, whirring excitedly. It was the robot who prevented the distracted Brains from walking into the kitchen counter.

“Oh, thank you, M-Max.” His eyes didn’t leave the tablet. “Did you see the p-polymer ratio? Amazing! Such elegance. You know, I am quite d-disap-pointed that I didn’t think of this myself. The applications are going to b-be in-numerable.”

The distraction was enough to break the fuel lines of the argument and Scott settled for a final threat, Alan a final glare and Gordon, a snort of derision. The moment to escape was lost and Virgil slumped where he sat.

Damn.

“Virgil, you going to eat before we run?”

Alan was right, Scott mother-henned.

“Maybe.” Ugh, c’mon coffee kick in. He needed operational braincells.

Scott was peering closely at him. “Earth to Virgil.”

“Shut up, Scott. You got me up at the ass end of the day, I’m here. Don’t expect much more.”

His brother grinned, and Virgil had the odd urge to thump him. Just because this was his element, didn’t mean he had to be a smart ass about it. “Your next physical is going to be hell.”

The grin faltered. Aah, that’s better. Hmm, perhaps his brain was slowly booting. Go, coffee.

“Virgil! You h-have to see these equations. They are brilliant!”

What? Brains’ tablet shifted the remains of his coffee to one side and Virgil found himself staring at a series of numbers that made little sense at this time of the morning. “Brains, looks great. Can I review them later? I’m not all here yet.”

The engineer didn’t appear to hear him. “Look at the polymer decay to reaction ratio! This is a self-healing polymer!”

Huh? He frowned and forced himself to focus. The appropriate neurons clicked into place in his brain and suddenly what he was seeing made sense.

Shit.

He grabbed the tablet, eyeing the equations and spinning calculations in his head. Brains was right. This was perfect. The polymer would be able to self-heal with the application of a mild electrical current. Give it a pattern to follow and it would populate and keep it populated, even after disturbance.

“Did you discover this, Brains?” He frowned. There was something familiar about this. Maybe they had discussed it recently.

“Oh, no, this is V. T. Green. The man is brilliant.” There was that word again. Brilliant.

But it still took a second for it all to click into place.

V. T. Green was his blog. V. T. Green was his pseudonym online, used for obvious reasons to keep his identity hidden. The blog had been for amusement originally. A place to stash his favourite music and art, but at some point, he had found himself venturing into engineering circles and getting into discussion with the online community. It made for interesting discourse and he was able to keep up to date with some of the latest innovations. Not that he could share his own much and IR was well ahead of the majority of the world thanks to one Hiram Hackenbacker, but on occasion he would fiddle with ideas and make suggestions. It was also a great place to postulate out-there concepts.

The equations on Brains’ tablet were Virgil’s.

“Where did you get these?”

Brains was full of far too much energy for this time of the morning. “Green p-posted them during the night and they have h-hit the world by s-storm.”

“What?”

Brains frowned at him. “Haven’t you heard of V. T. Green, Virgil? He is o-one of the leading engineers on this p-planet. I have been f-following his b-blog for over a year n-now. You r-really m-must check it out.”

“Um, must have missed that one.”

“H-how could you m-miss such an important s-site? I know you k-keep up to date. The man is at the centre of a massive discussion about polymer cohesion and decay. Last night, Coloncous in Spain had the nerve to challenge him in the most ridiculous manner. I was so close to cutting him off myself, he was embarrassing us all, but Green replied with this. As expected, it is a brilliant explanation and Coloncous had no choice but to concede and crawl back into the hole he should never have come out of in the first place. He was a fool to think he could go up against Green. But this solution has so many possibilities. Do you realise this could be integrated into Two’s cahelium hull and she would be able to heal damage midflight? Four would be able seal herself in an underwater emergency. So brilliant.”

Virgil stared at the engineer. He didn’t think he had ever heard Brains say so many words in a row. And his stutter had disappeared two sentences in.

“What did you say about sealing Four, Brains?” Gordon’s ears had obviously pricked up at the mention of his ‘bird.

Brains’ attention was immediately drawn to the aquanaut, his verbal diarrhoea spilling all over Gordon and freeing Virgil.

Taking the opportunity, he pulled out his phone and brought up the website.

Shit!

He had notifications enough to clog his inbox. Due to the early hour, his phone was still on silent and he hadn’t heard any of them. A quick glance identified several prominent names and universities.

Shit. His eyes widened.

He glanced up at his family who were now eagerly discussing safety seals for Thunderbird Four. Even Scott’s eyes were wide and enthusiastic.

Shit.

Um.

Yeah.

He needed more coffee.

-o-o-o-

V. T. Green

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #Virgil Tracy #Alan Tracy #Scott Tracy #Gordon Tracy #John Tracy #nuttyfic reblog

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