#how many times do you think I'll say titular in the first round

[obscure-skirmish]

Cobalt is a long forgotten character from the Astroboy series, also known as Mighty Atom, and is the brother of the titular Atom!

Pinky from de Blob 2 is the partner of de titular Blob and works with him to stop the evil INKT Corporation!

[stanleywbaxton]

Adventures in Alternative Fashion: The Chavs At Warrington Central

I don't dress normally.

This isn't something I say out of some need to fish for sympathy. When I'm going somewhere where I care about how I look, I dress head to toe in clothing part of, or adjacent to, the Japanese street fashion style known as 'ouji'. Go look that up for an idea what I look like. One of my favourite descriptions of this I've received was "A 19th century vampire who just discovered what punk is."

So, 'I don't dress normally' is a simple and unshakable fact.

This story takes place on a day I went out for a game dev meet. When I have an event straight after work, I'll go to the office in full regalia instead of the jeans and jumpers I usually wear on casual days. My coworkers, by now, are used to it. I got a lot of compliments on my first couple rounds with it, and nowadays get nods and smiles as my Tripp pants make the kind of noise only emulated by someone trying to walk 15 dogs simultaneously.

"Ah," they probably think, "there's this fucker again."

I really liked what I put together that day, even though the outfit itself was relatively simple. For the style I dress in, at least. Black Roland jacket and my go-to blouse and tie. Black jeans and knee-high laced boots. What I really needed was more jewellery. That would elevate my co-ords, I thought, and posted a picture with caption to some group chats.

That too was rare for me. Most of the time I dress up, look in the mirror, satisfied, and go about my day forgetting I look like this until I'm in the middle of Tesco needing to grab a pint of milk. I was feeling it that day.

I believe this encounter was God's lesson for my vanity.

The meet itself was typical and had no bearing on the encounter. Caught up with some people I'd spoken to before. Got sensory overload and had a breakdown in the bathroom. Returned like nothing had happened and got some CEO's email. The usual.

Warrington has two train stations. Central to get to Liverpool or Manchester, and Bank Quay to fast track to the rest of the country. Between this and the intersection of the M6 and M62 it's a town designed to get out of it as soon as humanly possible.

I'm at Central, as you have assumed from the title, waiting on platform 1. 10pm on a Thursday night, which should adequately set the scene. I'm sat on a bench reading a book on my phone. I forget what. It doesn't matter.

There's a guy sat next to me, who under normal circumstances I wouldn't have given anything more than a second glance to. He's wrapping up a video call with who I assume to be his family, in a language I don't catch. 

I then see two kids walking up the platform. They command it with the exact energy and confidence of 20 year-long career actors on opening night; the world was that platform.

These, my dear reader, are our titular protagonists. Eventually they walk up to me.

Now, when I say "walk up to me", I mean in the specific way that chavs do. You know the way, where walking straight takes several detours that involve kicking at random items on the ground and flailing the arms about in random directions. Never able to stand still, like the floor is covered in fire ants.

This introductory dance is performed, and the chav turns to me:

"Are you a horse rider?"

This was a new one. I've had many descriptions people have used while I'm kitted out. Some of them are genuine questions, some of them light-hearted digs, and others serious attempts to get me, someone who thinks he's never looked hotter while dressed as Dracula's gayer cousin, to be embarrassed that I look like this, and all I find equally hilarious.

"No," I say.

"You don't ride horses? You just look like that?"

"Yes."

The bluntness of my answers is deliberate. I knew how best to deal with an encounter with a chav. Be curt, but not confrontational, and give as few things to pick apart as possible so you can leave the conversation with haste. Preferably, physically.

Leaving wasn't an option. Standing from the bench would have caused a stir, and walking to the other end of the platform would have just made the fruit flies follow the fruit. I could deal with this for the next 10 minutes until the train gets here, I thought. I'd been through worse.

The second chav, a girl, starts chastising the first. Saying how you can't just ask someone why they look like that. Her protests are rebuked, and the chav turns to the man next to me, and cracks out this line:

"If I said you looked like a drug dealer, yeah, with that jacket, you wouldn't be offended would you?"

I feel it's now relevant to mention this guy was Middle Eastern.

He doesn't understand what the chav means by this. I still wonder if that was for better or worse.

A part of me jumped up and wanted to call this out on being blatantly racist, which I unfortunately had to suppress; I was alone and in no position to get into a physical fight, should it escalate. Because what a teenager falls short for in being a teenager, it makes up for in being a teenager.

Then the chav turns to me, and smiles. Hungry.

"What's your pronouns?"

Now hear me, dear reader. I am used to the Chav. I am used to how they conduct themselves and how to respond. The usual jabs. The usual language. The microcosm of how the United Kingdom is failing a significant number of its population.

I did not, under any sun I know, think the Chav could be trans-inclusionary.

So after a brief pause, I give them. Braced? Here's the second punch: "Ah. I'm she/her."

You might notice, dear dear reader, that I have been deliberately sidestepping her pronouns for the entire duration of this writeup. This was intentional to give you the full neck-snapping whiplash I received at this point.

Yes. I assumed she was a teenage boy, the exact ones who think saying slurs makes them 'hard' and spend all their time bullying the weird kids to crush their own latent homosexuality. You probably assumed that, too.

But then, I think. I see what's happening. We're at the critical point in trans rights, where people are well aware enough of pronouns, and thus aware enough to weaponise them. This was a test. If I used 'she', I would suddenly be met with outcry over how she was obviously a boy. If I used 'he' I would be labelled a transphobe. 'They' would have incited offence at not sticking to the binary, and circling myself back into the trap. It's a perfect catch 22, finely constructed with the exact cruelty only those under the age of 16 can procure.

I would have loved to, at this point, taken her word and been completely content those were her actual pronouns. It's a little like how you hate clocking the woman sitting across from you with the husky voice, experimental leap into lady's fashion, and facial hair ground down to the pore and beyond, with the divine revelation that she would kick your ass in Guilty Gear.

I then notice, the other chav who's with her, is referring to her as she.

There's no irony. No "Fuck off, it was a joke." It was a completely serious address that carried no traces of sarcasm.

Those were her actual pronouns.

My worldview getting obliterated in a blender and chucked into the river Mersey was packed neatly into a box labelled "shit to process in about 10 minutes, when I am sat down in an enclosed space alone, such as a train or perhaps a car".

This happens as they are slinging jokes to each other about neopronouns, of their pronouns being fuck/you and eat/shit.

After this is exhausted, she returns to the outfit. She points at me again and says: "So are you emo, or summat? Is that what you are?"

Two for one, that was also a new one. I have absolutely no traces of emo on me, but I also realise there's a generational gap and vocabulary drift. I grew up during the golden age of emos, however, and in a few years will probably be moaning about how no one is using the word correctly.

"I've been called goth," I say, "but I'm just myself."

A tangent I must get out: at another games meet, there was a small pack—or murder, if we'd like to be accurate—of goths. To me, they were Proper Goths, full black, straps and harnesses, piercings, fishnets; there had to be a collection of at least ten pairs of demonias between them. One of them points to me, delight dawning on her face, and proclaims: "One of us! He's one of us!" It's been one of my favourite interactions I've ever had.

Trying to drive that point home seemed to satisfy her, but she wasn't done with me yet.

I blank out part of the conversation from this point, my mind whirling with what the hell I was witnessing. When I tune back in, I hear this:

"He's got drip. Look at his sneakers; he's got drip."

The man is, again, confused by this. After she waters down the compliment, for lack of a better word, to 'I like your shoes', they fist bump.

This is the point where I think no-one is going to believe me when I tell this story.

After more markov chains with the word 'drip' in them, she turns to me, and frowns.

"You don't have drip," she says, shaking her head. "They didn't have drip in old times."

I have absolutely no comeback for this.

Now, letting this situation ferment weeks later, I still have no comeback for this.

...You know that one tweet?

That one?

It's not even a joke anymore. I have had this happen to me. Someone asked for my pronouns just to declare that I was dripless.

Satisfied, the two chavs leave the platform. They don't get on a train.

There's something to note here. Central has a ticket gate. That means they either jumped the gate to loiter on the platform for a bit, or paid for a ticket to do that.

I am left in silence. The train is still 10 minutes away.

I'm still unsure if the entire encounter took less than 30 seconds or if I was pulled into a black hole by the sheer weight of its absurdity.

There's no way I feel I can adequately wrap this up. It came and went as soon as a train, and left me utterly stunned with an unshakable need to bring this to written word.

It's also funny to think that I was younger, once, wondering how old people couldn't understand how we worked. And yet here I am, writing about my encounter with Those Damn Kids.

The kids, though, made me think. How my own prejudices and experiences as a child morphed how I perceived them. How, even through their own bizarre language and rituals, they wanted to connect with others in their own ways. And how, in the end, the little tranny with 4 years of experience ended up being the one who got schooled.

Yes, it was clunky. It was dripping with desperation of them trying to be whatever media outlets deem is cool for the Youth™ nowadays. But beyond the act of adolescence, there's a genuine and sincere want, and understanding, to be good to others.

I think the kids are alright.

They're still racist, though.

One victory at a time.

[sarcastically-defensive17]

Coffee - T. Holland

Okay, I know I have requests but this song came on at work the other day and I felt super emotional and I had to write. The use of Tom was very last minute because I had no actual person in mind for the fic, and there are very little actual defining characteristics so you can imagine it to be absolutely anybody you want!

This has broken me, so I apologize in case it has the same affect.

TW: This story contains mentions of cancer, allusions to death, mentions of death, sadness, angst, allusion to suicide, a character with cancer, and all round sadness about death.

If this content may trigger you in any way possible, please do not engage with this fic. Your personal safety and wellness is important so please take care of yourself, my lovies.

Original story by sarcastically-defensive17. Please do not copy, translate or share outside of the boundaries of tumblr without my permission. Please do not steal my work and market it as your own. Basically, don’t be a dick. Also, the above gif does not belong to me. Credit to @thollandgifs

Also, sorry the format is shit. I write on my phone so it’s hella bad.

Don't stay awake for too long, don't go to bed. I'll make a cup of coffee for your head. It'll get you up and going out of bed.

While his life stood still, hers moved. Most days he could barely move without the nausea taking over. His head pounding, body exhausted and weak beyond recognition. She had established a routine the minute she could. She made sure he had his morning coffee everyday. Whenever his eyes opened, she would be right by his side with his favourite beverage, bringing him breakfast and a warm, loving smile to entice him to get out of bed. She understood on days that his body fought him more than it already was - she was compassionate and considerate. On those days she would help him prop himself in a comfortable position, switch on whatever show they were watching at the time and curl up next to him with her work beside her.

His heart was often overwhelmed with the care she provided him. They were well into the fourth year of their life together, and he had no doubt in his mind that he would love her until his last days. He often solemnly thought of the ring he still had hidden in his drawer of their shared cabinet. He had made a vow to pop the question if he ever recovered, but the thought of that day never coming simply tore another piece from his already dwindling soul.

He would often sit in his chair, or on the bed in their small, studio apartment, watching her flutter around the house in a graceful way only she could. He had memorized her every move when she conducted the most mundane activity. The way she poured a glass of water, the way she tapped her fingers against her thigh to the tune of a theme song, the way she always made his coffee to pure perfection - in a way that nobody else had been able to do.

He had so much love for her, that he was terrified of it slipping away at any moment.

Yeah, I don't wanna fall asleep, I don't wanna pass away. I been thinking of our future 'cause I'll never see those days.

He was 24, and she was 25. They had already planned a life together. They had steady jobs, an intense and passionate love, names picked out for future children, dinner at his parents house every Sunday, lunch with her parents every Wednesday.

He just knew that he had done something to deserve such a fate. At first he was angry, terrified of the possibility of his soul leaving this earth, but as time went on, his self-deprivation grew. Apparently it was common for people in his situation. The fear of dying was clouded by a justification that this was meant to be. He had done something terrible in a past life, and karma was giving him the painful ending he deserved... but he despised the thought, because Y/N didn’t deserve to watch her boyfriend meet his end in this way.

He had thought of near every scenario in his life in which he hurt somebody - cheating on his girlfriend in his first year of college, letting Y/N down time after time, only for her to forgive him. The hurt he caused his parents when he was a teenager and full of such hate for the world. But now, all he could do was pray for forgiveness. He had hope that there was some way he could make it out of this, but he was losing hope rapidly.

Even as he sat with his love on their bed, watching re-runs of How I Met Your Mother, he couldn’t help but let his mind wander.

“When I’m gone,” his voice was croaky, his throat dry and scratchy. “Please tell me you will find somebody else.” He fumbled around to grab her hand, winching as he caught her head snapping towards his in his peripheral vision. He couldn’t turn to see the expression on her face. “You’re so young, so full of life. Your life is going to be so beautiful.”

Her hand was pulled from his, and he steeled what was left of his nerves to get ready for whatever tongue lashing she had planned, but instead he felt the bed dip further beside him, her hands framing his sullen face on each side and softly turning his gaze to meet her own.

“Don’t you say things like that, Tom.” He forced his eyes to stare into her own. His eyes seemed as if they were always ready to release tears, and the intensity of the hurt in her own made his pool unconsciously. “There is no somebody else when the other half of my soul is already with me. I don’t need anybody else because you’re not going anywhere.”

Her thumb brushed away the tear that slipped from his chocolate orbs, ignoring the dark circles underneath that made his face seem further sunken than it was.

“You don’t know that,” he sniffed heavily, dropping his eyes down to his lap. His fingers unconsciously toyed with the bracelet she had given him years ago. A soft, black, faux-leather band. An unfit symbol charm dangled close to the strap, reminding him of her favourite line from her favourite book/movie - the perks of being a wallflower. He had gone wuth her when she got the titular floral piece tattooed on her forearm. She was so happy that day. “One day you’re gonna be in a nice house, a ring on your finger, watching your husband dote over your little baby and you will be at peace in the way I know you crave. I just... I know that will never be me, who slips a ring onto your hand, or waits for you at the end of the aisle. I won’t be the one who holds your hand when you meet your baby, or the one who can give you the life you deserve - the one you want.”

His eyes snapped up to meet her own when he heard her breath grow shaky, but the action caused his brain to lose its equilibrium and he had to close his eyes for a moment. He hated doing so. Every time his eyes were shut, it was a moment that he lost of memorizing every line, curve, angle of her body. He opened his eyes again when able, and he was met with her own eyes as red rimmed as his, tears streaming down her beautiful face.

“Don’t you every talk like that, Thomas Stanley. You’re not going anywhere. You’re going to be the one to do all of those things because you’re going to make it and we are going to love each other until the end of our time, together. I’ll fucking Romeo and Juliet this shit if I have to,” her dark joke was met with a wet laugh from them both, before her face melted back into seriousness. “I’m never gonna need another person, Tommy. I have you, and I will have you forever.”

“You make every day a blessing, my love.” He whispered, his lips ghosting over hers as he gathered the strength in his lead arms to pull her into a hug. “You make hell feel like a summers day, and I cherish every moment I have left with you.”

My life was kinda short, but I got so many blessings. Happy you were mine, it sucks that it's all ending

Their days continued on for another three weeks, the same routine of morning coffee and testing the boundaries of his own fatigue. Three weeks without the dreaded conversation arising again, until she woke to find him staring into the ceiling with such an intense and thoughtful gaze. She knew instantly what was on his mind, and she could feel her heart breaking into more little pieces.

“Tommy?” Her melodic tone was soft, snapping him from his nightmarish reprieve. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing honey. Thinking about us... when we were young and full of life,” he snorted into the dark room, Y/N’s soft laugh pushed through her nose and he felt her smile against his neck. “Just, thinking about how sorry I am for all of this. I’m sorry that I’ve turned your life upside down, that we have changed so much.”

He felt weaker. His body was fighting to hold on, and he felt that they both knew that. He was being eaten up from the inside out, but he couldn’t bear to leave. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t leave her alone. He needed her, he loved her. He wanted to be her husband and give her everything she wanted in life. He wanted to live, for her.

“I would change everything if it meant I could be here with you,” her voice was heavy, riddled with sleep. Neither of them get much rest anymore. He is always up and down, and she frets too much to sleep through his late night jolts and retches. “You’re worth every minute of every day, Tom. You have nothing to apologize for. It’s not like you chose to have Can-“

“Don’t say it, baby, please?” He pled, silencing her before she could say the word. He hadn’t once uttered it since the day he found out. She had relayed the information to their families, holding his hand the entire time as he sat motionless. “Makes it more real than my emo ramblings.” His laugh was humorless, but he didn’t intend it to be so.

She apologised softly, snuggling closer to him. She knew how much he loved the feel of her body on his, how the intimacy of the comfort made him feel warm. Back when he could handle the weight, she would sometimes wake up curled on top of his chest because he had sought her out in his sleep.

“I would do anything for you, Tommy. I would give up everything I have just to see you smile. You’re the other half of my soul, my infinity.”

He felt a tear slip down his cheek. Her words always had that affect on him, but he loved the way she could send his heart beating with no effort. He loved her. So intensely.

“Sing to me, please?” A request he had let loose so many times before. He adored her voice, and the soft melodies that fell from her lips and lulled him to sleep.

She obliged with a smile on her face, and let the words tumble into his pale skin.

“If I could save time in a bottle, the first thing that I’d like to do...”

Soon you'll be alone, sorry that you have to lose me

Two more months passed. His doctors were satisfied, stating that he was slowly improving. His body was beginning to regain strength. He had begun to grow more hopeful, slowly but surely.

Until there was no chance for hope left.

Y/N made his morning coffee, but when she went to rest it on his bedside, he could barely breathe.

Her fingers dialed emergency services faster than she thought possible, her voice cracking as she sung to him over and over, hands cradling his head in her lap as he whispered his love for her.

The coffee went cold as the red and blue lights approached.

Don't stay awake for too long, don't go to bed. I'll make a cup of coffee for your head. It'll get you up and going out of bed

Tag list: @starshonerose @snookiebrookie @another-lonely-heart @mantlereid

If you would like to be added to my tag list, comment here!