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earthstellar · 3 years

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Transformers Medical Analysis Essay: What are Cybertronians Made Of? [Part One: Nanites and Human Equivalents]

This is gonna be long, for which I apologise.

PLEASE NOTE: We will be discussing some actual real world blood stuff here; Nothing gross, just some basics to provide a human comparison for the Cybertronian stuff, and I have used my own blood test results below to help explain these comparisons to you. If you might find any real world medical content gross or potentially upsetting, please skip this post, as I don’t want to upset anyone! <3

Here we go!

What Cybertronians Are Made Of, Part One: Nanites

Nanites are mentioned throughout various TF media and franchises, although they seem to differ mildly between each application/description somewhat.

This makes nanites a good starting point, as we know that at least all Cybertronians/Camiens/etc. have some kind of self-repair function, and this is stated to be either nanites or a multi-system function that includes nanites as a key part of maintaining health and wellbeing.

In Beast Wars, we get the most detail on certain medical and physiological aspects of nanites, with the nanites inherent to the composition of a Cybertronian body providing part of the basic structure of the protoform, as well as displaying the ability to undergo mutation (similar somewhat to human cell mutations) which allow for the process of Transmetalisation.

Nanites seem to have many significant functions in the Cybertronian body across multiple TF franchise canons, from being a fundamental construction element, to functioning like human stem cells, to behaving as an immune system in the capacity of self-repair nanites.

We will focus specifically on self-repair nanites here, as it is sometimes implied in different TF canons that there may be multiple types of nanites present in the Cybertronian body.

Comparing Self-Repair Nanites to a Human Equivalent: Full Blood Count

We can reasonably compare Cybertronian nanites to human cells, as we can think of these nanites as serving the same purpose as several different cell types in human bodies.

In regards to Cybertronian self-repair nanites, the most obvious human comparisons would be immune system cells/proteins like macrophages, lymphocytes, mast cells, and Cytokines.

Five types of white blood cells/leukocytes will appear in the blood generally speaking, and you can see these listed on any Full Blood Count (FBC) blood test.

To illustrate this, I actually just recently did a few blood test panels on myself, so I have included my own FBC results for you to check out here:

The five blood test results I want you to focus on are the following, which are the white blood cells I marked in orange/red above:

Neutrophils

Lymphocytes (B and T Cells)

Monocytes

Eosinophils

Basophils

(You might notice that I have a few mildly OOR (out of range) results above; This is because I have Haemoglobin Barts and I am also undergoing HRT, so please don’t be too concerned!)

If any of these results are elevated (high/out of range on the upper end), it can help indicate all kinds of things, from whether or not you’ve had an infection or cold/flu recently, to being used as part of identifying possible autoimmune disorders in conjunction with other more specific tests like an Antinuclear Antibody (ANA) blood test as part of diagnostics for Lupus or Sjogren’s Syndrome, among other conditions.

We can safely assume that self-repair nanites may be similarly used as part of certain Cybertronian medical diagnostic processes; We will probably only be able to verify this in canon once Hasbro finally listens to me and gives us a Med Bay focused series.

Note for any of you who might be non-clinical medical staff dealing with blood results: Basophils have a tendency to essentially self-destruct in a blood sample that has taken a little longer than usual to get processed in the lab, so don’t freak out immediately if this result appears out of range at first. Remember to check the time the sample was drawn and compare it to the time the sample was actually processed! Obviously, raise it as a potential concern anyway, if you are unsure.

Why This is Relevant to Cybertronian Medicine and Physiology: Mechanical Lifeforms Are Complex, But in Some Ways, Not Really (Compared to Humans)

Just like human beings have our various immune system cells and proteins, Cybertronians clearly have self-repair nanites as a way to carry out some degree of constant natural defence against both casual and serious damage.

HOWEVER.

Whereas humans generally have the five primary white blood cell types which are the “usual” ones we check for in fairly routine blood tests like Full Blood Counts, it seems that Cybertronians have one universal primary white blood cell equivalent (self-repair nanites) that serve the functions of various immune system cells and proteins in human bodies.

To use computer engineering phrasing in reference to human functions, this is (to some degree) essentially biological built-in triple modular redundancy. Multiple types of cells within the immune system in humans all help individually and collectively to identify, locate, track, capture, learn about, and eliminate contaminants or foreign entities like bacteria, among other functions.

Cybertronians, however, are extremely physically complex in other ways, but their basic structure and core components seem to be fairly minimal based on what we see in canon across the board; They only have self-repair nanites, a single type of nanite, to fulfil all of these varied and complex immune system analogous functions. They only have this singular line of natural defence.

(This assumption is based on purely what we see in canon; If there are other self-repair dedicated functions, these are not as universally mentioned or mentioned at all in TF media canon, or where they are implied, they are not well defined.)

While this may still be the most ideal possible natural or innate design for Cybertronian physiology, it is still, of course, essentially a single point of failure (as engineering terminology seems appropriate here), and a pretty serious one at that.

Now, human immune systems can get all kinds of messed up anyway, and having more types of cells/nanites doesn’t necessarily eliminate a lot of those problems or risks and likely wouldn’t for Cybertronians either if they may have similar potential health concerns, but my point is that the Cybertronian immune system equivalent is extremely simplistic in comparison, which is in contrast with most other aspects of Cybertronian physiology.

While they do use the plural form, “self-repair nanites”, which could imply the presence of multiple specific self-repair nanite types within the Cybertronian body, this is not specified, and this is never elaborated upon in any TF media to my knowledge. It seems that the use of the plural form refers only to there being many self-repair nanites in the body, rather than multiple types of self-repair nanite.

Having a single line of immune defence has potentially serious implications in-universe; Just like human beings, Cybertronians may be able to experience problems with their immune systems ranging from potentially serious and chronic autoimmune issues, to being more prone to catching illnesses due to mild immunosuppression caused by chronic processor overload (chronic stress) or inability to recharge/infrequent recharge (insomnia), or possibly even autoimmune responses (see the section on rusting, below, for one theory I have about what may be a canonical example of this).

This may vary significantly from series to series as well anyway, but we don’t have a lot of canonical medical information to work with about any of this, so this is all conjecture.

Especially given the conditions of war, it may be difficult for Cybertronians to maintain fully functional self-repair nanites, as it is often the case across nearly all TF media that the bots are usually working with minimal supplies and/or sustaining severe and repeated damage, which provides ample opportunity for natural bodily processes to go wrong in addition or as a result of any external causes of damage.

Do their self-repair nanites suffer from chronic low fuel levels, which particularly in TFP is a constant concern?

Ratchet even mentions in the episode Stronger, Faster:

Ratchet: “If one of you comes back wounded this time, well, our energon levels are nearly depleted.”

While this may be in reference to concerns around lack of spare energon for transfusion purposes (as energon is treated like both blood and fuel in TFP), we know that it is generally used as supplementary to other medicines/treatments/medical procedures as well, although these are not defined clearly.

It’s certainly possible that the risk of low fuel levels includes impeded nanite function, and considering that symptoms of low fuel in Cybertronians seem similar to exhaustion/fatigue/starvation in humans, it’s reasonable to assume that yes, running on strictly rationed levels of fuel for prolonged periods of time likely impacts their self-repair functions.

This has further implications for dealing with everything from exposure to potential pathogens on other planets that may affect them, to recovering from any necessary surgical procedures or battle wounds.

And, a very good point to make: Under the assumption that there is only one type of self-repair nanite, it may be possible to take a sample of these nanites from a living Cybertronian and reverse-engineer it; Biological weapons are known to exist in canon, and have been used to spectacularly horrific effect, particularly in IDW 2005/Sins of the Wreckers, if I recall correctly.

What if someone finds a way to simply “shut down” these self-repair nanites?

What if someone finds a way to, for example, create a biological weapon that induces an immediate autoimmune response, similar to a cytokine storm in humans?

Which brings us to...

Self-Repair Nanites, Autoimmune Responses, and Rusting: My Theory

Cytokines are a part of the human body’s immune response, and are proteins that essentially help to moderate an immune response. If these proteins get out of control, a cytokine storm can result.

We see a cytokine storm like effect when Cybertronians suffer from Cosmic Rust, which may trigger what appears to be a type of self-repair nanite storm; This might be the real reason for the rapid corrosion caused by the Cosmic Rust.

Rather than being a feature of the rust itself, it may be the case that the rust upon infecting a Cybertronian may elicit such a strong response from the nanites present in the body that it induces a sudden overwhelming and indiscriminate response from the self-repair nanites, thus causing the Cybertronian body to devour itself:

The self-repair nanites in such a “storm” would not discriminate between healthy metals and rusted metals, and instead surge towards eliminating ALL metals.

This would mean that Cosmic Rust kills primarily by inducing a severe acute autoimmune response, but since we have no actual information on the mechanics of Cosmic Rust (or how it compares to normal rust which seems to occur naturally and seems to present as a somewhat common and relatively low risk issue for Cybertronians), I can’t say this for certain.

I hope this has been interesting for someone, and if you actually stuck with me and read all of this, thank you very much for putting up with me!!!! <3

#transformers #maccadam #transformers animated #transformers prime #tfa #tfp #rodimus #ratchet #tf ratchet #long post #cybertronian medicine #transformers lore #transformers essay #transformers medicine #tfp ratchet

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chipper-smol · 3 years

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Hollow Knight Telephone Round Two: Relic Coffee Shop

Prompt

Prompts:

1: Lemm finds an odd fellow at the Blue Lake. Normally he wouldn’t bother to approach a stranger out of nowhere, but something in his gut urges him to take action. Quirrel, feeling the effects of age on his body, stares incredulously at the bearded face of a stranger who apparently wants to have him over for coffee. 2: Lemm sets up shop in an abandoned cafe. It’s roomy and pleasant at first, but there are _stacks_ of these disgusting old bitter coffee beans clogging up the rooms. It doesn’t help that bugs keep coming in to order a drink even though he’s posted signs to _KEEP OUT!!_ However, once they start offering Geo be begrudgingly takes it as an opportunity to achieve funds to pay for relics. 3: At first, the coffee was just an excuse to get Geo to pay for relics, but Lemm’s begun to notice that bugs who wandered into his shop with the telltale early symptoms of infection no longer have them on their return visits. He tells himself he’s not an altruist. He’s _not._It’s just a waste to throw out old coffee when someone just needs a pick-me-up.

By @bluwails

------------------------------- By @hydrochlorinate

“Just don’t. Tell. Anyone. Else.”

Those were the words that came out of the grumpy barista’s mouth that fateful day. One’s that you completely ignored, as you had already been drinking what could only be the drink of HIgher Beings, with just how heavenly it tasted.

Grinning like a lunatic, you give him 45 geo, not a small sum. If anything though, it was hilariously cheap for a drink that was this good. The bug doesn’t complain about the amount though, so he’s probably fine with it. Wings fluttering in excitement, you leave the shop, ready to tell any remaining survivors about the amazing drink shop you just found.

===============>(Coffee Shop AU)

The next time you come in, the store is absolutely packed. Denizens from all across the ruins of Hallownest are here, ranging from some uninfected moss knights to that one ladybug that you had a dance off with a while back. There's even a noble here, and- is that a mantis?

Anyway, it looks like your very subtle method of giving publicity to this cafe by talking about literally nothing else to whomever you talked to over the following week paid off. Good, this place deserves all the atte-  “You.”

Oh? You snap out of your thoughts, and look towards the counter, where the barista is levelling a glare at you that could instantly wither those delicate flowers that have been spreading around recently.

You stroll on up to the counter, a grin stretching across your face. The barista narrows his eyes.

“Didn’t I tell you to keep this a secret? Why is my establishment filled to the brim with bugs? Who are these people?!”

...huh. Did he tell you to keep it on the down low? It seems in character from your limited interactions, but you don’t remember exactly. Oh well, time to play it off. You tell him that, well, what can you say except you’re welcome.

You’ve never seen a bug go from “Irritated” to “Ballistic” as fast as this barista. Usually they make a stop at “Angry” or “Absolutely Livid”.

“YOU’RE WELCOME?!?!”  No, see, he’s supposed to say thank you.  “THANK YOU???”  You tell him he’s welcome, before laughing. No, really, you tell him, look around, the place is packed! Business is booming! The barista (you should really ask for his name) manages to bring his volume under control, taking in a deep breath.

“That’s part of the problem. I’m a relic seeker, not a-” He gestures around the cafe, as if looking for the right words to use. Barista, you suggest.

“Exactly. I’m not made to brew coffee-” Oh, that’s what it was called. “-or to be dealing with customers all day long.”

Sure. That’s why he decided to allow people to keep purchasing coffee, or why he decided to put on a cute green and white visor.

You didn’t just come to check in on your new favorite bug though, you have coffee to order! Taking out a sheet of paper from your bag, you begin to read out both your order, and those of your companions. Even with the end of the infection, the leftover damage to hallownest’s caves and architecture makes it dangerous to travel alone.

As you begin to read out your order, the barista shifts from crotchety old bug to attentive worker. You really wish you had come back earlier, instead of letting some of your other traveling buddies pick up the coffee for you. Something about the atmosphere here is… relaxing, despite the amount of people.

After your order is finished, you leave the cafe. Back to the real world bucko, as an old friend of yours would always say.

...Wait a minute you never got the barista’s name.

===============>(Coffee Shop AU)

It’s been 3 weeks. You think. Time gets a little funky down here, what with the sudden influx of void. Sure, most of it has cleared out by now, but every so often your exploration party comes across a tunnel that hasn’t quite been fully illuminated, the shadows just a bit too thick to be natural.

You enter the coffee shop again. It’s gotten a lot quieter as time went on and bugs started coming in on a schedule. There’s still plenty of other customers here, but it’s nowhere near as packed as the first couple of days. Lemm (yeah, you finally got his name) stands at the counter, still slightly disgruntled, but a lot less so than he was at the beginning. In fact, he’s actually talking to someone right now! An actual conversation too, not just an exchange of witty remarks. You can’t see their face, but they appear to be a pillbug wearing a blue hood.  As you step up to the counter, you can hear their conversation a bit better.

“...of course, I couldn’t just leave it sitting there right? So I move to pick it up, only to find out that the desk I dropped it on was magnetized! So here I am, trying and failing to pick up this one plant hanger for a solid 10 minutes.”

They both laugh at this, before noticing you. The unknown bug turns to face you, allowing you to see his mask.  “Oh, hello, I don’t believe we’ve met before!”

You greet him back, introducing yourself.

“It’s nice to meet you. My name’s Quirrell. I’m… well, I can’t really call myself an explorer, because I’ve already been everywhere! I’m more of a wanderer, really.”

Ahh, a free spirit, you see. You point out that just because he’s been everywhere doesn’t mean he’s seen everything. After all, who knows what could’ve gone down during Hallownest’s peak. Both Quirrell and Lemm get amused by this, for some reason. Seeing your confused look, Lemm decides to speak up.

"He probably knows more about Hallownest than everyone here, having lived here since before the infection and all."

Your eyes widen, and your wings begin to flutter. Truly? An original denizen, and not someone else trying to piece together its history? Quirrell waves off the words, though.

"I wouldn't go that far…" He begins, but Lemm cuts him off before he can go any further.

"Hah! Next you'll be telling me that you weren't the head assistant of the kingdom's best scientist!"

Giving off the equivalent of a blush, Quirrell rubs the back of his head. Lemm turns back to you.

"I'm sure you didn't come in just to chat, though. What can I get for you?"

It's nice to see him making friends.

------------------------------- By @schyrsivochter

Lemm wasn’t a sociable person. That was a fact. He wasn’t good at talking, or at being friendly. (It wasn’t like he needed it, anyway. It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed conversing with another bug.)

No, Lemm was much more of a person for reading. Deciphering the journals of the long dead, the writing and languages, was something he thoroughly enjoyed. Other artefacts spoke differently: the materials from which they were made, the way they were worked, the artistic style. It was a different kind of reading; some might say a more figurative one. But it was just as interesting.

Of course, architecture was part of that. It had not been a coincidence that Lemm had set up camp in Hallownest’s abandoned capital. When he’d arrived, he hadn’t dared to think that he’d ever finish exploring and finding new things. And it was true; he’d only explored a little bit before he’d realised that collecting and gathering relics was no use if he never took a proper look at them, instead letting them gather dust on the shelves, the tables, and the floor of the long-abandoned shop he’d moved into. So he’d decided to stay there, poring over his collection. His picture of the world of Hallownest in times past grew ever more detailed, more complete.

He’d opened the shop because people did not seem to stop wanting to sell him relics, and it never hurt to appear a little professional. And it had been a reliable source of new artefacts; new knowledge. He’d never sold anything, of course. His collection was his, and his alone.

And then came the dark. The cleansing void. It had taken him by surprise; he’d been working, and only noticed that anything was amiss when the light dimmed and he was finally bathed in darkness. He must’ve fallen unconscious at that point, and there’d been no telling how long it had been until he’d awoken. It hadn’t been until later that he’d learned that this was what had obliterated the plague, leaving in its wake hundreds of confused survivors and thousands of dead. No, the next thing to happen that told him things were not as usual was that a bug had come in, asked if he was open, and, upon his affirmative answer, asked for a hot drink, holding out a piece of ten.

Taken by surprise, he’d offered to make tea. He’d immediately regretted it, since it meant the bug would be staying for a while, probably without selling him relics, but it was easy enough to do and would get him geo, his supply of which had been running low. So he put a kettle on and took the money. The bug had thanked him profusely, while he had elected to remain quiet.

Not long afterwards, the same bug and four others stood in the doorway. Whether they had relics for him, he’d asked. They’d looked amongst themselves, and one had asked, ‘Is this not a coffee shop?’

‘I suppose it might’ve once been,’ he’d said. ‘Now it’s mine.’

More confused looks and standing around, and then the bug he’d seen before asked if he’d make more tea. He’d said no, not unless they paid him twice as much as the last time and stayed quiet and didn’t disturb him in his work. To his horror, the five bugs had agreed, and so he’d dug out cups from the coffee shop’s former stock and afterwards found himself a little richer in geo but with a significantly worse mood.

He had his peace afterwards, though. At least for a while. Now a bug had arrived, taller than the others, wearing a headscarf. Lemm had mentally prepared for the bug to ask for coffee, but the bug had halted in front of one of the tables that Lemm had repurposed for his collection of relics.

‘Admiring my collection?’ Lemm asked.

’Yes, quite!’ the bug answered, chipper and friendly. ‘I’m curious how you managed to get a hold of so many texts in such diverse languages! These are journals, are they not?’

‘They are,’ Lemm acknowledged. ‘From all over Hallownest.’

‘But most of them aren’t any Hallownest language.’ The bug put a hand on his mask. ‘I suppose they’re from travellers that came to the ruins and perished?’

‘Quite right,’ Lemm said. He had to admit, begrudgingly, that the bug standing before him was sharp and knew his history. A trait not many others shared.

‘Can you read all of them?’ The mask turned towards Lemm, inclined in question.

‘No,’ he answered truthfully, making his way around the counter to stand next to the bug. ‘I haven’t had the time to decipher all of them yet. But I’ll get around to it eventually.’

‘Interesting,’ the bug said. ‘I can—huh?’

He turned towards the entrance, and Lemm followed his gaze. Lemm was about to ask what the problem was, when a bug appeared in the entrance. The one that he’d made tea twice for. Ah yes, he thought. A customer. Two of them, in fact; one of the others from before had joined the one who’d taken a fancy to paying Lemm to make tea.

‘I don’t suppose,’ Lemm said, ‘there is any way to convince you to find tea somewhere else?’

The bugs shook their head.

Lemm sighed, and muttered an apology to the tall visitor. Time to get it over with.

He went to the back room to prepare the tea, and overheard the two visitors conversing in the front.

‘What’s this, anyway?’

‘Historical documents. Journals of travellers.’

‘What’s it doing here?’

‘I think the shopkeep collects them.’

‘That’s correct!’ Lemm called. ‘I’m always buying, if you have anything of historical value.’

He grabbed the cups and walked back to the front. ‘That’s fifty geo. Unless you have relics.’

The bugs complained under their breath, but paid up, and Lemm could direct his attention back to the visitor.

‘So is this what you do?’ they asked. ‘Opened the coffee shop again and collecting relics in your free time?’

Lemm was dumbstruck for a moment. Then he remembered to be outraged. ‘No! I am not opening this place as a coffee shop! People just keep coming and demanding tea and I cannot let an opportunity to earn easy money go to waste!’

‘Relic business not exactly booming, then, I assume?’

‘I’m—’ he spluttered, ‘It’s not a business! I don’t sell my relics, they’re mine!’

‘So you wouldn’t have any income if you weren’t selling tea?’

Lemm had the distinct impression that the bug was making fun of him. He didn’t answer, but simply walked up to the table, grabbed a random journal, and took it to his desk to try and get some work done.

He had not yet prepared his quill and ink when he was interrupted yet again.

‘You know,’ the visitor called, ‘that one is from a traveller from Greynest. Came here looking for his brother, never found him. No doubt said brother also perished in the ruins.’

Lemm turned around to see the bug standing in the doorway, having followed him halfway. ‘And how do you know this?’ he asked.

The bug shrugged. ‘I read it.’

Lemm regarded the bug. They didn’t seem to be joking.

‘You mean to tell me,’ Lemm began, slowly, ‘you know this language?’

‘Yes,’ they said nonchalantly. ‘I think I’ve been to Greynest? Must have been a while ago.’

‘Are you a traveller, then?’ Lemm asked. ‘You don’t seem the type.’

As soon as he’d spoken the words, Lemm became aware how utterly ridiculous it was of him to make observations about people. He didn’t like people, he wasn’t interested in people—

The bug laughed. ‘I am, in fact. I have travelled far and wide.’

‘Hmph,’ said Lemm, unsure what else to say. He turned back to his work, looked at the angular shapes carved into the stone, but now it seemed senseless to try and make sense of it when he knew that it was no mystery to the bug standing behind him.

At some point, he looked up and found that he was hungry and the visitor was gone. Oh, well. Time for a meal, then, and afterwards he might be able to find something else to do.

* * *

The next time the tea-drinker returned, they asked for tea and then asked Lemm about the relics, and he was in a favourable enough mood to talk about them. They asked some fairly stupid questions, but it seemed to come out of a genuine interest in the topic, so he indulged them. Plus, he had to admit that he enjoyed having a reliable source of geo. Not that he needed it much for buying relics, these days, but he supposed that his supplies of food – and of tea – would not last indefinitely, and he didn’t particularly fancy having to go back to scavenging, now that there were actual people living in the vicinity again. No, he’d rather find some place where he could buy what he needed fair and square.

The traveller with the headscarf returned, and it was an odd sort of feeling Lemm had about them. Like he actually liked having them in his shop and talking to them. And the perplexing thing was that the bug also seemed to enjoy conversing with Lemm. Which one one hand was absolutely preposterous, on the other … it was a refreshing change.

The bug introduced himself as Quirrel, apprentice to Monomon the Teacher, and Lemm could hardly believe it. Monomon the Teacher, one of the most brilliant minds of Hallownest? It couldn’t be! And yet it was not all too difficult to imagine. He’d seen stranger things in these lands.

Quirrel also was the one who later suggested Lemm officially open the shop as a coffee shop again. Lemm had thrown him out at that and gone back to work.

Now, a short while later, he looked up and Quirrel was back, standing at the counter, watching Lemm silently.

Lemm rose and went to the front, choosing to stare back equally silently. Lemm was good at that. Probably.

‘So,’ Quirrel said at length, his voice still as annoyingly friendly as ever, ‘have you thought about it?’

Lemm kept staring.

Quirrel held up his hands. ‘You need money, you don’t have much else to do, and besides’ – Quirrel shrugged. – ‘people like your tea.’

‘I certainly have enough to do,’ Lemm started. ‘These texts don’t decipher themselves. What’s so funny?’

Quirrel stopped his giggling and said, ‘They sort of do. Have you forgotten who stands before you?’

‘You don’t read all of these languages.’ Really, Quirrel’s ego was getting on Lemm’s nerves.

‘But most of them,’ Quirrel said, shrugging, ‘and most of the Archive’s records are intact. And we do have a nice section on language and writing.’

Lemm was silent for a moment, mostly because he could not think of a good comeback. Quirrel had a point, and Lemm did not like that in the slightest.

‘Let’s make a deal,’ Quirrel said. ‘I help you translate your texts and catalogue your artefacts, and you’ – Quirrel jabbed a finger in Lemm’s direction – ‘you sell your tea officially.’

‘Out of the question.’

‘You’re already doing it.’

‘I am not!’

‘Yes, you are.’ Quirrel said this with absolute certainty and no anger, and there was a voice at the back of Lemm’s mind that said: You really sort of are. And you could use the help. You don’t like the busywork anyway.

‘All right,’ Lemm grumbled. ‘Deal.’

‘Thank you,’ said Quirrel, audibly grinning.

‘I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?’ Lemm asked under his breath.

‘I don’t think so,’ Quirrel said. ‘I’m curious – what else can you make? Tea alone is a bit boring, don’t you think?’

‘Shut up,’ Lemm said, ‘or I change my mind.’

* * *

Lemm did not change his mind, even though Quirrel didn’t shut up. It had been a while, and Lemm hated to admit it, but he enjoyed doing something different for a change. Customers were now plenty, and Lemm had a menu with more than one item, and his relic collection was no bigger, but more orderly and better understood than it had ever been, thanks to Quirrel’s – and the Archive’s – help.

Another thing that Lemm was not quite ready to admit was that people could be nice. The more he talked to customers, interacted with them, observed them, the more he began to appreciate them. He used to be content in reading historical texts and artefacts, preferring to learn about people that were dead and gone. Living bugs had never really interested him.

Nowadays, however, it seemed that people could be just as interesting to read as anything else. And, as Quirrel entered, greeting him, and he could not help his mood being lifted just by the prospect of learning something new and interesting that Quirrel learnt on his last trip to the Archive, Lemm supposed that sometimes, very rarely … people were something he could enjoy.

------------------------------- By @gardening-clown

------------------------------- By @buglife

Lemm was five seconds away from throwing someone through the window.

His shop was now occupied by five bugs of various species, talking, laughing, and sitting around when he could be in the back doing literally anything else. It took weeks of bugs thinking that his relic shop was a coffee one before he simply gave up and made peace with it. At least he got some geo from it to pay adventurers that did come by to sell legit relics. How they mistook his shop for a coffee one, he would have never guess.

All he had was a little brewer that was barely put back together that he scavenged from some random shop, but other bugs seemed to like it, for some strange reason. It wasn’t even good coffee he was making, but they seemed to accept it. After all, who else in this dead kingdom was even selling coffee? He had looted plenty of shops and took as many sacks of beans as he would when he first arrived, and there was no way he could drink them all, so he might as well do something with them.

But he was steadily losing his patience with the amount of bugs around him. They were talking and loitering. Loitering was probably the worst of it all as it made the loner bug feel his shell crawl with the forced social interaction. He just wanted them to leave. He couldn’t stand the feeling of a crowded space, which is why he went to a dead kingdom in the first place.

Hell, he had to take his beloved odds and ends down from the shelves to keep some curious bug from touching them all up with their dirty fingers and breaking something.

He found himself dreading the sound of the bell above his door, and when it rang he wondered if someone else was coming to ask him for some random drink or be an annoying thorn in his side.

To his hidden delight however, it was the little wanderer. They looked like a grub, to be honest, with a black body and a stark white horned shell for a head. The nail on their back seemed to be a little put together the last time he saw them, perhaps they visited the Nailsmith? He never asked for their name, he didn’t want to learn it to avoid attachments, but he found them oddly endearing. They liked to listen to him ramble about his theories on various relics they bring him, so they can’t be too bad. Plus they were quiet and polite, something he was immensely grateful for.

They bounced inside the door and came to a stop, looking at the five other bugs sitting around and chatting. They tilted their head to the side, watching the bugs for a moment before looking at Lemm. They stretched out a stubby arm from under their cloak and pointed at him.

Lemm sighed. Of course, the little Wanderer had been gone for a while, and obviously didn’t know what had become of his beloved shop. He gestured for them to come over, which they did and looked up at him expectantly.

“Bugs keep thinking that this is a coffee shop.” He explained. “So here they are, drinking coffee that I make on a terrible little brewer. I gave up trying to kick them all out all the time, it stopped being worth the effort.”

The little wanderer blinked a few times, looking somewhat confused. They pointed to the cup being held by the beetle on one of Lemm’s chairs and mimed the action of drinking it.

“Yes, that’s coffee they are drinking.” He raised a brow as he looked down at the grub. “Haven’t you ever seen coffee before?”

They shook their head.

“Really now? Hrm…” He wasn’t sure where the little wanderer had come from if they never saw coffee before. It was a fairly common drink besides tea. They must have grew up in a rather isolated place If they never saw it. He decided he might as well explain it, it would be better to do it now than later.

“Coffee is a drink that bugs like to drink to give them energy.” He saw them perk up a bit at the ‘energy’ part. “It’s rather bitter, so some like it with sugar. I like it plain. It keeps me awake when I am working.”

They somehow made a face when he said it was bitter, tilting their head and angling their eye holes to look affronted. Lemm squashed down a laugh at the expression and decided to get to business.

“Anyway, they trade me geo for it, which lets me compensate bugs that get me relics. Do you have any for me today?” He hoped they did, he needed something to brighten up his day.

The wanderer nodded, reaching under their cloak to pull out a black orb. Lemm recognized it immediately to be an arcane egg. He loved working with those. Peeling back each layer revealed new information and new discoveries. He was in fact, still working on the one he got weeks before. He needed to be careful with them, and he reveled in the intense focus and work it needed to discover it’s secrets. His day instantly got better.

“Very nice, I’ll be glad to take that off your hands for the usual price.” The old beetle held out his hand and the wanderer gently placed the egg it in. They held up a hand once it was free and shook their head, pointed to a cup sitting on the counter.

“Ah, you want to trade this for a cup of coffee?” He wasn’t going to say no to that. If the wanderer was okay with it, it was a perfectly reasonable business transaction. His suspicions were confirmed when they nodded and bounced in place, looking as excited as they were able to. “Well I can certainly do that.”

Thankfully, the two bugs occupying the chairs in front of the counter left, leaving behind their dirty cups and a few geo for the mess. They thanked him and he grumped out a ‘have a good day’ as they left, seemingly indifferent to his mood. Oh well, at least it brought down the occupancy to a more manageable level for his social batteries. He pushed the dirty cups out of the way and gestured to an open seat. “Here, sit down and I’ll get you a cup.”

They bounced upwards to take a seat, swinging their legs back and forth as they waited. It didn’t take Lemm long to throw some ground up beans and water into the grinder, watching the brewed coffee pour into a clean cup. He carefully carried the hot cup down and set it in front of the wanderer. “Be careful, it’s very hot. I’ll bring you some sugar, you didn’t seem to like the ‘bitter’ description.”

They nodded and watched as he pushed over a bowl of honey sugar and a spoon. It was the least he could do after they got him another arcane egg. “There you are, help yourself.”

They bowed their head in thanks and took up the spoon, poking it into the bowl.

“Excuse me,” One of the bugs by the window got up, the one with a bent antenna and holding their empty cup. “Could I get a refill, please?”

Lemm held back a sigh and nodded, taking the cup and heading back to his brewer. He had to smack it a couple times for it to start working again, but in the end he got a passable cup of coffee out of it. He returned just in timed to hear said bug exclaim, “Woah there buddy, you must really like sugar!”

He looked to the wanderer, who had added so much sugar to their cup of coffee, that he could hear the sugar that couldn’t dissolve scrape against the ceramic as it was stirred. It looked like fresh cement, there was only a bit of brown to denote that once, it was indeed a cup of coffee.

He wordlessly handed the other bug their coffee, who took it and retreated back to sit by the window. He was about to say something to the wanderer, when to his horror, their head tilted backwards. A maw of sharp black teeth opened wide, and he watched, astonished, as the mix of sugar and coffee oozed into their mouth and to who knows where. A long black tongue lashed out to get every last bit of sugar out of the cup, before the mouth closed with a quiet click. They must have felt him staring, because they turned to look at him with their fathomless, dark eyes. He stared back, wondering what the hell was actually sitting in front of him.

They then bounced in place and gave him a thumbs up. They made a shape of a heart with their hands, a way that they say ‘thank you’. They seemed rather happy.

“Um…you’re welcome?” He managed, after he gathered his composure again.

They sat still for a moment, seeming to ponder on what they had just consumed. He figured that they were probably trying to figure out if they liked it or not. He doubt they even managed to taste the coffee from the sheer amount of sugar in that cup.

Then, to his horror, they began to vibrate. At first it was a few twitches, and then it steadily became more and more severe, until they were a literal blur. The chair rattled under the stress and the bugs that remained in the shop turned to look at the commotion.

It was then, Lemm realized he fucked up.

They suddenly dashed away, slamming into the shop door with such force that it caved outwards. There was only the short sound of shattering glass and the scream of metal before it flew off it’s hinges and rattled down the hallway. He could hear the hurried pitter-patter of the wanderer’s tiny feet, now fast enough to blur into one continuous sound, race down the hall and out of sight and hearing.

He just stood there, looking at the wreckage of his shop door, wondering where the hell is he going to get a replacement, if there even was a replacement. He looked at the three shocked bugs, standing and looking at the wreckage, and then he got himself an idea.

“Hey fellas,” He said, as he turned and looked at the bugs next to the window. “How would you all like some free coffee if you find me a door?”

------------------------------- By @radical-mudkips

------------------------------- By @unregisteredcookie

Lemm's 'shop' was empty.

Actually, no, that… that wasn't right. Lemm's shop wasn't a shop in the first place--it was a haven for relics and ancient knick-knacks, and the shelves were filled to overflowing with stone tablets and peculiar eggs that held unimaginable information. Not that Lemm was ever able to crack into the eggs' shells, but he knew--he knew there was more treasured information sleeping beneath. If only he were able to open it up without risking that information being damaged.

And that wasn't right, either. The shop being empty, that was. Right now, the shelves were empty, but that was less because of the absence of relics and more because they were all stowed away in the back room to be sorted. He had a notebook he was combing over, quill in hand as he scribbled out little bits of information that might relate to one another.

'Might', because Lemm wasn't really from Hallownest. So he didn't know for sure whether this smooth L-shaped contraption was a door handle or a piece to a lost work of art.

It was while Lemm was scribbling about in this journal bound in parchment (hand-made and flimsy, using the paper he found around the area that was clean and allowed to dry) that he heard it: The distant clattering of the elevator. There were about seven options he could think of off of the top of his head, each more dreaded than the last. It could be that scarcely-seen Nailsmith who seemed to know more about the history of this ruin than he let on. It could be the peculiar little silent bug that stared up at him now and again, the one that sometimes passed by with a relic to sell. It could be that talkative windbag, droning on and on in his droning voice, so grating and persistent that Lemm struggled to ignore him. He was probably the worst.

Lemm stopped writing, tilted his head, and listened for the telltale sound. The rattling stopped, and all that he heard for a while was silence. And then.

Ding.

He sighed, getting to his feet. A customer it was, then. How delightful. Here's hoping that the customer wasn't 'Zote the Mighty'.

He had a small moment of dread when he saw the horn, a critical blow of dismay that tempted him to retreat back into the back room and pretend to be out for a walk, but then he saw the second horn and breathed a sigh of relief. Oh, it wasn't the Zote person after all. It was… them. The other little one.

They looked up at him as he approached the register and looked down at them. Their eyes were vacant as ever, face impossibly unreadable. Lemm doubted that he'd ever get used to it.

Lemm liked this little bug, if for no other reason than they were quiet, kept their hands to themself, and brought him relics to purchase. They were the only one willing to sell these relics, and they were the only reason Lemm often said what he said next.

"Cup of coffee, or looking to sell?"

He never had much company in this place until the Nailsmith (Lemm never caught his name, never bothered asking, really) first came in looking for materials for his smithing. Almost took one of Lemm's Pale Idols from under his beard while he was noting in his journal. After the initial yelling that followed and a cup of coffee, the Nailsmith apologized by paying for the cup. And he did it again. And again. Until the mapmaker came in, saw, and bought a cup himself. Until the hooded pillbug came in, hummed, and bought one for himself. And then--

Well. And then he had a coffee shop.

Lemm wished he could say that he hated it, and he did, at first. But over time, he found the company rather pleasant. Besides, the geo paid for this little bug's relic collection well enough, so he wasn't complaining.

So. Did they want a cup of coffee, or did they want to sell their relics? Lemm didn't get an answer. Instead, they looked around at the empty shelves for a moment before turning their empty eyes back onto him, tilting their head to the side slightly.

It took Lemm a moment.

"Oh, I moved the relics into the back room," he said. "I've been needing to work on sorting them out and writing notes about them. Never would I have thought that I would have so many to study."

Satisfied, they reached into the confines of their cloak. Lemm leaned forward a little, watching as they rummaged about for a moment, heart skipping a beat as he pondered what sort of relic they were going to sell this time.

And then they withdrew their small hand, reached up, and dropped a fist full of geo onto the counter.

Lemm blinked and stared at the geo for a moment. Something wispy and thin clung to them, and when he picked it up and opened the register, it was sticky. Was this webbing? Lemm wasn't aware of there being any spiders in Hallownest, aside from maybe that red-cloaked bug he saw very rarely flitting about outside his window.

So. No relics today. Fine, at least he'd have more money to buy another one later.

"One coffee coming up," he murmured, rummaging around behind the counter. Underneath the register was where he kept the coffee pot, which he refrained from moving just so he could be prepared if a 'customer' came by. He busied himself with it for a few moments, filling the filter and checking the water, before clicking the button and letting it steep. Granted, he didn't know what kind of coffee they'd drink, but they didn't make it clear anyway, so he doubted that it mattered.

Besides. They seemed a little preoccupied by something else at the moment. After a few minutes, the coffee was finished, and Lemm poured them a cup. He chose a caramel-like flavor, because they seemed about the size of a child and a little bit of sweetness never hurt anyone. Lemm reached over the counter and held it out to them, which they took in their hands and stared down at for a moment. Lemm was about ready to head back into the back when it happened. A crack. It almost sounded like something breaking, but when he turned to look behind himself at the small knight, they still stood there. Another crack, one that made his fur stand on end and his body stiffen, and Lemm caught the glimpse of something sharp and white shifting beneath the bottom of their mask.

A mouth?

They tilted their head back. A jaw opened. Many layers of teeth glimmered in the dim light, cracking as they did so, the noise chilling him through his chitin and making his hemolymph freeze. Lemm stood there, stock still, as they lifted the cup up to their face, jaw extending outwards to drink it, and then-- --they set the scalding hot coffee in their mouth, cup and all, closed it, and crunched.

Lemm had never seen a bug eat a cup of coffee before. He could still hear the crunch, crunch, crunching, muffled and quiet and growing quieter, noise sounding like a particularly crunchy tiktik being eaten.

Lemm shuddered. When the knight looked back at him, he turned around quickly and went into the back room.

Okay. Suddenly they weren't the second most welcome sight for sore eyes. Suddenly Lemm wished that it was that talking, yapping Zote fellow who came in instead.

------------------------------- By @doodle-chris

------------------------------- By @payasita

There was no shortage of open real estate as far as the City of Tears was concerned. But that certainly didn't make every option an equally viable living space.

First, Lemm wanted something enclosed away from the rain, and insulated enough to stave off the humidity. That discounted anything open to the outside, as he wouldn't risk his relics to even the threat of exposure. A leaking roof dripping down onto crumbling tablets or fragile spider silk could devastate hundreds of years worth of history, so that also discounted any room without a few protective floors above it.

Next, it had to be out of the way of any and all shambling husks and infected critters. They weren't the brightest of creatures, so a room only accessible by elevator was ideal. He'd never seen anything plague-cursed have enough wherewithal to operate one, and the noise of it would give him plenty warning of visitors otherwise.

Lastly, he wanted someplace with plenty of shelf space. He needed little in the way of actual living space, so long as he had ample storage room set up in such a way that things could easily be organized.

All of these qualities described, in his opinion, the ideal relic storage and research dwelling. And in the end, he was lucky enough to find it.

Unearthing the previous tenant's belongings informed him that it also, apparently, described the ideal setup for a small café. On his first day in his new residence, he'd uncovered an antique coffee machine and a few other ancient tools, kept miraculously free of rust and wear. The room's conditions must be far better than he thought.

He'd dusted his findings off and set them back up on the counter, having quickly deduced where they'd once been put to use through old nicks and rings left on the shellwood by years of service. Lemm had felt a small swell of pride at finding this small bit of the city's history, and began a set of notes on his theories about this tower complex and its surrounding culture from everything he found around. Perhaps the whole place had been a shopping centre.

On the second day, he pried open the crates in the back room, and they had spilled forth bags upon bags of beans and teas. There were so many of them that he was able to rationalize cutting one open and examining its contents without much guilt. The beans were coffee, that much was obvious at a glance.

Biological samples weren't exactly his area of expertise, but smell and texture alone all but convinced him that they'd been perfectly preserved in their airtight prisons, well dried and perfectly edible.

Most likely.

For the sake of research, and because the bag was already open, he put them through the machine. He committed some time to studying the machine beforehand, as he was afraid mishandling it may destroy it. But an hour of trying to figure the damn thing out was frustrating enough that he finally reasoned that if he did break it, he could at least take it apart and examine its insides for anything interesting. Lemm was a relic keeper, not a tinker. So he winged it with a bit of rainwater and the beans, and got wet beans and hot murky water all over the counter to show for it. He figured out the grinder and filter after his second attempt, and by the third, he had a mug of fresh coffee to show for his efforts. The scent that filled his shop and the outside corridor must have been nothing Hallownest had experienced in centuries. Lemm had little taste for the stuff himself, but in his experimentation he'd gone and made a whole pot. So he supposed he needed to acquire a taste for it rather quickly.

Luckily for his health, that turned out to be unnecessary. The smell, perhaps amplified in the ever-present petrichor, quickly attracted guests of the still-living variety. There turned out to be far more travelers and treasure hunters bumping around this old city than he'd initially expected, prone to tucking himself away in solitude as he was. Introverted or no, he happily gave the coffee away rather than waste it or risk giving himself a coronary. There were even a great deal of disposable mugs stacked away that just made it all the more convenient.

Just over the course of an hour, Lemm was graced with a fair amount of odd characters intruding on his doorstep. There was a surly fellow wielding a metal shield of some foreign make, who announced his intentions towards finding and conquering Hallownest's old colosseum. He was convinced it was still in operation somewhere. Lemm decided that if it was, the place was more than likely not populated with the sorts of honorable warriors this poor bastard was looking to prove himself against, but he kept his thoughts to himself and sent the boy off with a steaming cup of acrid bean water. Next came another traveller who gave off a more scholarly air than the first had, and who carried a more conventional weapon at his hip. The pill bug certainly acted more like a student than a warrior, all bright-eyed and curious and talkative. But no doubt he must know how to use that nail of his to have survived this far down and still be so cheerful. His stay wasn't entirely unpleasant; the two actually talked a short while about Hallownest's history and their shared learnings. The bug even tried to insist on paying, but Lemm was adamant that his reliquary wasn't a damn breakfast nook, thank you, keep your geo. But if he really wanted to pay, Lemm would certainly take any interesting artifact or trinket the bug happened to pick up on his travels. They eventually came to an agreement: A journal pilfered from a shrine somewhere in Greenpath for an extra cup for the road. Lemm's next visitor was, of all things, a cartographer. This one was far too involved in his work for much conversation, which was fine by Lemm. But he did manage to barter a cup for a map of the city. It was incomplete and bare of any landmarks, much to Lemm's disappointment. Finally, an odd little wanderer walked in almost soundlessly. They did not speak to Lemm, nor did they give any indication that they were here for any specific reason. But they had acquired an old city crest and a King's idol on their path, and Lemm had a more typical exchange of geo for relics with them. And then because it was the last of the coffee in the still warm pot, and because the little wanderer did not refuse, he sent them off with a cup on their way out. Thankful to be rid of all the blasted coffee and done with the uptick in social interaction, he then washed the pot and continued with his normal studies. It was nice and quiet, now.

But then the next morning, the pill bug returned. And he was surprised (and clearly disappointed) to see the coffee pot empty. It was a shame, he'd said. For he'd gone and found himself another journal, and considered a relic he couldn't use for a hot morning's drink to be a fine deal indeed. Lemm was inclined to agree, for how it saved him his geo in case of a more potentially significant find down the line. He turned the machine back on at once at the prospect. Unfortunately, he didn't know how to brew just one cup, and was still rightfully intimidated by the old, fussy contraption, and not inclined to mess with what worked. So he made another full pot, and talked shop.

The pill bug wasn't the only one to return that day. The would-be gladiator came back, still not having found his destination, and had the gall to just expect another drink. After the deal he'd just made, Lemm was feeling markedly less generous than he had been the day before, and informed his nasally guest that he'd have to barter something old and interesting for it.

The ant grumbled and left, but returned a few minutes later with a guardsman's crest. He'd apparently seen old treasures all over the place, but had found it beneath him to go and pick them up." A warrior has no need to weigh himself down with baubles," he'd sneered over his cup. Lemm privately thought that the plague-crazed beasts who were doubtlessly running the colosseum now would soon show this haughty kid what they cared for his warrior’s creed in due time, so he said nothing.

The silent wanderer came later. This time when they held up an ancient journal, they made no move to take the geo held out to them. They only stared at Lemm, with their little mask so perfectly unmoving he could easily think them a sudden corpse. Then his hand drifted towards the pot, and the creature set the journal down on the counter.

"...News of a relic keeper bartering goods for coffee has already spread among your lot, then? I suppose even wanderers must have a rumor mill," Lemm talked to himself while pouring their cup. Predictably, they padded away without an answer, drink in hand. Lemm would soon learn how right he was.

- The coming days were more lucrative than his business had ever been. All the travellers he'd met before all came back with various oddities found around Hallownest, as did anyone new. Though not everyone quite understood what constituted a relic, and Lemm had to turn down more than a few shiny rocks and petrified lake detritus. But they all got the routine down soon enough. And, well, Lemm did have an extraordinary amount of coffee that'd just go to waste for another thousand years otherwise, so, may as well.

The pill bug, Quirrel, came to be his best "customer", though Lemm would be twice damned before he ever said the word aloud. Either way, Quirrel often stayed long enough just chatting to warrant a second cup.

"I ought to have you bring double the treasure," Lemm griped once while handing that second cup over. Quirrel's response was a good natured laugh.

"Perhaps elsewhere, that'd be fair. Coffee was a luxury in some lands, and remains so to this day, but by my understanding it was quite in abundance here. Though I couldn't tell you where in the world they must have been growing it," he mused. Lemm raised a brow, wondering once again where in gods' names this bug was educated. But as asking would be an invitation to hear his life story, Lemm deferred.

"Is that right?" he asked instead, "I don't care for the stuff myself, luxury or no." "Really? Not an uncommon opinion, I suppose. I picked it up as a habit at one point... Though, I couldn't tell you when, now that I think of it," Quirrel trailed off, adjusting the oversized mask over his head. Lemm found it an odd choice of protection from the rain, though he supposed it was better than nothing. He only shrugged, "I hear many students do make a habit of caffeine. Your sorts can never get enough hours out of the day."

Quirrel stared at him for a brief moment, and then huffed a laugh again. "Student? You mistake me, sir. I've only ever been a traveller for as long as I can remember."

Lemm didn't bother to mask his surprise, and Quirrel's eyes crinkled. "You're right on that second part, though. So much to see, and never enough time." He took a sip.

The mapmaker came back one day with an order for two drinks. He had no relics, but offered an extra inkwell and quill instead. Lemm found equipment for keeping good notes was lucky to come by, and reluctantly made the trade, much to the old bug's gratitude.

"Thank you, the second is for my wife running our shop surface-side. It was her suggestion you might want materials for your research."

Lemm cleared his throat, blustering slightly under his beard.

"Ahh. Hm. I can appreciate that, then."

"Oh, on that note, have you any sugar you can add in for her?" The bug peered over Lemm’s shoulder, which rankled him for some reason.

"...I did find a jar back here somewhere, I think." Though he couldn't promise it was good. Could sugar go bad? It still just looked like white sand.

"Thank you. ...Err, actually, is that a box of tea on the shelf, there?"

Lemm paused in his rummaging, and looked back at the open storeroom door. The room now made a good home for his relics, though he never bothered unpacking the open crates.

"...It is," he eyed the bug neutrally.

"Ah. Iselda enjoys her coffee, though I quite prefer a good cup of tea myself. ...Erm, if it isn't too much trouble, of course," the bug grinned politely over folded hands.

Lemm, to his credit, did not sigh. There was indeed a kettle back there, too. And at least he knew how to brew tea without making an entire day's worth of it.

He brought up the jar of sugar, and leveled the bug with a grumpy look.

"Fine. But next time, you bring relics."

The cartographer acquiesced immediately, and that was the point where Lemm realized he'd invited them both to expect a "next time".

The silent wanderer came back again, on the tail of a group of treasure hunters who came in and left up the elevator. Shortly after, there was the sound of struggle above them.

This had become commonplace. Anyone who showed up had to contend with the violent husks above and beyond the shop, and some were more prepared to deal with the dangers of Hallownest than others. Lemm only poured the wanderer's cup in bored silence, tuning out the thumping and shouts above. "You know this stuff stunts your growth, right?" Lemm asked flatly. The wanderer only ever stared.

"Dehydrates you, too. You active types probably ought to stick to water. Imagine having to deal with the horrors of rotting sentries and whatnot with a diuretic sloshing about in you." Unbothered, they leaned forward and took their cup in both hands, still staring up while he spoke. Lemm honestly had no idea if they even understood him, and considered the possibility that their muteness was compounded by a language barrier. But they at least always made the effort to appear attentive.

There was a thundering crash above them that made Lemm flinch, and then a silence that kept him tense. The voices started up once again after a few seconds, and the sound of footsteps hurrying away as fast as they could. By his guess, his last customers had just had a very close encounter with a belfly. He'd likely not be seeing them again.

He turned his attention back down to the wanderer with a sigh.

"...Let me see what you have, then."

The tiny thing set their cup carefully down by their feet, and fished a genuine void egg from the depths of their grubby cloak. Lemm was struck with the brief impulse to give them the entire coffee machine for it.

There was a new visitor one morning, just as Lemm brewed the pot for his regulars. He rarely got anyone so very early, and was guiltily nursing his own cup of acrid sugary heart disease before anyone would be around to see. Alright, so he'd acquired the taste for it. It was hardly unreasonable with how much time he spent around the smell, and it helped him make up for lost time studying his relics later in the night. Perfectly understandable, and so he definitely did not freeze mid sip like he was caught in a crime when the door opened unexpectedly. The red-clad stranger who walked in wore a wicked-sharp needle slung across her back, and fixed him with an even sharper gaze.

"...I hear you sell tea." Her voice was quiet enough, but cut clear without the normal hesitant lilt of a question.

Lemm slowly put down his mug, and the soft thunk it made against the countertop sounded awfully loud in the morning lull.

"...I don't sell anything. I buy," he insisted.

The altogether frightening lass glanced between him, the full coffee pot, and the kettle sat next to a stack of assorted loose leaf teas. Then back at him.

He grunted, hiding an inane flush of indignation behind another swig of his drink.

"...I seek artifacts. Relics of this place's past, and anything that may help me understand it, for geo. ...Or for a cuppa, for those who'd rather." He shifted behind the counter, nearly trailing off into a mumble. But at this point, there wasn’t much use in fighting his reputation.

The girl just scrutinized him until she seemed to come to a decision. She then turned and left without saying anything else, opting to hop down the elevator shaft rather than waste a moment calling the lift.

Lemm rolled his eyes and gulped down the dregs of his coffee, vaguely annoyed. By this point, he was used to the rude and half feral sorts of vagabonds that only came by out of curiosity. At least she was quick about leaving.

All the better for him, as far as he was concerned. He doubted such a young thing would have anything of note to share with Hallownest's foremost historian.

#telephoneknight #hollowknight #hollow knight #RelicCoffeeAu #lemm #tiso #ghost #quirrel

120 notes · View notes

sepublic · 4 years

Text

Magical Tears and Green Bile?

Looking back at Episode 3, I noticed that the specific shade of green that Willow’s eyes turn when she does circle-less magic, seems to be different from the type of green that her spell circles are;

This COULD be an animation error, and/or I’m overthinking this. But it’s interesting when you consider the theory that strong emotions can lead to circle-less magic, due to the bile sac’s connection to the heart. Keep in mind that we only ever see Willow pull off this circle-less magic, where her eyes glow that specific green, whenever she’s highly emotional, stressed-out, and/or aggressive.

What’s interesting is that the specific shade for Willow’s glowing eyes also seems to match the essence that Belos drains from that poor Palisman, too;

And we know Palismans have their own source of magic. We know that witches create palismans, so someone like Eda would definitely know where their magic comes from- And so she would’ve known about alternate means of magic, back when Luz asked her about it in the beginning of The Intruder. All of this points towards Palismans having their own source of magical bile… And if so, then this particular Palisman’s bile has that distinct shade of green.

Combined with the idea that Willow’s more emotional magic manifests as a similar green- And it’s possible that we have a canon, on-screen, universal depiction of Magic Bile! Specifically as a green substance… And whenever Willow is highly aggressive, her heart beats faster, tapping into her natural bile reserves; And from this more pure, unrefined source, her eyes manifest the traditional Bile green, instead of the specific color unique to her circles.

Because we know that circle colors seem to vary among individuals, and probably don’t allude to magical skill- The Lead Demon Hunter’s circles are green, but he doesn’t handle Willow’s plants all too well and seems to be more of a Beast Keeper than anything else. Boscha’s spell circles are also pink, yet she’s in the Potions Track… And if spell circles DID allude to an innate affinity towards a particular type of magic, I feel like the Coven System would’ve seized upon this fact to permanently decide someone’s magical track as soon as they can manifest circles.

We see toddlers who don’t align with any magical tracks, presumably because they’re too young and developing to display any particular affinity; And we see Amity and Willow as about that age, being able to cast spell circles. We know toddlers can cast spell circles, yet they aren’t immediately placed into a magic track- Which furthers the idea that circle colors don’t indicate anything about one’s skill. It’s probably just a biological trait, like different eye or hair colors.

So the idea is that all magic comes from the traditionally-green bile… But in the process of converting it into a spell circle, that magic manifests as a color specific to the individual, and as a reflection of their specific genetics. However, if an individual draws upon emotions to cast circle-less magic, directly tapping into their unaltered bile reserves- Then the glow of that bile is shown in their eyes, having not been processed the traditional way through a witch’s limbs, avoiding that typical pathway. Possibly it’s in the eyes because the brain influences emotions, after all- And eyes are linked to the brain, after all. Regardless, the bile-magic is released in a different manner than spell-circles, apparently just from the body as a whole rather than the hand/foot.

This may be a result of more emotional hearts pumping blood, and thus bile more intensely- And this could lead to magical bile circulating through the whole body instead of the limbs, if the heart’s pumping becomes intense enough. Spread equally and in larger quantities due to emotions, an individual can cast spells without making a circle, just by emanating it from their body- And their eyes glow that distinct bile green, displaying how raw it is. Actually, I have to wonder if a witch’s eyes act as a vital pathway to their bile sac, hence why Willow’s eyes grow the color of bile when her heart beats faster.

Perhaps this’d explain why Belos specifically pours that Palisman’s bile into his eyes- It’s so the bile can reach the sac attached to his heart, and thus be spread out evenly through his body. AKA, Belos didn’t have any problems with his eyes, at least not specifically/exclusively. They say the Eyes are a window to the Soul, the Soul is related to emotions, emotions are connected to both the brain and heart, the former of which is directly connected to one’s eyes. This is just putting into my head, the raw image of a witch who’s so raw and emotional, their magic manifesting so powerfully, that they literally cry magic bile.

And that’s reminding me of what Eda said about human fantasies and myths being inspired by the Boiling Isles. And how a common fantasy trope is magical tears bringing stuff to life… Are witches actually capable of magical-bile tears, under particularly intense emotions? Is this trait the source of the ‘Magical Tears’ trope, which Luz herself brings up in Sense and Insensitivity? That’d be wild… And now I’m imagining members of the Healing Coven, who specifically cast spells that intensify their emotions, so they can literally cry magical tears when it comes to particularly serious injuries. I imagine this’d be incredibly draining, of course, as it directly extracts the bile itself in a tangible, liquid form- Maybe it could even have adverse effects on the bile sac!

At the very least, this’d make for some interesting angst… Though I imagine one would have to willingly tap into their magical reserves when crying, or else you’ve got a magical mess every time they feel emotional. Willow’s usage of circle-less magic when we first meet her seems unintentional, but we can’t say for sure- And if it was, then maybe it’s just another symptom of how potent her own natural power is. For all we know, frequently experiencing these raw emotions through her life, and the effect it had on her heart and bile sac, is what contributed to Willow’s own raw power? Now I’m just imagining an episode where Willow’s magic weakens, and she realizes it’s because she’s no longer in as much emotional turmoil, and the kind of confused feelings that could come from that…

And it’s REALLY making me look at the Blight kids under a new lens. If Amity’s magical prowess, early in life, came from her parents’ abuse. If Odalia and Alador legit fedinto this abuse because of this idea, especially if they felt like they needed to step in and actively improve their ‘weaker’ child, since Amity apparently isn’t as talented as Emira and Edric. And for all we know, Ed and Em’s talent is a manifestation of their own trauma from their parents- A trauma they hide better than their little sister as Illusionists, but a real and genuine pain.

For all we know Ed and Em frequently experience panic attacks or something of that nature… And who’s to say Amity certainly doesn’t either? Then this just leads me to imagining Willow accidentally causing damage at home during an outburst, but her fathers reassure her it’s okay… Whilst Odalia and Alador just get angrier at their kids for the chaos, which just makes things worse. I wouldn’t put it past them to specifically traumatize their kids to bring out their ‘potential’, and how this could connect into the Blight ideas of needing to be ‘strong’, in both the magical and emotionally stoic sense. Strong and stoic enough to handle this constant turmoil for the sake of weaponizing it… Ugh. It’d REALLY mess someone up, and everything we’ve seen so far indicates that Amity, Emira, and Edric are pretty messed-up as is. The Twins are probably better at hiding it, but that doesn’t change what’s there- It’s equivalent to sweeping something underneath a rug.

Of course, maybe I’m just wrong and magic bile can come in different colors, and Willow and that poor Palisman just so happen to align. But it makes you think, doesn’t it- Especially the idea that even if bile isn’t that particular green, it can still manifest and well up in one’s eyes if they’re emotional enough.

#the owl house #owl house #the owl house willow #willow park #the owl house belos #emperor belos #palismans #magic bile #speculation #theory #angst

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linastudyblrsblog · 4 years

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Burnout, unfortunately, is everywhere. If you haven’t experienced it personally, you probably know someone who has self-diagnosed.

Defined by the World Health Organization as a syndrome “conceptualized as resulted from chronic workplace stress,” it causes exhaustion, “feelings of negativism or cynicism,” and reduced efficacy. That’s a big umbrella, and the condition has become something of a catch-all for chronic, modern-day stress.

Here are 11 of our favorites to help you create your own escape plan:

1. Figure out which kind of burnout you have.

The Association for Psychological Science found that burnout comes in three different types, and each one needs a different solution:

1. Overload: The frenetic employee who works toward success until exhaustion, is most closely related to emotional venting. These individuals might try to cope with their stress by complaining about the organizational hierarchy at work, feeling as though it imposes limits on their goals and ambitions. That coping strategy, unsurprisingly, seems to lead to a stress overload and a tendency to throw in the towel.

2. Lack of Development: Most closely associated with an avoidance coping strategy. These under-challenged workers tend to manage stress by distancing themselves from work, a strategy that leads to depersonalization and cynicism — a harbinger for burning out and packing up shop.

3. Neglect: Seems to stem from a coping strategy based on giving up in the face of stress. Even though these individuals want to achieve a certain goal, they lack the motivation to plow through barriers to get to it

2. Cut down and start saying “no.”

Every “yes” you say adds another thing on your plate and takes more energy away from you, and your creativity:

If you take on too many commitments, start saying ‘no’. If you have too many ideas, execute a few and put the rest in a folder labeled ‘backburner’. If you suffer from information overload, start blocking off downtime or focused worktime in your schedule (here are some tools that may help). Answer email at set times. Switch your phone off, or even leave it behind. The world won’t end. I promise.

3. Give up on getting motivated.

With real burnout mode, you’re too exhausted to stay positive. So don’t:

When you’re mired in negative emotions about work, resist the urge to try to stamp them out. Instead, get a little distance — step away from your desk, focus on your breath for a few seconds — and then just feel the negativity, without trying to banish it. Then take action alongside the emotion. Usually, the negative feelings will soon dissipate. Even if they don’t, you’ll be a step closer to a meaningful achievement.

4. Treat the disease, not the symptoms.

For real recovery and prevention to happen, you need to find the real, deeper issue behind why you’re burnt out:

Instead of overreacting to the blip, step back from it, see it as an incident instead of an indictment, and then examine it like Sherlock Holmes looking for clues.

For example, you could ask yourself: What happened before the slip? Did I encounter a specific trigger event such as a last-minute client request? Was there an unusual circumstance such as sickness? When did I first notice the reversion in my behavior? Is some part of this routine unsustainable and if so, how could I adjust it to make it more realistic?

5. Make downtime a daily ritual.

To help relieve pressure, schedule daily blocks of downtime to refuel your brain and well-being. It can be anything from meditation to a nap, a walk, or simply turning off the wifi for a while:

When it comes to scheduling, we will need to allocate blocks of time for deep thinking. Maybe you will carve out a 1-2 hour block on your calendar every day for taking a walk or grabbing a cup of coffee and just pondering some of those bigger things. I can even imagine a day when homes and apartments have a special switch that shuts down wi-fi and data access during dinner or at night – just to provide a temporary pause from the constant flow of status updates and other communications…

There is no better mental escape from our tech-charged world than the act of meditation. If only for 15 minutes, the ability to steer your mind away from constant stimulation is downright liberating. There are various kinds of meditation. Some forms require you to think about nothing and completely clear your mind. (This is quite hard, at least for me.) Other forms of meditation are about focusing on one specific thing – often your breath, or a mantra that you repeat in your head (or out loud) for 10-15 minutes…

If you can’t adopt meditation, you might also try clearing your mind the old fashioned way – by sleeping. The legendary energy expert and bestselling author Tony Schwartz takes a 20-minute nap every day. Even if it’s a few hours before he presents to a packed audience, he’ll take a short nap.

6. Stop being a perfectionist; start satisficing.

Trying to maximize every task and squeeze every drop of productivity out of your creative work is a recipe for exhaustion and procrastination. Set yourself boundaries for acceptable work and stick to them:

Consistently sacrificing your health, your well being, your relationships, and your sanity for the sake of living up to impossible standards will lead to some dangerous behaviors and, ironically, a great deal of procrastination. Instead of saying, “I’ll stay up until this is done,” say, “I’ll work until X time and then I’m stopping. I may end up needing to ask for an extension or complete less than perfect work. But that’s OK. I’m worth it.” Making sleep, exercise, and downtime a regular part of your life plays an essential role in a lasting, productive creative career.

7. Track your progress every day.

Keeping track allows you to see exactly how much is on your plate, not only day-to-day, but consistently over time:

Disappointing feedback can be painful at first – research shows that failure and losses can hurt twice as much as the pleasure of equivalent gains. But if you discover you’re off course, reliable feedback shows you by how much, and you then have the opportunity to take remedial action and to plot a new training regime or writing schedule. The temporary pain of negative feedback is nothing compared with the crushing experience of project failure. Better to discover that you’re behind and need to start writing an hour earlier each day, than to have your book contract rescinded further down the line because you’ve failed to deliver.

8. Change location often.

Entrepreneurs or freelancers can be especially prone to burnout. Joel Runyon plays “workstation popcorn,” in which he groups tasks by location and then switches, in order to keep work manageable, provide himself frequent breaks, and spend his time efficiently:

You find yourself spending hours at your computer, dutifully “working” but getting very little done. You finish each day with the dreaded feeling that you’re behind, and that you’re only falling farther and farther behind. You’re buried below an ever-growing to-do list. There’s a feeling of dread that tomorrow is coming, and that it’s bringing with it even more work that you probably won’t be able to get ahead on.

List out everything you need to do today. Try to be as specific as you can…Next, break that list into three sections. Step 1: Go to cafe [or desk, a different table in your office, etc.] #1. Step 2: Start working on item group #1…Once you finish all the tasks in group #1, get up and move. Close your tabs, pack your bags, and physically move your butt to your next spot. If you can, walk or bike to your next stop…When you get to the next cafe [or spot], start on the next action item group, and repeat…

When you’ve completed everything on your to-do list for the day, you are done working. Relax, kick back, and live your life. Don’t take work home with you because that won’t help you get more done – it will just wear you out.

9. Don’t overload what downtime you do get.

Vacations themselves can cause, or worsen burnout, with high-stress situations, expectations, and sleep interruption. Use it to help in recovery from burnout instead:

Make a flexible itinerary a priority. [A] study from Radboud University found that effective vacations give you the choice and freedom to choose what you want to do. That means two things: Try to avoid structuring your vacation around an unbreakable schedule, and plan on going somewhere that has multiple options to pick from depending on the weather, your level of energy, or your budget.

10. Write yourself fan mail.

Seth Godin uses self-fan mail as a way to keep motivated instead of burning out on a project that seems far from completion:

I define non-clinical anxiety as, “experiencing failure in advance.” If you’re busy enacting a future that hasn’t happened yet, and amplifying the worst possible outcomes, it’s no wonder it’s difficult to ship that work. With disappointment, I note that our culture doesn’t have an easily found word for the opposite. For experiencing success in advance. For visualizing the best possible outcomes before they happen. Will your book get a great testimonial? Write it out. Will your talk move someone in the audience to change and to let you know about it? What did they say? Will this new product gain shelf space at the local market? Take a picture. Writing yourself fan mail in advance, and picturing the change you’ve announced you’re trying, to make is an effective way to push yourself to build something that actually generates that action.

11. Break projects into bite-sized pieces.

Taking a task on in one entire lump can be exhausting and provide little room for rest in between. Breaking up your projects into set chunks with their own deadlines provides a much healthier, and easier, way of completing a large project:

The default take on deadlines is typically to consider them to be cumbersome and stressful. Yet, from another perspective, a deadline can be viewed as a huge benefit to any project. Without the urgency of a hard deadline pushing a project to completion, it’s easy for you, your team, or your client to lose focus. We’ve all worked on agonizing projects where the timeline just bleeds on and on, merely because the flexibility is there…

It turns out that the manner in which a task is presented to someone – or the way in which you present it to your brain – has a significant impact on how motivated you will be to take action. A study led by researcher Sean McCrea at the University of Konstanz in Germany recently found that people are much more likely to tackle a concrete task than an abstract task… It seems to me like the difference between being handed a map versus following the step-by-step instructions of a GPS device. Not everyone can read a map, but everyone can follow the directions. By breaking your project down into smaller, well-described tasks, the way forward becomes clear and it’s easy to take action.

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one-abuse-survivor · 3 years

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before i start, thank you so much for doing what you do;this blog has given me good advice countless times and i really have to thank you for that.

my issues with my parents are that they don't take me seriously. i can literally go up to them and say: "mom/dad, i think i might be autistic or have ADHD (both would be quite likely) can i get that checked out" and list a bunch of examples why i think that and they'll just be "nah, that can't be, you don't seem like that at all" as of i didn't break my mind over it researching it and talking to people who have it to see if we've had similar experiences just to get some kind of reference as to why i feel the way i feel and why i struggle so much with things that so many other people find so easy.

but then, in the following weeks and months (after talking w them) they just randomly point out things about me that kinda annoy them, like me talking out of turn a LOT or me not looking at people or me having trouble focusing if there isn't also music and a movie going at the same time or mom saying that i seem hyperactive to her because i'm always moving my legs or pacing around or rubbing my hands or drumming on the table with pens. things like that (plus a lot more) were the exact things i was telling them about and they just put it off like it's nothing but as soon as it affects and annoys them it's suddenly very real. at this point i'm struggling to talk to my parents about anything even remotely more serious than generic smalltalk and i'm having a hard time believing myself that my struggles are in fact real and i'm not just making them up.

and also on a less related note; the thing i hate most about my parents: if i'm wearing headphones and couldn't understand what a parent was yelling from somewhere else in the house then it's my fault. but if it's the exact same situation but i'm the one calling and they couldn't hear me, then it's obviously my fault too (i kinda get the first one but srsly how could i not wear headphones when they're constantly arguing with my brother in the room next to mine) (either way if one of the scenarios is clearly my fault, then the other shld be clearly their fault bc that's how logic works)

hhhh, this got quite long. i would love to hear your thoughts about this

a continuation from the other ask about my parents not taking me seriously even when i ask them for help with my hardest problems. that ask didn't really go in the direction i had planned but there is so much going on between my parents and me that i really need to talk to someone about

background: i'm around 15-16 rn and have a brother who's 18. primary school was academically very easy for me (lots and lots of great and even perfect grades) but my brother didn't have it as easy (lots and lots of mediocre and meh grades) so my parents really just kinda let me do my thing while they were constantly busy with my brother. so i got really independant and did all of my stuff on my own bc a) i always had done it that way and b) my parents were already busy and stressed. but after my brother got his first computer and got into video games his grades dropped and my parents started constantly arguing with him and taking away his computer and stuff like that so there was always a lot of tension (and i got to a point where i can't handle people yelling; that's what i was referring to with the headphone thingy at the end of the last ask) i don't know if i can go that far and say that my parents kinda neglected me and my emotional needs in favour of saving my brother grades but that's pretty much the way it feels.

i'm now a sophomore (school works a bit different here but i'm the equivalent of a highschool sophomore afaik, here it's just 10th grade) and starting from about mid 8th grade (end of 2018) i've been struggling a lot with self care and upkeep of my already minimal social circle and academic stuff (i'm at the academically highest level of school you could be at my age without skipping any years) and also mental health.

i got quite depressive and started isolating myself and casting away friends and my grades went down a lot, which really disappointed me because my great grades were kind of my trademark thing. but i didn't feel safe talking to my parents because of the huge distance that we built by me "never" needing their help with stuff.

in that time (almost a year ago, our anniversary is in twenty days or so) i got a girlfriend and i'm hella glad that i can talk to her about everything but i feel like i can't just go dump trauma and parent issues on her forever

about last november or so i was at a pretty low point and was suicidal and that's kind of when i snapped and went to my parents to talk so being cast away and having my issues invalidated really really hurt then and made me spiral even deeper and my gf was the only thing keeping me afloat.

i'm kind of a bit better now but i have rebuilt my view of my parents from "idk we never really interact" to "trying to interact or talk is not worth the energy" and needless to say i don't like them that much

oh and i forgot about all the times i got panic attacks and sensory overloads @ school because there are so many people there (1700 students + 200 teachers) and it's loud everywhere and of course asking my parents for what to do if suddenly everything is too bright and too loud and you can't move or talk because of it didn't get me anywhere (and since i didn't know what it was called or how to describe it properly, i didn't really find any Information online either

and just typing this makes me think of so many more things that they did that aren't okay things to do (a lot of gender identity stuff for example because i'm also neck-deep in that) . but writing this has also helped a lot right now. thank you for being there and listening.

and just in case i'm ever gonna pop back in to say something i'm gonna drop a name for easier identifying

sincerely - 🌌 milky way anon

Hi, nonnie! Thanks for the kind words, I'm really glad my blog has been of help ❤️

I'm sorry your parents are making it hard to believe your struggles are real :( you deserve to be taken seriously and to get access to all the help you might need. Just the fact your symptoms are there and you're noticing them and they're interfering with your daily life is enough to get them checked, regardless of if you need a diagnosis/meds/anything else. No one deserves to live wondering if their struggles are worth discussing with a doctor or professional.

And you're right: if one of those things was your fault, then the other should be theirs, logically. But I don't even think it's "your fault" you didn't hear them because you were wearing headphones, to be honest. I think it's just something that happens from time to time and that doesn't warrant getting mad over; I think it's the kind of thing that simply needs to be talked about so everyone in the household knows how to communicate with everyone else without getting frustrated. It's as easy as saying "hey, whenever I put on headphones I'll just text the family group chat to let you guys know I won't hear you. If you need anything in those moments, just text me instead". I do this with my girlfriend sometimes—if we're wearing headphones and we're in the same room, we simply pat each other when we need something and wait until the other takes off their headphones to talk. It really doesn't have to be an issue where anyone is to blame. You're allowed to take steps to feel safe and comfortable in your house without getting punished for it.

But, of course, this doesn't work if the people around you choose to prioritise "being right" and proving you're wrong over a peaceful and healthy cohabitation, which is what most toxic and abusive people do.

As for your second ask, I would say if it feels like your parents neglected you and your needs because they were always focusing on your brother, then it's okay to say that they did. The fact alone that those feelings are there makes you deserving of talking about it and wanting to heal from it; the cause of those feelings doesn't have to be something major, or sound deeply traumatising when you say it out loud, in order to "count". And people whose emotional needs were consistently met don't feel like they weren't.

I've already shared this video before, but if you want some resources on identifying and healing from emotional neglect, I really recommend watching it. Please bear in mind, though, that the video says it's important to not blame parents for emotionally neglecting you, but I don't think that's the message a lot of people need to hear and I think you should allow yourself to feel angry at your parents for not meeting your needs and causing you trauma. That's pretty much the only thing I'd criticise about the video.

I'm sorry to hear you've been struggling with your grades and mental health lately, nonnie. I had a quite similar experience when I was in high school—I used to always get great grades, but my mental health and trauma put a lot of strain on them (as well as on my social life; I lost a lot of friends in those years) and it was really distressing to see the only thing that made me "worthy" crumble between my fingers like that. I'm still trying to unlearn this idea that your grades define your worth, and it's been really hard.

I'm so sorry your parents weren't there for you when you hit that low 😔 I'm glad your girlfriend could help you stay afloat in that moment, but they absolutely should've been there for you all those times you reached out to them for help with your struggles, and the fact that they didn't is emotionally neglectful of them.

I'm glad you're in a better place now ❤️ I really hope you can find out all the information you need on gender identity and sensory overload and any other issues that might be affecting you. Know that you deserve for your parents to be there for you. You shouldn't have to face any of this on your own, or even with only the support of other people your age. You deserve for them to care. You deserve to have your symptoms checked out. You deserve adult guidance to find resources to help you better understand and manage your struggles.

Sending all my virtual support your way ❤️ and happy belated anniversary to you and your girlfriend!

#Ask #milky way anon #Abuse #Abuse tw #Abusive parents #Toxic parents #Ableism tw #I'm not from the US either so I have no idea what a sophomore is hahaha #Emotional neglect tw #childhood emotional neglect #panic attacks tw #Suicidal tw

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jessmt · 4 years

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Trust in Me

Summary: You've always had trust issues. In this world, it's all for one and none for all.

Or, at least you thought it was, until Jesse came along.

A close look into Lake's mind throughout season two and afterwards

Notes:

So, fun fact! This piece was originally meant for a zine that I'd applied for, but I never heard back from them, so I just assumed that it...wasn't happening anymore? Never even got a "sorry, we went with someone else/we're full" email back from any of the administrators. Oh well.

I've always had a soft-spot for fics written in a second person perspective. It's hard to write well, but some of my favorite fics I've ever read were second person fics. I've always found them so in-tune with the characters' and reader's emotions. I hope I did it justice, because I love Jesse and Lake an unhealthy amount.

AO3

You’ve always had trust issues.

Yeah, yeah, you know how edgy that sounds when you say it out loud. But you don’t mean it in the same way as those narcissistic teenage boys who call themselves lone wolves and act like an ass to everyone they meet for no reason.

You don’t have a choice. If you were naturally the approachable type with groups of friends in the double digits, you’d be just as happy. You’ve never told anyone, but if you’re going to be honest with yourself, you think you’d actually be happier that way. But it’s not, and it’s entirely because you know you can’t.

Everyone who takes a good look at you for longer than, say, a quick glance, automatically assumes two things about you. One, that you’re going to hurt them if they approach you, and two, that you’re a fugitive. And while there are the passive few who would rather not get involved at all, because they don’t want the Flecs to take them in beside you (even though that’s not how it works at all), most of them report you on sight. The worst of them will grab the closest reflective surface they can find and shove it in your face. Which is never fair, because all you’ve done since Tulip set you free is aimlessly wander around the train.

As a matter of fact, you don’t even trust Tulip that much. You’re sure that part of it is still because you’re holding a grudge against her for being forced to live as her reflection for thirteen years, which, okay, she couldn’t control. But it took you breaking down sobbing in front of her for Tulip to agree to help you at all, and that was already after one of her friends had called the Flecs on you.

You’re never just you. You’re a copy, you’re a reflection, you’re a criminal, you’re a sliver. Nobody ever gives you enough time to even ask you for your name, let alone give you enough time to even think of one. You’re not a person, you’re a mistake. Nobody cares about you, and if you need to shut everyone else out just to keep yourself alive, then so be it. If it’s gotta be all for one, then it’s gotta be none for all, because nobody cares about you.

Or so you thought.

Jesse Cosay changed your life in ways that you can’t describe. Yeah, okay, he never called the Flecs on you, and even when he had the chance to turn you in he refused (and actually listened to your story before he made that decision, Tulip), but that’s not what you’re talking about.

Anyone can be a good person. Anyone can just say “no, that’s awful, I’m not just gonna turn her in”. Most of the passengers on the train probably would’ve said the same thing, if they thought that helping you escape could help lower their number. Jesse was willing to help at the expense of his number going up, but that’s still beside the point.

He’s the first person to actually listen to you. He’s a chatterbox for sure, but he genuinely hangs on to what you have to say.

“I’m MT,” you’d told him when you first met. It’s the first real name you’ve ever given yourself, and you still kind of hated it, all things considering, but the more times he said it and the more enthusiastic he sounded when he used it, the less you started to hate it.

But the less you started hating your name, the more you realized how fleeting all of this is going to be.

The more comfortable you let yourself become, you realize, the quicker it’ll all be taken from you. Once Jesse’s number hits zero, you’re right back where you started. You’ll be stripped of your name, since nobody will give you the time of day to listen for it. You’ll be a copy, a reflection, a sliver.

You try not to let it bother you, because you already know what’s going to happen if you do. That’s how Tulip ended up on the train to begin with, by pretending that she wasn’t bothered by her parents separating. I’m fine! She’d claimed, but the longer she tried to convince herself she was okay, the less and less she spoke to her own best friend.

And, well, maybe it’s a bit premature to call for sure, and you’re sure you’d never hear the end of it if you ever said it out loud, but Jesse’s the closest thing you’ve got to a best friend. If you stop talking to him a few days before you’re never gonna see him again, you’re both gonna be miserable, which is just going to make matters so much worse.

You bury the feeling down, take your anger and frustration out on the Flecs, and that disgusting parasite, and pray Jesse doesn’t notice.

But Jesse “I’m friends with everyone I meet” Cosay notices right away, and he says the words you never expected to hear from anybody.

“I’m not just gonna leave you here with the Flecs chasing after you”.

Not “oh, I’ll try”, or a sympathetic hug, or a teary-eyed premature goodbye hug as everything’s just hitting him for the first time. “I won’t”, he promises, like he’s been planning this since the first time they encountered the Flecs in the Map Car.

He wants you to come with him. It’s not a fun hypothetical to imagine to pass the time, like all of his mirror questions had been. It’s a demand, rather than a question, because he knows that you’ll be miserable if you stay.

Your cheeks burn, and you’re speechless.

You regret nothing, you tell yourself, as tears pour down your cheeks. You’re covered in dirt and mud and every equivalent of blood you can think of, but you regret none of it as you swing your crowbar at steward after steward. You don’t care anymore, you tell yourself. You don’t care if you have to take the damn train apart gear by gear.

You already lost Jesse, and when the damned train still wouldn’t give you a number after everything, after you’re sure you’ve gone through more trauma than all of the passengers combined, there went your hope. And you’re not the kind of person who feels sad and gloomy when you’re feeling hopeless, oh no. You get angry. You get pissed. You run into the next room, guns blazing, ready to kick the shit out of the next person who even looks at you the wrong way.

Hope and positivity are a rarity for you, so when it’s forcefully ripped from your hands, you’ll do everything in your power to take it back twice as forcefully. It’s embarrassing, really, that you’re an angry crier, because you really need these sons of bitches to know that you’re paying them back tenfold.

You never fully understood what people meant by blind rage until you do right now. You just keep swinging, and swinging, since nobody’s paying attention to you anyway. Someone’s gotta cave eventually, right? Destructive behavior is a sure-fire symptom of trauma, isn’t it? Someone’s gonna come by and realize you’re acting out of hurt, and give you some random number so you can work out your problems and eventually get out of here, right?

Well, you’re half-right.

“Hello!” One-One chimes, eerily cheery for the situation at hand. “Please stop destroying my stewards”.

“Unless you want me to write up your obituary”, his gloomy counterpart chimes in.

And...threat aside, a tiny part of you is relieved. He’s Tulip’s friend, so there’s a chance he’ll understand, right? All you need to do is just explain everything, and you’ll be free to go, right?

You couldn’t be more wrong. He’s just babbling on about how you’re just there to help, how you were never really Jesse’s friend, and you’re close to crying again. You want to believe it’s out of anger, because you know that can’t be true, but you’re too burned out on anger and too exhausted to really fully convince yourself of anything.

Until One-One pulls up his list of passengers, and just two little words on his screen are enough to make your heart stop.

In-Progress.

Jesse Cosay: In Progress.

If One-One is talking to you at all on the way over to the Tape Car, you can’t hear a word he’s saying. Your heart is beating so hard in your chest that it’s making your ears ring, and as One-One carries Jesse back to the Number Car, you’re pretty sure you’re actually vibrating, because you can’t believe this is actually happening.

It’s an indescribable feeling, knowing that he cares about you. It’s indescribable, knowing he doesn’t take the word promise for granted.

He came back for you.

He literally went through hell and back, just to spend more time with you.

Now you feel like crying for an entirely new reason.

Jesse Cosay is something else.

You’ve been living with him for six months now, and he still insists on making every day a new experience for you. “Fourteen years on a train is nothing compared to four months off of it!” he’d exclaimed exasperatedly when you asked him about it. That’s not how it works, but you never argued against it.

It’s a sweet gesture. He’s gone out of his way to make you as happy as he possibly can ever since you broke down sobbing the first day you were off the train. You were able to wait until Nate went back home, thank god, but it was the ugly, uncontrollable kind of sobbing that overpowers your body so much that you end up sprawled across the ground looking like a complete and utter fool because you’re too overwhelmed. You’re still not entirely sure if you were overwhelmed in a good way, or overwhelmed in a bad way, but you remember pretty clearly the way Jesse held you in his arms and helped you to your feet when you were ready.

You hadn’t even told him what happened yet, but he was already promising you that you’re safe, it’s never going to happen, and that he’s personally going to make sure that your experience in Arizona is a significantly better one than the one you had on the train. That made you laugh, because literally anything would be better than what you went through on that train, but you know that he meant it.

You told him, later that night, and for the second time that day he held you in his arms as you shook and focused on nothing else but steadying your breathing. He didn’t say a single word unless you prompted him to, or he wanted to ask a question in the shyest tone of voice you’ve ever heard. It made you laugh, every single time, and you had to lightly tap on his wrist every time to silently tell him It’s okay, I’m laughing, and no, it’s not a stupid question.

It’s….adorable, how much he cares about you. And not at all in a sarcastic kind of way, either. He’s got this really sheepish smile, and he’s always brushing his hair out of the way, and when he hugs you to comfort you he touches you really lightly like he’s afraid you’re going to flinch even though he already verbally asked if it’s okay to hug you. It makes you laugh, when you think about it too much, and you’re painfully aware of the blush on your cheeks that accompany your laughter.

You can’t help yourself. He’s so goofy, and chatty, and cheerful, and friendly, and so the exact opposite as yourself from when you first met. But he’s so sweet, and honest, and caring, and...trusting. He trusts so easily, and where you would’ve rolled your eyes in his direction less than a year ago, it’s your favorite thing about him today, because you don’t know where you’d be today if it weren’t for his trust in you.

You’re not great at expressing your feelings. You’ve always known that about yourself. You suppose that’s probably the trauma talking, because if you’d even dared to express yourself to anyone on the train you’d be a pile of sand by the next morning. But you’ve been stewing in your feelings for Jesse for nearly two months, and you’re not sure how much longer you can take keeping it in. When you come from a place that always valued telling the truth, even if it was difficult, it’s a hard habit to break.

Okay, that’s not a hundred percent true. A few nights into your stay at Jesse’s place, you stumbled down the stairs in a fit of insomnia looking for a cup of water just to try and see if walking up and down the stairs would tire you out. Jesse’s mom was in the living room watching television, and you paused, unsure of whether you should keep going or if you should sneak back up the stairs and try again in an hour.

“Oh, hello, Lake”, she said, turning from her seat on the couch to face you. Well, that answered your question. “Is something wrong?”

You scratched at the back of your head as you made your way towards the kitchen. “Couldn’t sleep,” you replied, digging through the cupboard looking for a clean cup.

Mrs. Cosay patted at the couch beside her. “Oh, well you’re free to join me on the couch and see if my boring old movie helps to put you to sleep”.

You snorted at the idea, but figured it was probably a better idea than jogging up and down the stairs to tire yourself out.

You don’t remember the title of the movie now, but you do remember that it was some rom-com from the 80’s, since Tulip was never interested in those. Which, of course, was exactly the reason you wanted to check it out.

Spite really is the best motivator, you’d told yourself, but you ended up enjoying the movie a lot more than you thought you did. You’d tried watching a few other movies like it, just to see if Mrs. Cosay had just been watching a particularly interesting movie, but it turns out that no, you just really have a soft spot for romantic comedies. Maybe especially the really cheesy ones set to pop music from the early 2000’s. You’d deny it for sure if you were ever asked about it, but it was...interesting, to learn that kind of thing about yourself.

Tulip had never really been one for relationships, and here you were, living with your best friend, a class-A example of those soulmate AU fanfictions you definitely haven’t read. It’s not that you necessarily believe in soulmates, or anything, it’s just that you’re well aware that you experience a lot of….feelings, when you read them.

You’ve wanted to tell Jesse how you feel about him all week. Ever since his school let out for the summer, he’s been in an even cheerier mood than usual, and every time he directs that smile in your direction you swear you just want to pull him into your lap and kiss him.

But every time you get close to confessing, you freeze. Your ingrained trust issues always stop you in your tracks. If he says no, your friendship will be ruined and you can’t live there anymore. If he says yes and then you break up, you won’t be friends anymore. If if if if.

You hate that word. If. You wished it wouldn’t exist, or at the very least, that it would stop repeating itself on loop in your head. You shouldn’t need that word, because you know that Jesse is different. You know that things are going to be okay.

You trust him. You trust that you’ll be okay.

He said he wants to surprise you today. The way he’s practically bouncing up and down on his feet and pacing back and forth while he’s waiting for you to lace up your boots makes it seem like he’s about to take you on the most extravagant adventure you’ve ever been on. You’re laughing again, and pause to lace your boots up even slower, just for the sake of his exasperated reaction.

You flick him in the forehead, for good measure, and you’re out the door. He insists on walking, for the ~element of surprise~ , which, okay, has got to be the cutest, dorkiest thing he’s ever done. He swears it’s not a walk, but it’s not like it makes a difference to you. You’re walking side by side, and your hands are almost touching, and part of you is wondering if it’s purposeful on his part.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been walking when Jesse stops in front of….an ice cream parlor.

“Surprise!” he beams. “One of my friends from school works here, and he was just telling me they restocked last night before closing, so we can get any ice cream you want”.

You honestly don’t have the heart to tell him that you’re the reason his family keeps running out of ice cream and that this will not, in fact, be your first experience eating the miracle of ice cream, or whatever. You settle for rolling your eyes, hoping that he won’t take your silence for a no.

Actually, speaking of silence, there’s nobody else here yet, and if you’ve learned anything from all of those dumb movies, there’s really no better time to just go for it then when you’re alone.

“Jesse, wait” you say, reaching out to take his hand in your own just before he can head up to the counter to order. “We should talk”.

“Yeah?” Jesse replies, turning to you. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah”, you say, bringing your hands up to eye level. “Everything’s great. I just...wanted to let you know how much I appreciate you, Jesse”.

He grins, and you swear to god it’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. “Aww, you’re my best friend too!”

Your heart jumps in your chest. You take a few subtle steps closer, and hope he notices. He does, but doesn’t take a step back. Okay, that’s a good sign. “No, Jesse, I mean…” you pause, and the little devil on your shoulder is whispering all the things that can go wrong again. You shake your head, to clear those thoughts, and when you look up to meet his eyes again your foreheads are practically touching.

“I…” you start, and he can tell that you’re getting anxious, because he’s placing his free hand on top of yours.

“You…?” he asks quietly, his head tilting quietly to the side.

You take a deep breath. “Jesse...I trust you”.

And all of a sudden you want to curl up and die. You hadn’t meant to say trust. You had meant to say something else, but you were too busy arguing against yourself that you didn’t realize it until it was already out of your mouth. You want to backtrack, you want to apologize, you want to take it back, but you can’t, because if you try to take it back then it’s just gonna sound like you don’t actually trust him, or-

Jesse cups a hand to your cheek, startling you back into reality. He’s smiling, but not as exuberantly as he had been earlier.

“I trust you too,” he says, and leans forward to gently kiss you on the cheek.

#my writing #infinity train #jesslake #infinity train book 2

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justalittlelemony · 3 years

Text

Cold

Read on Ao3 here.

Word Count: 5,055

Tommy and Tubbo try to work through the aftermath of the festival.

Full fic under the cut

The first thing Tommy noticed was the shivering.

He hadn't really expected to fall asleep right away after the hell of a day he had. None of them really wanted to be around either Wilbur or Techno, so after they had finished listening to Blocks, Niki, Tommy, and Tubbo had pretty much gone straight to bed. It had taken Tubbo some time to fall asleep, and for a while, Tommy worried that he would be kept up all night from the discomfort of his injuries. But eventually, Tommy felt the smaller boy's breathing even out, and soon, he was fast asleep as well.

As expected, falling asleep quickly was not equivalent to sleeping well. Only a couple of hours later, Tommy was awake, eyes blinking groggily. Based on the clock on the wall, it wasn't quite midnight yet, which meant there wasn't much he could do to spend his time. He could tend to the potato farm, but Tommy didn't really enjoy farming that much, and the potato farm was kind of Technoblade's territory, who was certainly someone whom he did not want to see. He could always expand the tunnels, but there wasn't much purpose in doing so anymore. Tommy had become quite adept at sneaking around Manberg, and with Tubbo no longer going between the two places, there wasn't much use in creating any more than the existing tunnels. At least until morning, the only thing he could do that his sleep-deprived brain could come up with was keep an eye on Tubbo.

He shifted in the cramped bed, twisting around to face the other sleeping boy. It took his eyes a moment to adjust in the dark, but once they did, a strike of concern shot through him.

Tubbo was shivering, his arms and knees pulled close to his chest. His breathing was short and ragged as if he couldn't get enough air into his lungs. Tommy could see the sweat glistening on Tubbo's forehead from the sliver of light coming from the ravine. Without thinking, he pressed a hand to his forehead. It felt warm, warmer than he thought it should. He was pretty sure that meant he had a fever, but he couldn't quite remember. It was always Wilbur or Tubbo in their little makeshift family of three that would deal with colds and fevers. Tommy knew some, enough to keep him alive, certainly, but not enough to tell if someone had a fever.

He stayed still, mulling over his options before making a decision. He slowly climbed out of the bed, careful not to jostle the mattress too badly. Stood up fully, he turned to the bed and rearranged the thin blanket over his friend's shivering form. It did nothing to stop his shaking.

Quietly, he crept out of the room and into the main ravine.

The only way to tell the time in Pogtopia, other than a clock, was by the sounds coming from the ravine. During the day, one could hear the faint movements from the caverns, the soft murmurings of conversations bouncing off of the stone walls, the echoes of footsteps. But at night, it was dead silent. It was a heavy silence, an unnerving silence that conveyed what every inhabitant already knew to be true.

Pogtopia was not home.

But despite the expected silence, Tommy found himself grateful for it. It let him know that, at least for now, he was alone, with no Wilbur or Technoblade lurking or laughing as they had been only hours earlier. He wanted nothing more than to stay alone, or even better, go back and be with Tubbo, the one person who he fully trusted.

But Tubbo was sick and he needed help.

He walked over to the far end of the ravine where he could see the faint glow of a lantern. Wilbur had set up a desk during Pogtopia's early days. It was his own little area, just as Tubbo and he had the bench.

Sure enough, Tommy could see Wilbur hunched over the desk, quill in hand. His grip on it was as tight as he methodically wrote on the paper below. He didn't seem to notice Tommy's presence behind him, engrossed in his writing. It reminded Tommy, a little bit, of the Wilbur before the election. Sat at his desk in the White House, writing important documents that Tommy never cared to read. Wilbur had seemed so distinguished at the time, the perfect fit for president.

Now, Tommy wasn't sure what to think.

"Wilbur?"

His voice was barely above a whisper, yet the man went rigid at the sound. He sat up a bit, placing the quill in its inkpot. Without turning around, he asked, "What is it, Tommy?"

"I," His voiced cracked a bit, not fully prepared to be used. "It's Tubbo. I think he's sick."

Wilbur didn't answer right away. "Are you sure?"

"He's shivering an awful lot, but I checked his forehead and it's warm.”

“Does he have a fever?” Wilbur still had his back to Tommy.

Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe it was his anger from earlier, coming back in full force. Maybe it was Pogtopia itself, getting to him in the same way it got to Wilbur, who asked each question with the same monotone voice and still wouldn't turn around and fucking look at me. “I don’t know if he has a fuckin’ fever, Will. That’s why I’m talking to you," Tommy snapped. "He’s shivering, his forehead’s warm, and he’s still asleep. That’s all I know.”

If Wilbur noticed the change in Tommy's tone, he didn't show it. He merely waited for a few beats before picking up his quill again and replying, "Get Niki. She can help."

"Niki's still asleep. Can't you just-"

Wilbur turned sharply to the left. "Can't I just what, Tommy?" He wasn't yelling, but his words bit harshly through the air, echoing in the ravine.

Tommy took a step back. "Nothing. Never mind. I'll, I'll get Niki." The response seemed to satisfy Wilbur. He turned back to his desk and continued writing. Tommy stared for a few seconds before turning and walking back the way he came.

********

Respawn sickness.

That's what Niki said, and Tommy certainly trusted her diagnosis more than his own. Even without that, though, he had his own suspicions. It was fairly common, especially after losing the second life. Even more common if it was a particularly traumatizing death, the kind that leaves its mark on a person even after they respawned.

Combined with the chilly ravine and an already poor immune system, Tubbo was the prime candidate for respawn sickness. It wasn't a shock. It wasn't surprising.

But, looking down at Tubbo curled under the few, thin blankets Tommy could scrounge up, wet cloth on his forehead, it was frightening.

It was reminiscent of a different time. Not really a simpler time, but a better time. Of course, it wasn't the same, but it was similar.

This wasn’t the first time either of them had died, after all.

He had started to feel awful a few hours after giving his discs to Dream and ending the war. It wasn’t a gradual progression; it was abrupt. All of a sudden, he was lightheaded, dizzy, and felt like his stomach would jump out of his mouth.

Of course, it wasn’t his stomach, but its contents that came out. 48 hours of the most intense symptoms he had ever experienced: vomiting, congestion, fever, and more. Wilbur was quick to identify it. Turns out losing two lives in the same day was a great way to amplify the symptoms.

He wasn’t the only one to get sick. He might’ve died twice, but all of them had been killed in the Final Control Room. Fundy had something akin to a stomach bug and threw up a few times throughout the first day. Wilbur was extremely congested and couldn’t go ten minutes without coughing or needing to blow his nose. Needless to say, most of L'manberg was out of commission for their first few days of independence.

Tubbo had stayed with Tommy nearly the entire time, tending and watching him when no one else would. Tommy had asked him if he had any symptoms, but Tubbo shrugged off the question every time.

"Seriously, man, why are you here? I'm fine. Go lie down or something. You look like shit."

Sat at the foot of Tommy's bed, Tubbo's gaze flickered from his friend to the floor. Tommy may have been violently sick for the past couple of days, but he knew when something was wrong. "Tubbo?"

"I was scared, I guess, for you."

At the time, Tommy had laughed it off, calling Tubbo some variation of "clingy." But now, in the same position as his best friend had been only a couple of months earlier, he understood. He was scared. He had been scared during the festival and sat at the foot of his bed, watching Tubbo's restless sleep, he was still scared.

Part of him recognized the irony of the situation. It was sort of fitting that Tubbo had to watch him die in the duel and take care of him afterward, and now Tommy had to fill those shoes.

Tubbo stirred in his sleep, mumbling incomprehensibly. Even under the covers, his shivering continued. Tommy absent-mindedly adjusted the blankets, only stopped by the sight of Tubbo blinking his eyes open groggily.

"Hey, how're you feeling?" Tommy asked quietly, careful not to echo his voice into the ravine.

Tubbo squinted, clearly still not fully awake. "'M cold."

Tommy shifted in his seat. "I know. Sorry, I don't have any more blankets for you. You've got a fever."

"A fever?" He glanced around the room, his eyes clearly trying to adjust to the dark. He sat up a bit.

"Yeah. Niki said it was likely respawn sickness."

"...Fuck."

Tommy laughed. "That's a fair reaction."

Tubbo pulled the cloth off from his forehead. "Wait, Niki was here?" Most of the sleep that his voice had been thick with just seconds earlier was stripped away.

"Yeah, earlier," Tommy said picking at the end of the blanket, "You were shivering real bad when I woke up, so I went to Wilbur, but he said to get Niki." He paused. "Thought it was weird. He used to be all over that kind of stuff before, when we were kids."

There was a poignant pause as both boys thought. "I don't-" Tubbo started, then stopped. When he spoke again, he spoke slowly, carefully, "I don't think Wilbur much cares for me right now."

Tommy wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that of course, Wilbur cared for him. Wilbur wouldn't just stop caring for Tubbo.

He didn't.

*******

The morning had been far more eventful than he had wanted it to be, but frankly, Tommy should have known that something would happen.

But after going into Manberg, gaining a new ally, and begging Wilbur to hold on blowing up their home, Tommy was pretty glad to have an excuse to check on Tubbo.

Trudging down the dirt and stone steps to the ravine, he listened for the sounds of others, but couldn't hear any. Quackity was still in Manberg, but Tommy wasn't sure where Wilbur, Techno, and Niki were. Hopefully, Wilbur was just somewhere else and not in the button room again.

He made it to the doorway but was stopped by the sight of another person in the room. The figure was seated by Tubbo's bedside but stood at the sight of Tommy. It was the absolute last person he wanted to see there, of all places.

Technoblade.

"What are you doing here?" Tommy asked, fingers curling around the hilt of his sword, preparing for a battle he couldn't win.

Technoblade glanced down at Tommy's weapon, then back up to his face, giving him a bored expression. "Wilbur wasn't around and you were in Manberg. Thought someone should keep an eye on him. Respawn sickness is no joke."

The boy's eyes narrowed. "I don't need you to fuckin' lecture me on respawn sickness."

Techno crossed his arms and looked back down at Tubbo's sleeping form. Tommy gripped his weapon a little tighter. "Wilbur said he's on his last life now."

"Yeah," Tommy let the bitterness seep into his voice. He wanted to scream, to yell at Techno that he didn't have to be. That Tubbo could've had two lives left if he hadn't given in so easily, but his anger dies in his throat, stopped by the words of the man stood in front of him, spoken only a day earlier.

"It stays in the pit."

Instead, Tommy let out a resigned sigh. "All three of us are."

Techno turned back to him at that. "The three of you? You and Wilbur too?"

Tommy let out a sharp laugh. "Not all of us can be near invincible. There's a lot you weren't here for."

Techno seemed to ponder the younger's words for a moment. "How'd you lose 'em?" He didn't sound sympathetic or sorry. His voice gave off a morbid curiosity, the words of man to whom death only existed at the other end of his sword, but not as a thing to be experienced himself.

The irony did not escape Tommy. The Blood God, with countless kills to his name, asking a twice-killed sixteen-year-old about death.

"We all lost our first lives together, during the war. Eret, Eret took us underground, into this fucking room, and betrayed us."

"What's this button for?" Tommy asks, pressing it without thinking. Eret seems to freeze at the action.

Behind him, Wilbur stops looking in his chest and turns to face the person who brought them here. "Eret?"

It doesn't take long for Tommy to realize that something is wrong.

A sick grin crosses Eret's face. "Down with the revolution, boys. It was never meant to be."

Dream, Sapnap, George, and Punz pile into the room, swords in hand. There isn't even enough time to process the betrayal before all five four members of L'manberg are killed.

"I lost my second one later that day. I challenged Dream to a duel for our independence, and I lost."

The walk over to the boardwalk feels like a funeral march. Probably because it is.

Tommy isn't stupid. He knows what he signed up for.

The four soldiers are quiet, solemn. Fundy hands him the bow. Tubbo hugs him. Wilbur tells him to follow his heart.

Tommy meets his opponent at the center of the boardwalk. The artificial smile on Dream's mask unnerves him, but he glares defiantly up at it. Wilbur starts the count and the two separate.

At the count of ten, Tommy shoots.

"And then Wilbur lost his second the day you showed up, actually. He got shot while we were fleeing Manberg."

"My first act as president, the emperor of this great country, is to revoke the citizenship of Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit!"

Tommy stands frozen as the crowd turns to look at them. He can't even process what Schlatt is saying. They couldn't have lost, Schlatt can't be president, everything's wrong-

But then Wilbur pulls him along, running, and says, "Tommy, we have to go!"

He listens and he runs.

Behind him, he can hear footsteps, the sounds of others giving chase. Arrows fly from the sky. Wilbur is running in front of him, leading him, but is struck by an arrow and falls. Tommy screams, but he can't stop. He has to keep running or they'll get him too.

He doesn't stop until he reaches Tubbo's bunker (Tubbo's still there. He left Tubbo in L'manberg.) With Schlatt's booming voice echoing through the land he once called his home, Tommy breaks down.

"And, well, obviously, you know what happened to Tubbo." The anger was present in his voice, but Tommy couldn't find it in himself to care.

If Techno noticed, he didn't say anything. He merely made a grunt of acknowledgment before kicking his chair to the side. Without so much as a sideways glance, he walked past Tommy and out the door.

As soon as he was gone, Tommy felt himself breathe again but didn't move until the echoes of the warrior's footsteps subsided. With slow steps, he made his way over to the chair that Techno had used. He sat down in it and faced Tubbo, who was, mercifully, still asleep. He'd let him rest for a little while longer.

Tommy began to undo the straps of his armor, letting the various pieces of iron fall to the ground. He'd never liked armor. He had never understood people like Dream and Technoblade, who never went anywhere without it. It was so heavy and uncomfortable. Tommy wanted to run and screw around. But armor was a necessary evil, especially during a war.

Is this a war?

It certainly felt like one, Tommy thought, glancing over at the bandages covering Tubbo. He wasn't sure how, but the other two wars hadn't seemed this serious, this grim. Maybe it was because the first time it was just a fight over some music discs and the second time they had each other in L'manberg. When they had died before, it felt worth it.

And now?

Sometimes, he wasn't even sure what they were fighting for.

He finished pulling off his armor, setting down the last piece a bit too harshly. A small clang echoed throughout the stone room. Across from him, Tubbo stirred and Tommy froze.

"Tommy?" Tubbo's voice was small, but he still coughed. "'S that you?"

Tommy stood and walked over, sitting back down at the foot of his bed. “Hey, big man. How are you feeling?”

“My head feels like crap, but other than that, not too bad," Tubbo said sitting up. He gave his friend a once-over, giving way to a look of concern. "Did something happen?”

“Not really," he said, the lie slipping out easily. Seeing Tubbo's unconvinced expression, he gave in. "Techno was here earlier.”

Tubbo seemed to wilt at the mention of him. “Tommy, I’m serious. I’m fine with it." He looked down. "I don't want there to be infighting because of me.”

Something boiled inside of Tommy at Tubbo's apathy, his defeated tone. "I don't give a shit about infighting," he seethed, doing everything in his power not to shout, "He killed you! I'm not just gonna let that go!"

Tubbo shrugged, seemingly indifferent to Tommy's anger. "I mean, it could've been worse. I'm still alive. That's all that really matters, isn't it?"

"No, that's not all that fucking matters! He hurt you, Tubbo!" As if to prove his point, he gestured to the bandages encasing the smaller boy.

Tubbo flinched, then muttered, almost to himself, "Why do you care so much?"

"Why don't you?" Tommy fired back instantly. Tubbo seemed to shrink even further into himself. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

“'S fine," he replied quietly. They fell into an uncomfortable silence, an unfamiliar experience for the two of them. It was only broken by Tubbo clearing his throat and asking, "It's the afternoon now, right? I haven’t seen Wilbur around much.”

“Yeah." Tommy hesitated but continued anyway. "He’s been at the button room a bit.”

Tubbo's eyes grew wide with fear. “He didn’t-“

Tommy shook his head. “No. He hasn’t yet. Gave Big Q and I quite a scare, though.”

"Big Q was there?"

"Yeah. He's with Pogtopia now. He's gonna help us take down Schlatt." Tommy kept his voice level, but he was truthfully rather happy with this recent development. He wasn't sure he forgave Quackity for that had happened (not yet, at the very least), but it felt good to have someone on their side.

"That's good," Tubbo said, and Tommy recognized his tone instantly. It was his logical, analytical voice that he used to look at a situation from a detached point of view. "At least you'll still have someone in Manberg."

Tommy sputtered a bit at that. "Tubbo, that doesn't- That doesn't matter. I'm not- We're not gonna have him really spy for us. Not after what happened to you. We're not doing that again." He shook his head as if to emphasize his point. "I'm just glad to have someone else on our side. I've a feeling we're gonna need all the help we can get in the coming weeks."

Tubbo looked down. "I'm sorry. I wish I could be of more help."

"Don't. You've done plenty. I'm- We're not gonna let you put yourself in a position like that again." He paused, then continued quietly, letting his feelings spill out. "I should, I should've fucking stopped it. I should've never convinced you to spy for us. At least then, none of this would've happened."

Tubbo placed a hand on his shoulder. "Tommy, you didn't convince me. I made my own decision. And the festival wasn't your fault, okay? It was Schlatt's. There was nothing you could've done." He pulled his hand back. "I was dead the moment he put those walls up."

"I had a pearl," Tommy said, guilt lacing his words, "I could've gone down sooner."

"You would've been surrounded or worse, killed. You're on your last life too, remember? At least I had one to spare." He looked down. "Besides, it was only a matter of time before I got found out. I was surprised I even lasted that long."

(That admission hurt a little. Tubbo knew he was doomed from the start. Why didn't Tommy do anything to stop it?)

"I guess we've both gotta be extra careful from now on, yeah?" Tommy said, "Gotta make this last life last a while."

Tubbo laughed with disbelief. "You say that like you've ever been careful!"

And it was just like it was before, during the disc wars, before L'Manberg, just laughing and making stupid jokes. "Excuse you, I'll have you know my name is Tommy Careful Danger Kraken Innit. It's literally in my name!"

Tubbo giggled some more. "Sure, big man. Sure."

*******

The spoils of his mining trip weren't much, but they were certainly better than nothing.

Tommy was not one for mining. He would usually much rather just steal what he needed from the various members of the SMP. But he wasn't really looking for anything in particular. He mostly wanted a reason to stay out of Pogtopia.

But, looking at the clock he brought down with him into the winding underground strip mines, he figured no one would be awake past midnight.

Coming face to face with Wilbur and soon as he entered the ravine, he realized he was wrong.

Wilbur gave him a once-over. "Where were you?"

"Mining," Tommy said, holding up his pickaxe as if to illustrate his point, "Figured we could use some more diamonds." He held out his mining bag.

Wilbur took it from him, glancing at its contents. A smirk came over his face. "Oh, Tommy." His voice was sickly sweet with condescension. "Maybe you should leave the grinding to Technoblade."

Tommy snatched the bag back. "What do you need, Will?"

"I saw Tubbo earlier."

Tommy stiffened but kept his voice level. "Oh? How is he?"

"Wouldn't actually know," Wilbur drawled, "He was asleep the whole time."

"Yeah, sorry. That would be the weakness pot I gave him earlier." At the mention of the potion, Wilbur perked up. "Should've mostly worn off by now, though."

"The what?"

"Weakness potion," Tommy repeated cautiously, "He had a migraine and he needed to rest anyway, so I gave him a weakness pot to try and sleep it off."

Wilbur covered his face with his hands and started to pace. "Why would you do that?"

Tommy turned to follow where Wilbur was walking. "What do you mean?"

He sighed loudly and pulled his hands from his face. "I don't know if you've fucking noticed, but, Tommy, we're at war!" He had that manic glint in his eye, the same he had when he made the deal with Dream, when he egged Tommy on in the pit, when he almost pressed the button. "We are exiled from our country! We have limited resources! We can't just go around wasting our supplies every time someone has a fucking migraine!"

Tommy matched Wilbur's shouts. "It was a fucking weakness potion, Will. I'll just make another one if you're so bent out of shape from it."

"It's not just about the potion, Tommy! It's the way you tried to decorate with diamond blocks, the way you can't keep a single piece of armor for more than a day. You're thinking in the micro; I need you to think in the macro." Wilbur stopped pacing and put his entire stare on the boy. Tommy seemed to shrink under the weight of it. "You're careless, Tommy. Your solutions are only temporary."

Tommy was never one to back down from a challenge. "What, I'm not allowed to give Tubbo a potion now?" he seethed, "He fucking died for us, man, and you're just gonna let him suffer?"

Wilbur looked unimpressed. "It's just respawn sickness. He'll be fine." He turned to leave.

"People fucking die from respawn sickness! And he's still recovering from the fucking fireworks Techno shot at him!" Wilbur didn't stop, didn't even hesitate. He just went back to his desk, as if Tommy wasn't still standing there. The more rational, less angry part of Tommy realized that Wilbur wasn't right. That he hadn't been right, not really, not since the election. It wasn't worth fighting with him. "Whatever," Tommy said, throwing his bag over his shoulder, "I'm, I'm gonna go to bed."

As soon as he entered the room, he dropped the bag to the side and immediately started towards the bed. He was tired.

Prime, he was so tired.

"Scoot over. I'm climbing in," he mumbled, nudging the other boy. Surprisingly, Tubbo responded almost immediately, pressing himself to the wall to make room.

(They had been doing this ever since they were kids. Wilbur would always find them huddled up close when they were younger. They had stopped when they got "too old" for it but had gotten back into the habit during the war for L'manberg. They always felt safer with the other near.)

Tommy's head landed on the pillow and he glanced over. Tubbo's eyes were wide open, staring concernedly at him. He certainly seemed more alert than Tommy felt, that was for sure. "I heard shouting. Is something wrong?"

Tommy covered his eyes with his hands. "No, nothing's wrong."

"Something clearly happened. You're all tense."

"I'm fine," he lied, "Go back to sleep. You need to rest."

"But-"

"Tubbo, please."

"Okay," Tubbo whispered. A second later, Tommy felt the pillow shift as Tubbo laid back down.

Pogtopia was silent.

*******

The sun was up by the time Tommy woke.

He usually was an early riser, albeit, mostly out of necessity. He couldn't remember the last time he slept in.

Tubbo woke up earlier than him. When he woke, he handed him a carrot.

"What's this?" Tommy asked.

"Breakfast," Tubbo replied, taking a bite of his own carrot.

Tommy sat up and swung his legs over the bed. Tubbo sat down to join him. Tommy took a bite of his carrot, then looked at Tubbo. "Are these the ones from my chest?"

Tubbo looked sheepish. "Yeah, sorry. I couldn't find any other food in here."

"No, it's fine. I was just curious." Tubbo shrugged and continued eating his carrot, but Tommy continued to look at him. He looked healthier, certainly. The sickly tint was gone from his skin, although he still looked rather pale. Unfortunately, there was no good solution to that in Pogtopia. His movements were less sluggish, more pronounced. But what really caught Tommy's eye were the bandages. Loose and yellow, grime having accumulated over the past few days. Tommy was no healer, but he knew that couldn't be hygienic.

Tubbo looked back over at him. "What?"

"Your bandages. They need changing," he said, gesturing with his carrot. He stood up and walked over to the chest and started rummaging through it.

"Tommy?"

"What?"

"I don't think the bandages will do much good."

Tommy stopped sorting through the chest and turned around. "What do you mean?"

Tubbo was looking down. He looked uncomfortable. "They-" He hesitated, then continued. "These aren't wounds. They're scars." He touched the bandaged side of his face. "They aren't going to heal."

Tommy paused. "Still raw, though," he said, turning back to the chest, "Gotta keep them from getting infected."

"Tommy-"

"Tubbo, I don't give a fuck if you have scars or not, okay?" Tommy snapped, clutching the edge of the chest, "But I'm not gonna let you die from a fucking infection or some shit." He didn't mean for it to come out so harsh, but it did. He pulled out a small roll of linen. "Found them." Tommy stood. Tubbo was still sitting on the bed, looking away. Tommy started to speak and he looked up. "Do- does it bother you?"

"That I have them?" Tubbo shrugged. "No, not really. Though, it's not like I've seen them fully." He held his arms close to his chest. "It's just... new." He shook his head. "Doesn't matter. I'll get used to them."

Tommy sat back down next to him and asked the question he had been thinking since he first noticed the scars. "Do they hurt?"

"I didn't-" Tubbo took a breath. "I didn't know that it could hurt so bad. After I died, I mean. I knew dying hurt, but I thought it would stop, the pain, but it didn't. When I respawned, it felt like I was still on fire." He glanced back over at Tommy. "Sorry."

"Don't be. You haven't done anything wrong," Tommy said, mildly confused.

(Tubbo had been doing that, he noticed, ever since he got back. He apologized for nearly everything, even when it wasn't something to apologize for.)

"I'm," Tommy started shakily, "I'm glad you're still here. Scars and all."

Tubbo gave a faint smile. "Thanks."

"C'mon," Tommy said, holding up the roll, "Let's fix you up."

Things wouldn't really get better, not for a while. They knew this. They weren't adults, but they were realists.

But, Tommy thought, they could make it through whatever the future had to throw at them.

#dream smp #dsmp #mcyt #mcytblr #clingy duo #tommyinnit #tubbo #my posts #my writing

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dropintomanga · 4 years

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Some Thoughts on Fan Drama

About a decade ago, when I cosplayed for the first time, I remember staying up late at an anime convention due to a friend attending a cosplay masquerade. It was cool at first, but then I heard rumblings about judges giving preferential treatment to certain contestants. There was kind of a bad vibe after the event as I talked to some of the attendees and confirmed things seemed off. That was my first instance of “cosplay drama” as I heard there were some arguments between notable members of the cosplay scene that infiltrated the masquerade.

On that note, I want to talk about drama and perhaps how to handle it responsibly due to how quickly things spread.

I’ve been thinking about drama after listening to a couple of mental health advocates discuss dating someone with bipolar disorder. They received a letter from a woman who said her boyfriend has it and he doesn’t seem to want to take initiative in managing the symptoms. One of them said it’s not the greatest of ideas despite their past experience of dating a person with bipolar disorder. There has to be a lot of careful thought put into the relationship. While it’s fair to note that someone with mental illness can’t control their illness, they still need to responsible about how to live with their condition.

The advocate then talked about the “exciting” drama of being a caretaker - they said how addicting it is to help someone in need. Every day feels exciting. That kind of relationship never gets dull due to all the variables that make someone with a health condition the way they are. There’s a perception that you’re doing something important for someone, but it comes out to be nothing more than enabling someone to take advantage of you if the relationship is one-sided.

I want to focus on the “addicting” part because it literally feels good to be a part of something grand. It happens to all of us. We want to feel like we’re doing something meaningful in our lives. Boredom is the equivalent of suffering.

There was section about fandom drama in the 2020 anime survey I linked to a while back and users got to choose whether to agree or disagree on certain statements regarding the usage of drama. Drama in fandom is often very divisive and we’ve seen the effects of it to a heavy degree. Yet drama (usually in the form of gossip) can be helpful in finding out threats in communities. There has been research on how talking about certain individuals prepares us on how to handle them. I do think a problem right now is the scale of the communities we have today compared to in the past. Groups can get pretty complex the bigger they become.

I’ve been thinking about who benefits from whatever drama comes out and when is it necessary. I feel like drama can’t be totally one-sided. I would also argue that the internet may not always be the best solution to handle drama because while it “feels good” to be heard, all it seems to do is reinforce your opinions about what you already believe in and sometimes, that’s not helpful when we’re not always right about certain things.

Yet given how certain institutions fail us (disclaimer: I was a victim of workplace harassment at an old job & my employer at the time disregarded my situation like it was nothing), if you’re going to say something that’s bound to be divisive to a good amount of people, you need a solid support system to back you up and maybe more importantly, it’s best to fight for yourself and other people who have been affected just like you. Make sure everyone gets the wealth (not just you).

I do notice that people who seek drama arguably have issues dealing with neglect growing up. The basic need for attention never gets addressed early on and by the time when someone become an adult, it may be too late. You know, I think about the anime community in general. For the most part, it’s mostly young adults that have been neglected for the wrong reasons. I was once a part of that demographic and I felt that neglect always meant I wasn’t loved. It took me many, many years that this wasn’t true. Boundaries are absolutely important in keeping yourself and other people sane.

I’m actually a pretty boring person now compared to how I was a few years ago. When I was going through some rough times, I tried to inject some drama into my life via Twitter because I wanted someone to take pity on me without putting in work. Now I don’t go on social media as much and decided to take pleasure in my own hobbies with little-to-no outside noise. I rarely jump into conversations about what’s hot in anime. I seem to relish the monotony of my life.

I honestly think open conversations between individuals affected by drama without heavy public influence are the best way to handle it. I wish more of that was encouraged. That’s due to the fact that we do need some kind of drama (i.e. conflict) to grow as people. People who grow in ways that help themselves and others tend to have gone through conflicts that challenged their way of thinking. Of course, if someone’s always chasing conflict, I’m not sure if I can be around them.

That reminds me of something that I feel is a big problem that causes a lot of psychological distress - chasing status. It’s all about getting love from other people that don’t know the real “you” while not being able to accept your own feelings when cognitive dissonance hits. Emotions and narratives (which status greatly affect) bring people together. While I support expressing your emotions in times of distress, they can be our own worst enemies when you have to make tough decisions in life. People talk about listening to your heart and gut, but the head is still a part of your body.

I’ll use myself as an example - I once thought about opening a business to help anime fans, but then I realized that my motivation was due to a desire to get back at someone. If I can show them up with my achievement, I would feel better about myself. I only came to that conclusion when I was starting to get frustrated with the process of making a business plan with little-to-no idea on how to get things done. “Listening to your heart” can be frightening advice because it can encourage people to get caught up in situations that end up ruining lives. Plus emotions do not work well under pressure (note: this is one way depression and anxiety can get you). There’s not enough emphasis on learning how to take calculated risks in life that involve listening to all parts of yourself and not hurt everyone in the process.

Maybe that will prevent drama from becoming “addicting” to many. Learning to walk away isn’t shameful; it’s actually kind of courageous. There’s better individuals that you can be around and better battles to choose from.

Plus I think living a life not striving for constant attention is a life worth living. That’s a better and more suitable story for all of us than a drama-filled narrative, wouldn’t you say?

#fandom drama #psychology #mental health #anime #manga #psychology of drama

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asocial-nebula · 4 years

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in a hypothetical situation, if someone wanted to write a fanfic about your demons and angels AU, what information would they need to know to make it accurate (and things on Joan's relationships with the others and how demons get into the mortal world)

Well if we’re talking general things, then I guess...

While in the mortal realm, supernatural creature have to take a “mortal form”. This means they now have to deal with sudden strains on their bodies such as back pains and joint pains from wings, possible strains and effects of using their demonic/seraphic abilities, and a general loss of ability all together that comes from being in the mortal world.

Another side effect of having mortal bodies is that supernatural creatures now need to sleep. For demons, this means they’re more susceptible to things like nightmares (mainly about Hell, which is obviously not a great place)

The demons also suffer from frequent panic attacks and flashbacks about their time in Hell. Fallen angels (AKA Cathy, Maggie and Bessie) would experience these symptoms about being banished and falling from Heaven as well.

When a demon enters the mortal world, they can only return to Hell if they’re either a) sent back by a witch/warlock or b) brought back by a Greater Demon. That’s why it’s so important for demons to hide in the mortal world, as if their energy is detected then they’ll be hunted down by a Greater Demon.

On Joan’s relationships with the others:

Cathy: Cathy is Joan’s equivalent of a legal guardian, I guess? She didn’t mean for it to become that way, it just kind of happened without Cathy having any control over it. She cares about Joan (in her own weird way) but doesn’t really show it, to avoid seeming vulnerable and weak.

Jane: Jane, like many other demons, doesn’t like Joan. She has the similar mind set that if Joan is going to act so timid all the time, and the fact that she’s a smaller, weaker demon is pathetic. She doesn’t see Joan as a real demon, more like a defective one.

Aragon and Anne: Like every angel, Aragon and Anne have an ingrained dislike and distrust of every demon, and Joan isn’t an exception. They don’t really see her as a threat, but it takes a little while for them to stop feeling wary around her.

Kat: As Kat didn’t summon Joan, she doesn’t have that same connection with her that she has with Cathy and Jane. But she’s still friendly towards Joan, and she can admire how she would risk her life to see Cathy again. She phrases it as “doing anything to make sure your family is okay” and Joan is ecstatic at the thought of her and Cathy being considered family. (The Kat in this AU isn’t really a babey or a brat. She’s one of the more sensible, rational people in this au)

Anna: Like with the other demons, Anna teaches Joan about the mortal world and how it works. She lets her explore different activities and hobbies to see if she can find something to bring her comfort (something Anna noticed worked with the other demons). They’d have a neutral relationship I guess.

Maggie and Bessie: When Joan is introduced to the two Fallen Angels, they don’t really know how to react. It’s very much along the lines of “Where did this demon child come from? Did you kidnap a child Cathy?”. They end up becoming semi-protective of Joan. Maybe it’s just a Fallen Angel thing to want to protect weaker demons.

As for getting to the mortal world, there are two ways demons can get there. They’re either summoned, or they have to travel all the way through the dark, nightmarish pits of Hell to a single portal to the mortal realm. Many don’t make it to that portal alive, having been picked off by some of the more vicious creatures of Hell.

If you have any other questions about the AU, just let me know!

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stragglewort · 4 years

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Uncommon OC Questions! For Ardolf: 1, 2, 14, 18, 33, 38, 45, 50 For Martin: 4, 5, 10, 15, 20, 21, 36, 49 And 25, 41 and 43 for both! ＼(＾▽＾)／

Whoa, that’s a lot. You always know exactly how to pander to me. I’ll do my best! These are probably going to be some pretty long answers, though.

________________________________________________________________

First up, Ardolf:

1.) A little-known talent of your OC?

Hm, for Ardolf? It would probably be his ability to work with children. Like, if he had been in a modern setting, he probably would’ve gone into family medicine or pediatrician work. Though he’s not a terribly charismatic person, he is pretty soft and fatherly and has high-key adopted nearly every child we’ve come across in the D&D campaign I use him as a character in.

Otherwise? Whistling. He’s really good at whistling.

2.) What trait does your OC like best about themself? (Eyes, guitar skills, random bird facts, etc)

He’s extremely proud of his practical doctoring skills. Though he’s learned healing magic and divination now that he’s gotten older and wiser, he grew up in the Greymouth Clan – a house of human doctors and surgeons that almost specifically worked with hands-on medicine. Give him some bandages, some leaves, and a bit of elbow grease and he can patch you just as well as any spell! (Though maybe it’ll take a bit longer. He really just wants to be as helpful as possible, even after he can’t cast anything).

14.) Happy birthday! What kind of present would your OC want?

Anything from the heart! It could be a song, a poem, a letter, or even a neat looking rock. He hasn’t celebrated his own birthday for years and just the gesture of someone remembering would probably make him tear up. Had he been a bit younger, freshly baked sweet or herb bread would’ve been his jam! That’s only changed in the recent years because, you know, lycanthropy makes eating that sort of thing real difficult.

18.) Something that makes your OC laugh without fail? Carved pumpkins, gourds, and really anything that has a face when it probably shouldn’t.

Like, a goofy face? A scary one? A half-baked monstrosity that could barely count as a Jack-O-Lantern? Doesn’t matter, it’ll get him every time.

33.) A song that reminds you of your OC?

There’s too many to choose! Probably Kind Folk – instrumental by Kenny Wheeler and Brian Dickinson, Secunda by Jeremy Soule (from the Skyrim soundtrack), or The Bygone Days from Porco Rosso. Kind of just dependent on the scene!

38.) Random thunderstorm! How does your OC react?

He’d probably around and watch it go by. The thunder gets a little uncomfortably loud, considering his hearing is all lycanthropic, but something about rain and a nice mist reminds him of home at the times when he’s farthest away.

45.) What kind of self-esteem does your OC have?

A very poor one!

Though he does try to keep his chin-up, as he’ll say, the first word that would pop in his head to describe himself would be something like ‘monster’ or ‘creature’. Though his lycanthropy is something he wasn’t born with, and he’s spent a good portion of his life fighting against it, he’s begrudgingly settled on the idea that it’s a part of him he cannot control. And that tends to be a bit of a bummer sometimes! Though he tries to, he has a very difficult time separating the wants of the curse with his own – and though he’ll say he and the beast are two different beings (and ultimately, he’s right) he worries, deep down, if that might not truly be the case.

50. What is your OC’s happy place?

On the top of a mountain somewhere – close to his family – close to his friends – watching the clouds of morning mist roll across the peaks. Mostly anywhere safe, warm, and together with people he cares about.

________________________________________________________________

On to Martin!

3.) Is your OC good at keeping secrets?

Hahaha, no.

He certainly tries! But if he gets off on a nervous tangent (which is about 60%-85% of his dialogue) he has a tendency to overshare. Quiiite a bit.

4.) Your OC’s worst habit?

He cannot keep quiet. Half of the time he’s speaking, he’s usually not even sure what he’s saying! But boy will he say it. And he’ll say it in staggering, stuttering bulk. See above.

10.) Would your OC prefer to live in the city, the suburbs, or the country?

He has no idea. The suburbs?

A close-knit community, nice, quiet, everyone-knows-everyone and that means everyone knows who he is and maybe they’ll use that to catch him off guard.

The city?

So many people that he’d be faceless, could be safe! But also very, very unsafe. Notoriously unsafe. Wait, doesn’t he live in a city? If something happened would authorities even have time to help him? What if there’s so many people that they gang up on him? Hold on.

The country?

That’s isolated, safe, lovely – but what if it’s so isolated that if something bad happened no one would hear him calling! What if his neighbors were strange and odd, then what would happen? He’d be stuck with them! And the land prices!

If he’d have the choice, he’d probably live in a Minecraft house. On peaceful.

15.) Something that grosses your OC out?

Ironically, considering he’s a vampire spawn, blood! He’s super, extremely squeamish and cannot stand the stuff.

20. An obscure/ridiculous fear your OC has?

Honestly if you talked it up right, you could convince this poor man to fear anything. I cannot pinpoint just one. (Though high-key, reality television. He knows it’s usually fake, but what if it wasn’t? What if someday he’s just trying to watch TV or go grocery shopping and all of a sudden a camera crew shows up Truman Show style? Horrifying.)

21.) Does your OC have any type of disability, whether it be mental, physical, etc?

Mhm. Overarchingly he suffers pretty majorly from Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder (something that I plan to cover/work with pretty majorly in the stories) and Generalized Anxiety Disorder (something he had been working with since before the whole vampirism thing). After the vampiric attack/turning, he also has some unnamed disorders he’s working with (I, as the author, have applied them as symptoms of his pseudo-vampirism, and didn’t want to apply real-world diagnosis to avoid some really poor misguided diagnostic attempts!) such as a whole lotta’ paranoia and general poor-coping with being a half-undead. He also has some pretty major ticks (specifically an eye twitch he, for the life of him, cannot get to stop).

36.) Your OC’s favorite fashion era? (20’s, 70’s, etc)

I’d say 90s grunge. But that’s kind of a stretch, and probably more of an excuse to not futz with his hair and wear clothes three times his size.

49.) Your OC’s most prized possession?

:･ﾟ☆✧ The friendship he creates with the other Ghoul Parade protagonists :･ﾟ☆✧

In his apartment (which, mind you, is extremely cluttered and it the apartment equivalent of that Pepe Silvia picture) he has a small battery powered waterfall set up on what used to be his kitchen counter. It has a frog at the top that spits water into small pots that then pour into each other, and if he presses a button it’ll turn on some very soft LED lights. That. That is one of his most prized possessions.

29.) Someone does something awful in front of your OC. How do they handle it?

That depends on what sort of awful we’re talking about. He instinctively wants to help – to really help – and will go as far as putting himself into a hypothetical (or literal, who knows!) line of fire if someone’s really in danger. Though smaller things, in more everyday situations, he usually finds himself freezing up.

________________________________________________________________

And now, for both!

41. Does your OC like/make puns?

Yes. Absolutely. Without a doubt.

43. Your OC wakes up with a coin super glued to their forehead. How do they react?

Ardolf would probably spend the whole morning trying to pry it off, before either succeeding or just giving up and asking one of his friends to help. To which they’d probably have no better luck. He wouldn’t be angry with whoever did it! More just kind of flustered until ultimately laughing it off.

And Martin probably wouldn’t notice for some time (he doesn’t really keep any mirrors in his house. He can very-well see himself in them, but something about the connection they have to vampire lore makes him uneasy) and wouldn’t notice until someone pointed out. He’d then drop everything and take hours trying to figure out how someone got into his house to put a coin on his head. Why they did it. What kind of coin it was. If it was really, actually a coin. All to probably learn that he somehow did it himself in some freak minor mishap. Yes, that’s absolutely what he would do.

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youarejesting · 4 years

Text

BTS365 Prompts.Week 34

[Full Masterlist] [Prompt Masterlist] [Tag yourself here]

Please tag me in your work if you use my prompts. I want to see your work. Ever your Jester. Tell me your birthday and I will tag you on your special day!

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August 20th - 26th

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Seokjin - Thrift

Thrift shopping in Korea was fun, you tried on the designer clothes and more and it was all cheap, you found yourself a very pretty dress and went to the counter to see two young handsome men at the counter. One slaps a price sticker on the other something equivalent to five dollars and you grinned. “Hello, I would like to purchase this dress and the young man for five dollars.”

They laughed and you smiled “I am sorry, that just came out, I didn’t mean anything weird, I just meant for like coffee, if you wanted I have a new dress and it would be nice to wear it somewhere nice.”

“Sure my name is Jin,” he tapped his phone to yours and his details appeared on your screen.

Min Yoongi - Mail order @gguksfilter

Having never ordered anything online, this was an extreme leap into online shopping. Your first purchase was a mail order husband. Well not quite, you paid for someone to come to your school reunion and pretend to be your husband. His name was Min Yoongi, a Music Producer.

Jung Hoseok - world

“Hello I am Jung Hoseok, and I am here to assist you with all the things you might need on our travels to the new world” The instructors called wearing a microphone headset as he gestured to the group. “The journey is long so please, do not hesitate to have fun and even fall in love”

The young and very handsome man was explaining side effects to being put to sleep for take off and space craft settling. “So if you experience any of these symptoms please notify me or other staff wearing the white suits immediately and we will escort you to the infirmary”

Shoot what were the symptoms? You hadn’t been paying attention to busy trying to see if he had a ring on his finger. He didn’t and also he had a beautiful cheerful smile. You followed him as he led the group around explaining things when you heard multiple individuals in the group saying he was too extra.

As the tour wrapped up you started to feel light headed and walked forward. He immediately noticed something was wrong. “Hey are you okay?” You couldn’t answer and instead your legs gave out and he caught you jarring your body enough to release the sick in your throat.

“I am so sorry” You mumbled as he got another staff member to monitor the group. He carried you to the infirmary as he had promised, you were laid down and he held your hand grabbing a cloth and cleaning your face, neck, chest and arms free of vomit. “This is not how I wished to introduce myself, I wanted to be smooth and then also drop a line about how you aren’t wearing a ring, try to leave you with a lasting impression.”

“I won’t forget” He smiled, touched that you had wanted to get to know him.

Kim Namjoon - Ride

It was one of the biggest theme parks in the world and everyone had their thing, Jungkook and Taehyung wanted to go on roller coasters, Jimin and Hoseok wanted to play games, Seokjin and Yoongi were more interested in trying some of the food. But Namjoon was dying to go see the marine life, specifically the crabs. Not only that, they had a ride that took you through a glass tunnel under the water to see all the animals.

And not to mention swimming with various animals. “I would like to go to the aquarium, does anyone want to come with me?”

“Uh…” They all gave their apologies and headed off in opposite directions and a dejected Namjoon went by himself to the aquarium.

“How many?” The lady asked

“Just one?” Namjoon said

“Would you two mind sharing?” the ride assistant asked and you both nodded. It didn’t take long until you were both strapped in and traveling slowly through the tunnel. You were listening as the instructor began talking about all the marine life.

“What did she say, I didn’t catch that?” You asked him

“She said they sometimes glow in the dark?” Namjoon smiled and he relayed information and the two of you began talking back and forth about little things you knew about sea animals.

Afterwards the two of you realized you had booked in to swim in the big aquarium. The two of you had a lot of fun.

Park Jimin - Pluto

“Jimin, what are you doing back here?” You asked, concerned as to why the idol wasn’t ready to go on set for the variety tv show. “Jimin, Are you crying? What’s wrong?’

“They said Pluto isn’t a planet anymore.” He sobbed, his breathing shaking, you took a tissue and gently dabbed under his eyes so as not to ruin his make up. “Because he is too small he has been kicked out”

“The planet has hardly been kicked out, they just realized he was different and special and they didn’t want to not let everyone know that” rubbing his back softly and powdering his cheeks, “what is this really about Jimin?”

“What if they kick me out because I am small?” He sniffed and you gave him a hug.

“Listen to me, I can tell you now, the day you leave or get kicked out of bangtan is the day the army riots, they love you too much, not to mention all the boys, if you got kicked out they would follow you.” You grabbed his chin making him look at you as you dabbed his face a little more. “BTS isn’t BTS without all of you together.”

Kim Taehyung - Breeze

There was something innocent about the park, all the fun things you could do, like throw a frisbee or fly a kite. Today as it was windy you chose the latter, building something sturdy and it wasn’t long before the contraption was flying high in the air. There were many other really neat kites you were getting lost in them wisping past.

“Namjoon, can we fly a kite please?”

“We haven’t got a kite Tae, I’m sorry” A huskier voice said you didn’t look over but you felt bad.

“Hey, do you want to try?” You asked gesturing to your kite and with all the presence one might expect in a golden retriever the honey brunette bounded over and giggled bowing happily.

“Do you know how to fly a kite?” You smiled and he shook his head.

Jeon Jungkook - Kiss and make up

You were both young when you first met, it wasn’t a good start. He had accidentally ripped you barbie’s head off, and in your distress you broke his toy car and that was it. The two of you became mortal enemies.

He sat behind you in every class in every year and you were about to scream, and if your mothers joked one more time saying, ‘Just kiss and make up’. You would end up doing something you would regret.

Like breaking his real car.

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blk-chauvinist · 4 years

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Why Women Aren’t Funny

BY CHRISTOPHER HITCHENS

JANUARY 1, 2007

Be your gender what it may, you will certainly have heard the following from a female friend who is enumerating the charms of a new (male) squeeze: “He’s really quite cute, and he’s kind to my friends, and he knows all kinds of stuff, and he’s so funny . . . “ (If you yourself are a guy, and you know the man in question, you will often have said to yourself, “Funny? He wouldn’t know a joke if it came served on a bed of lettuce with sauce béarnaise.”) However, there is something that you absolutely never hear from a male friend who is hymning his latest (female) love interest: “She’s a real honey, has a life of her own . . . [interlude for attributes that are none of your business] . . . and, man, does she ever make ‘em laugh.”

Now, why is this? Why is it the case?, I mean. Why are women, who have the whole male world at their mercy, not funny? Please do not pretend not to know what I am talking about.

All right—try it the other way (as the bishop said to the barmaid). Why are men, taken on average and as a whole, funnier than women? Well, for one thing, they had damn well better be. The chief task in life that a man has to perform is that of impressing the opposite sex, and Mother Nature (as we laughingly call her) is not so kind to men. In fact, she equips many fellows with very little armament for the struggle. An average man has just one, outside chance: he had better be able to make the lady laugh. Making them laugh has been one of the crucial preoccupations of my life. If you can stimulate her to laughter—I am talking about that real, out-loud, head-back, mouth-open-to-expose-the-full-horseshoe-of-lovely-teeth, involuntary, full, and deep-throated mirth; the kind that is accompanied by a shocked surprise and a slight (no, make that a loud) peal of delight—well, then, you have at least caused her to loosen up and to change her expression. I shall not elaborate further.

Women have no corresponding need to appeal to men in this way. They already appeal to men, if you catch my drift. Indeed, we now have all the joy of a scientific study, which illuminates the difference. At the Stanford University School of Medicine (a place, as it happens, where I once underwent an absolutely hilarious procedure with a sigmoidoscope), the grim-faced researchers showed 10 men and 10 women a sample of 70 black-and-white cartoons and got them to rate the gags on a “funniness scale.” To annex for a moment the fall-about language of the report as it was summarized in Biotech Week:

The researchers found that men and women share much of the same humor-response system; both use to a similar degree the part of the brain responsible for semantic knowledge and juxtaposition and the part involved in language processing. But they also found that some brain regions were activated more in women. These included the left prefrontal cortex, suggesting a greater emphasis on language and executive processing in women, and the nucleus accumbens . . . which is part of the mesolimbic reward center.

This has all the charm and address of the learned Professor Scully’s attempt to define a smile, as cited by Richard Usborne in his treatise on P. G. Wodehouse: “the drawing back and slight lifting of the corners of the mouth, which partially uncover the teeth; the curving of the naso-labial furrows . . . “ But have no fear—it gets worse:

“Women appeared to have less expectation of a reward, which in this case was the punch line of the cartoon,” said the report’s author, Dr. Allan Reiss. “So when they got to the joke’s punch line, they were more pleased about it.” The report also found that “women were quicker at identifying material they considered unfunny.”

Slower to get it, more pleased when they do, and swift to locate the unfunny—for this we need the Stanford University School of Medicine? And remember, this is women when confronted with humor. Is it any wonder that they are backward in generating it?

This is not to say that women are humorless, or cannot make great wits and comedians. And if they did not operate on the humor wavelength, there would be scant point in half killing oneself in the attempt to make them writhe and scream (uproariously). Wit, after all, is the unfailing symptom of intelligence. Men will laugh at almost anything, often precisely because it is—or they are—extremely stupid. Women aren’t like that. And the wits and comics among them are formidable beyond compare: Dorothy Parker, Nora Ephron, Fran Lebowitz, Ellen DeGeneres. (Though ask yourself, was Dorothy Parker ever really funny?) Greatly daring—or so I thought—I resolved to call up Ms. Lebowitz and Ms. Ephron to try out my theories. Fran responded: “The cultural values are male; for a woman to say a man is funny is the equivalent of a man saying that a woman is pretty. Also, humor is largely aggressive and pre-emptive, and what’s more male than that?” Ms. Ephron did not disagree. She did, however, in what I thought was a slightly feline way, accuse me of plagiarizing a rant by Jerry Lewis that said much the same thing. (I have only once seen Lewis in action, in The King of Comedy, where it was really Sandra Bernhard who was funny.)

In any case, my argument doesn’t say that there are no decent women comedians. There are more terrible female comedians than there are terrible male comedians, but there are some impressive ladies out there. Most of them, though, when you come to review the situation, are hefty or dykey or Jewish, or some combo of the three. When Roseanne stands up and tells biker jokes and invites people who don’t dig her shtick to suck her dick—know what I am saying? And the Sapphic faction may have its own reasons for wanting what I want—the sweet surrender of female laughter. While Jewish humor, boiling as it is with angst and self-deprecation, is almost masculine by definition.

Substitute the term “self-defecation” (which I actually heard being used inadvertently once) and almost all men will laugh right away, if only to pass the time. Probe a little deeper, though, and you will see what Nietzsche meant when he described a witticism as an epitaph on the death of a feeling. Male humor prefers the laugh to be at someone’s expense, and understands that life is quite possibly a joke to begin with—and often a joke in extremely poor taste. Humor is part of the armor-plate with which to resist what is already farcical enough. (Perhaps not by coincidence, battered as they are by motherfucking nature, men tend to refer to life itself as a bitch.) Whereas women, bless their tender hearts, would prefer that life be fair, and even sweet, rather than the sordid mess it actually is. Jokes about calamitous visits to the doctor or the shrink or the bathroom, or the venting of sexual frustration on furry domestic animals, are a male province. It must have been a man who originated the phrase “funny like a heart attack.” In all the millions of cartoons that feature a patient listening glum-faced to a physician (“There’s no cure. There isn’t even a race for a cure”), do you remember even one where the patient is a woman? I thought as much.

Precisely because humor is a sign of intelligence (and many women believe, or were taught by their mothers, that they become threatening to men if they appear too bright), it could be that in some way men do not want women to be funny. They want them as an audience, not as rivals. And there is a huge, brimming reservoir of male unease, which it would be too easy for women to exploit. (Men can tell jokes about what happened to John Wayne Bobbitt, but they don’t want women doing so.) Men have prostate glands, hysterically enough, and these have a tendency to give out, along with their hearts and, it has to be said, their dicks. This is funny only in male company. For some reason, women do not find their own physical decay and absurdity to be so riotously amusing, which is why we admire Lucille Ball and Helen Fielding, who do see the funny side of it. But this is so rare as to be like Dr. Johnson’s comparison of a woman preaching to a dog walking on its hind legs: the surprise is that it is done at all.

The plain fact is that the physical structure of the human being is a joke in itself: a flat, crude, unanswerable disproof of any nonsense about “intelligent design.” The reproductive and eliminating functions (the closeness of which is the origin of all obscenity) were obviously wired together in hell by some subcommittee that was giggling cruelly as it went about its work. (“Think they’d wear this? Well, they’re gonna have to.”) The resulting confusion is the source of perhaps 50 percent of all humor. Filth. That’s what the customers want, as we occasional stand-up performers all know. Filth, and plenty of it. Filth in lavish, heaping quantities. And there’s another principle that helps exclude the fair sex. “Men obviously like gross stuff,” says Fran Lebowitz. “Why? Because it’s childish.” Keep your eye on that last word. Women’s appetite for talk about that fine product known as Depend is limited. So is their relish for gags about premature ejaculation. (“Premature for whom?” as a friend of mine indignantly demands to know.) But “child” is the key word. For women, reproduction is, if not the only thing, certainly the main thing. Apart from giving them a very different attitude to filth and embarrassment, it also imbues them with the kind of seriousness and solemnity at which men can only goggle. This womanly seriousness was well caught by Rudyard Kipling in his poem “The Female of the Species.” After cleverly noticing that with the male “mirth obscene diverts his anger”—which is true of most work on that great masculine equivalent to childbirth, which is warfare—Kipling insists:

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same, And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail, The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

The word “issue” there, which we so pathetically misuse, is restored to its proper meaning of childbirth. As Kipling continues:

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest.

Men are overawed, not to say terrified, by the ability of women to produce babies. (Asked by a lady intellectual to summarize the differences between the sexes, another bishop responded, “Madam, I cannot conceive.”) It gives women an unchallengeable authority. And one of the earliest origins of humor that we know about is its role in the mockery of authority. Irony itself has been called “the glory of slaves.” So you could argue that when men get together to be funny and do not expect women to be there, or in on the joke, they are really playing truant and implicitly conceding who is really the boss.

The ancient annual festivities of Saturnalia, where the slaves would play master, were a temporary release from bossdom. A whole tranche of subversive male humor likewise depends on the notion that women are not really the boss, but are mere objects and victims. Kipling saw through this:

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her.

In other words, for women the question of funniness is essentially a secondary one. They are innately aware of a higher calling that is no laughing matter. Whereas with a man you may freely say of him that he is lousy in the sack, or a bad driver, or an inefficient worker, and still wound him less deeply than you would if you accused him of being deficient in the humor department.

If I am correct about this, which I am, then the explanation for the superior funniness of men is much the same as for the inferior funniness of women. Men have to pretend, to themselves as well as to women, that they are not the servants and supplicants. Women, cunning minxes that they are, have to affect not to be the potentates. This is the unspoken compromise. H. L. Mencken described as “the greatest single discovery ever made by man” the realization “that babies have human fathers, and are not put into their mother’s bodies by the gods.” You may well wonder what people were thinking before that realization hit, but we do know of a society in Melanesia where the connection was not made until quite recently. I suppose that the reasoning went: everybody does that thing the entire time, there being little else to do, but not every woman becomes pregnant. Anyway, after a certain stage women came to the conclusion that men were actually necessary, and the old form of matriarchy came to a close. (Mencken speculates that this is why the first kings ascended the throne clutching their batons or scepters as if holding on for grim death.) People in this precarious position do not enjoy being laughed at, and it would not have taken women long to work out that female humor would be the most upsetting of all.

Childbearing and rearing are the double root of all this, as Kipling guessed. As every father knows, the placenta is made up of brain cells, which migrate southward during pregnancy and take the sense of humor along with them. And when the bundle is finally delivered, the funny side is not always immediately back in view. Is there anything so utterly lacking in humor as a mother discussing her new child? She is unboreable on the subject. Even the mothers of other fledglings have to drive their fingernails into their palms and wiggle their toes, just to prevent themselves from fainting dead away at the sheer tedium of it. And as the little ones burgeon and thrive, do you find that their mothers enjoy jests at their expense? I thought not.

Humor, if we are to be serious about it, arises from the ineluctable fact that we are all born into a losing struggle. Those who risk agony and death to bring children into this fiasco simply can’t afford to be too frivolous. (And there just aren’t that many episiotomy jokes, even in the male repertoire.) I am certain that this is also partly why, in all cultures, it is females who are the rank-and-file mainstay of religion, which in turn is the official enemy of all humor. One tiny snuffle that turns into a wheeze, one little cut that goes septic, one pathetically small coffin, and the woman’s universe is left in ashes and ruin. Try being funny about that, if you like. Oscar Wilde was the only person ever to make a decent joke about the death of an infant, and that infant was fictional, and Wilde was (although twice a father) a queer. And because fear is the mother of superstition, and because they are partly ruled in any case by the moon and the tides, women also fall more heavily for dreams, for supposedly significant dates like birthdays and anniversaries, for romantic love, crystals and stones, lockets and relics, and other things that men know are fit mainly for mockery and limericks. Good grief! Is there anything less funny than hearing a woman relate a dream she’s just had? (“And then Quentin was there somehow. And so were you, in a strange sort of way. And it was all so peaceful.” Peaceful?)

For men, it is a tragedy that the two things they prize the most—women and humor—should be so antithetical. But without tragedy there could be no comedy. My beloved said to me, when I told her I was going to have to address this melancholy topic, that I should cheer up because “women get funnier as they get older.” Observation suggests to me that this might indeed be true, but, excuse me, isn’t that rather a long time to have to wait?

From Vanity Fair

#Men Are The Prize #Anti-Feminism #Humor

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dammitadolfnomorecake · 5 years

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Caramel Skin Under A Purple Rain prt 38 took an abrupt turn that I still don’t know if I want to keep

Life was over as he knew it. Four quintants in the infirmary wasn’t without its dramas. Two seizures due to not being able to take his medication that Daehra had formulated, then finding out that what had been left had been destroyed in case it’d been tainted, followed by two certain annoying visitors left Lance cranky. Keith had been kicked out. Kosmo evicted. His back and hips hurt from constantly sitting up, his stomach felt uncomfortable, his skin itchy from trailing his suspected allergens on him, and Veronica was still a bitch. Throw in a nightmare from Keith where his husband had given him a black eye sending in him into the holy mother of panic attacks, because his messed up mind couldn’t comprehend that it’d been his actual husband who’d punched him and not someone trying to kill him, and Keith’s guilt over it... Lance wasn’t sure he was in better condition than when he arrived there. Veronica had binged all things baby and pregnancy, getting on his case over his weight and lack of eating... which wasn’t his fault. He was on a bland and basic diet while they conducted their allergy tests... from which he learned he’d developed an allergy to the “Solanaceae” family. Whatever that was. On the plus side, he wasn’t allergic to everything, on the not so plus side, he was allergic to everything that made his Mami’s cooking amazing. No more chillies, capsicums, or anything that actually gave good flavour. He had a slight allergy to wheat, the rest were all slight allergies too but to his over dramatic arse, it sucked intergalactic testicles and his life was ruined. The real issue was his newly found allergy to aloe vera. He wasn’t allergic enough to cause anaphylaxis, no, simply allergic enough to cause blotchy red welty hives that drove him crazy. It also explained the reaction he’d had to Krolia’s suggested bubble bath, the main ingredient being aloe vera. Everything else on his list just made him nauseous and, or, vomit, though could worsen and could also be a permanent thing, so he needed to be constantly careful. Krolia had someone working on some kind of scanner for him. Lance strongly felt that that would be Pidge too, yet his mother-in-law didn’t say as much. Keith was worried stupid, yet again, another reason why his husband was evicted. He was taking things badly after hitting him. They’d talked a little over the test results, which preceded Veronica talking all things baby and all the risks that came with having a baby. Somewhere around the talk of signs of symptoms he needed to be paying close attention to, he’d lost his head and started screaming at her. He didn’t need all her facts and figures. That’d started his first seizure. Veronica gone when he woke, while he felt like an arse for yelling at her when she was trying her hardest to understand and to make sure he was educated over things that were “wrong”. Drowsy from his seizure, he’d fallen asleep in Keith’s arms. Keith had them had his nightmare, no doubt thanks to all the shit the doctors and Veronica had put in his head, then mid-panic attack, he’d ended up having his second seizure. He had no memory of the panic attack or seizure, only the lasting pain from his contracting muscles. Keith was on edge from having been constantly left to support him through all the freakin’ tests they’d had to do. Sending him away was the kindest thing Lance could do. If his husband apologised one more time, he was tempted to throw him out the nearest open window. They’d both hit each other before, coming out of attacks or nightmares, so they had a silent “agreement” that though it might feel quiznak, they understood that after all they’d been through, things like this might happen and the best way to get through it was to talk. Keith hadn’t wanted to talk about his nightmare, yet slowly and surely Lance had coaxed it from his husband’s lips, if he had open up about all his messed up dreams and feelings there was no way that Keith wasn’t. He’d been in labour, but instead of pushing out one of their twins, it’d been some octopus thing, which he’d promptly punched in the face. Laughing had been the wrong answer. Keith getting huffy. It was bad enough that his husband seemed scared to cuddle him, afraid he might fall asleep and punch another octopus in his sleep. So his eviction was for his own good... Before his allergy test on the morning of the second day imprisoned, Zethrid and Ezor had come to visit. The pair of them were painfully loud and annoying, though they did bring him the Galra equivalent of a “get well soon” balloon bouquet, buying themselves some good will and favour as the balloons were unexpected and broke the monotony of grey walls. Chatting away with him about the up coming tour, Ezor was merciless as she teased Keith over being “the prince of Daibazaal”. She also teased him over his lack of training, and getting slow and fat because of it. Unable to currently take the joke, Ezor pushed Keith into a “half-shift” where his eyes went yellow and his fingernails began to extend. Until then, Lance had kind of enjoyed the conversation. Not the loudness of it. Ezor and Zethrid both seemed to be speaking as if they thought him deaf, no. It was more the fact that they hadn’t apologised for what happened. They didn’t make a fuss other than the balloons. Nor did they repeatedly ask if he was feeling ok. It was as if they’d simply shrugged their shoulders at the whole matter as it didn’t involve their personal lives. He loved them for it. The pair frog jumping Acxa and Veronica in his mental list. Acxa had wanted to come but understood that he might not want too many visitors so had sent a card... A card he didn’t get until after it’d landed in the hands of Ezor and Zethrid. Ezor had gotten her gum between the fold, and Zethrid had let it be scrunched in her pocket. He couldn’t really be mad about either thing. His siblings had done far worse as they were growing up. The annoying bit came from Ezor’s screechy laugh of Keith’s partial transformation. His anger on behalf of his husband who was dealing with enough as it was. After they’d been politely evicted with a little showmanship, he’d gagged as clamped a hand to his mouth like he was going to vomit causing Ezor to wrinkle her face in disgust and drag her girlfriend away, Keith had brooded in the corner until Krolia came with Shiro at lunch. Noticing how Keith was, Lance had whisper begged Shiro to drag Keith off for a brotherly chat. Keith refused to go, his husband climbing back into bed next to him as if he was having a sit in protest. Shiro had whispered that he’d check in with Keith later that night, to which Lance had asked him to take him back to his room for some rest. After Shiro had left Veronica had visited, in time for the results and it’d all taken a sharp left hand turn into a pile of quiznakking quiznak. The allergy skin testing started. The results came back... and well, everything else happened. Finally escaping, Lance was forced to allow himself to be wheeled back to Keith’s quarters. Keith felt he shouldn’t be walking, while Lance felt that he should keep his mouth shut lest he be returned to the same stupid hospital bed. Having slept in his own bed, Keith seemed refreshed. His skin and hair weren’t as oily as they had been, nor did apologise. There was a spring in his step that Lance was envious of, seeing all his body wanted was for him to go back to sleep. Having come for the walk, Kosmo was on his best behaviour, walking beside the wheelchair so Lance could keep one hand on his back to act as his grounding. The whole time Keith wheeled him, he focused on his breathing rather than the people they passed. His anxieties were trying to get the better of him, as he knew they all must think him a weak failure. Reaching Keith’s quarters, Lance wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or not to find no one waiting. He was finally free, but he had no one to celebrate his freedom with. He wanted to go for a job or even a run. Sparring practice sounded divine, yet his body was too exhausted to do much of anything. It was demanding he slept, despite the sedatives they’d given him so could sleep without tossing and turning. Wheeling him right over to the edge of the bed, Keith put the brakes on. Stubbornly wanting to do things himself, he climbed from the chair then flopped down on Keith’s bed, nuzzling into the blankets that smelt so much of his husband. “Pidge and Hunk suggested a party, but Curtis overruled them. I know it’s not much, but I’m happy you’re back here” Jumping at Keith’s voice, Kosmo yipped as if he’d noticed the action. Teleporting onto the bed the space wolf curled up behind, resting his muzzle on Lance’s hip “Mmm. Me too. It’s fine, honestly. I’m so drowsy I think I’m about to fall back to sleep” “I have to go out for about a varga, will you be ok on your own?” Keith was going out? He was free and now his husband was running away? What was the point of having Keith there if all he was going to do was sleep. It was better Keith was keeping busy and not watching over him... He didn’t especially want to be alone, but having Keith do something that wasn’t related to him was super appealing “Babe, I’m fine. You take as long as you need” “I know you just got out...” “And you know how much I appreciate a good bed. Say “hi” to Mumma K for me. Tell her I want that thing too. She’ll know what it is” Keith gave a hum, then there was a long paused, followed by his husband clicking off the brakes on the wheelchair and the balloon bouquet being evicted to beside the bed “Ok. I’ll try and be back soon” “No n-ne-ed to rush. Love you” “You too” Without so much as a kiss or fussing of the blankets, Keith left him. Yawning again, as he’d done mid-reply, Lance wriggled back against Kosmo, trying not to let Keith leaving bother him. He wasn’t about to admit how touch starved he felt, nor how horny his body decided he needed to be. He needed something to work off this excess energy, but wasn’t sure where to even begin. After a good varga of trying to sleep, Lance gave up. His mind was too sleepy to comprehend words or full sentences, yet he did his best to message both Daehra and Marco and let them know that he and the twins were alright. Words were hard enough when he wasn’t sure what words to use in the first place. Comms and typing didn’t work well, not when he dropped his comms on his face mid-sentence. With his plan for a nap abandoned, he climbed out of bed carefully, Kosmo cautiously following as he shuffled to the bathroom to start running the bath. Jumping up over the side, Kosmo decided he wanted a bath on his own accord, tail wagging as his tongue lolled from his mouth. An exceptionally pleased look on his fur sons face as he stared at him. Without anything else to do, washing Kosmo seemed as good if a plan as any... until Kosmo decided he didn’t actually want a bath. Half soaped up, Kosmo made his escape. Teleporting out the bath, he shook himself off, proceeding to cover everything with water and wrecking the bathroom as he teleported away from Lance who first forced to gingerly find his feet, then hold onto the bathroom counter so he wouldn’t slip in the mess. Not liking being scolded and ordered back in the bath, his only companion gave a yip than deserted him. Unable to rush after him, he opened the door to Keith’s room to find Kosmo rolling about in the middle of the bed. Tired and feeling somewhat hormonal and abandoned, he was soon crying as yelled at Kosmo for making a mess. Not used to being yelled at, Kosmo teleported out the room, leaving Lance to deal with the mess his son had made of everything. Unable to stop himself from “catastrophying” the situation, he wasn’t able to laugh of what had happened like he would have been able to if Keith was there. If his husband had been there, Keith would chased after Kosmo while Lance laughed at the pair of them. Stripping the wet mess of blankets off, he found the sheet had escaped the drenching. Both their pillows were wet from where Kosmo had presumably wiped his nose against them, trying to get the bubbles out from where he’d attempted to eat them. Cold and wet, Lance curled up into himself on the stripped remains of the bed, determined not to call anyone for help. Keith would most likely scold him for trying to wash Kosmo without when, after promising to nap. * Keith felt like an arsehole deserting Lance almost the tick he came out of the infirmary, but it was for his husband’s own good. Lance trusted Daehra with his health, and other than the times he’d been able to voice his own opinions, he’d been stuck taking Galra based medication that hadn’t included anything for his seizures. The two he’d had scared the quiznak out of him. His husband passing two doboshes on both instances. As much as he’d wanted to, and argued for, Keith wasn’t able to bring Daehra to Daibazaal, instead he was overseeing two medical technicians and Daehra instructed them on how to prepare Lance’s morning shakes, as well as the preparation of an injection should Lance go into premature labour again. This was all supposed to have been done before Lance was released, only when Shiro noticed the time he shooed him out. Returning to stand by his adopted brother, Shiro tilted his head slightly as he looked to him “I thought you were picking Lance up?” “He wanted to nap. He’s with Kosmo. Kosmo’s not going to let anything happen to him” “You left him there alone?” “Right now, this more important. He can’t keep having seizures that severe” “He handled his seizures well before. What changed?” “They’ve been worse since he got clean... I think they’ve even gotten worse since he fell pregnant, then again, it might be stress too. Before this... the only time I’d seen him seize before was due to too many drugs in his system. He can’t take pills, it makes him gag. Injections he’s not too fond of either” “I’d say that would be for the best. Have you thought about the baby shower?” Keith didn’t want a baby shower. He didn’t want to have one. Not on Daibazaal. Not on the Atlas. He didn’t want to force the whole thing on Lance. Sure, he wanted to show Lance how loved and supported he was, but Lance didn’t love parties anymore. He was no longer “Lancey-Lance” or “Loverboy Lance”. He was Lance who would rather be working or running a mission than socialising. Besides, all he’d done was come inside his husband, Lance was doing all the hard work of carrying their twins. What would he be doing at the party other than being reminded that he was a “horn dog”? Maybe should he pop a banner up saying “we forgot the contraceptives because we left it to each other, and now we’re having twins, only we don’t know how we’re actually going to deliver them, or if Lance can carry to full term”. It seemed a bit long for a banner. Lance would probably be pissed at him if he did. “I don’t think Lance would want a baby shower” Shiro frowned deeply “Are you sure? With everything happening, I think it’d be a nice gesture” “I’m not even sure he’s coping with being pregnant, let alone up for making a fuss over it” “Then this could be what he needs. To see that no one thinks and less of him” “Other than Hunk...” Things with Hunk were so awkward that Keith wanted to grab both he and his husband and smack their heads together “This shower may be for Lance, but I’m thinking of Hunk too. You haven’t been on the Atlas, he’s been baking” Crossing his arms and squaring his shoulders, Keith tried to ignore the pull of sympathy tugging on his heart “Hunk’s always baking” “He’s been baking enough for there to be left overs, despite the size of the crew. The tick he heard about Lance’s allergies, he’s started baking a whole new range of allergy friendly things, then works himself up thinking Lance will reject him if he tried to talk to him. He doesn’t understand how they drifted so far apart, and he also misses him” “Then he shouldn’t have thrown his friendship with him away. You know how hard it’s been to get Lance to let you all back in” “He seems alright with Pidge” A dry huff of laughter escaped Keith’s lips “Then you don’t know him very well. He’s trying to do the right thing by everyone but himself. He gets paranoid when he’s talking to her, thinks he’s going to say the wrong thing or that Pidge is only looking for information over how he managed to fall pregnant. He’s only here because of me, but he’s made it abundantly clear that if I fuck up again, he’s gone” “I doubt he’d actually leave. He adores you” “And what have I done for him? I gave him a black eye. Made him feel like a slut over being raped and accused him of cheating on me with you. I don’t know why, but when we’re with everyone, it all seems to fall apart. I’m exhausted. He’s exhausted. He’s only doing this tour for me. He’s doing all of this for me” “Then you should let us do this for him. I know Coran would love to be there. He’s been calling for daily updates since the attack. He wanted to come but you were having enough trouble with your Galra side” “It’s not like I wanted to be like that. I couldn’t calm down with him hurt. I’m sick to death of seeing him hurt. I’m sick to death of him holding his tongue and letting himself be hurt further. I don’t think a baby shower is a good idea. He wouldn’t want the fuss” “He might not want it, but I think he’d cherish the memories when he’s not feeling so depressed. He wants nothing more than to want this. He wants his twins. He wants to know that it’s ok for him to want this, and that there’s nothing wrong with him for wanting it. I saw him on Erathus. I saw the way his hand went to his stomach each time he saw a child or something in a passing store that he thought would be perfect for your children. He’s not comfortable in his own skin, and he won’t be until he accepts that we all still care about him” Keith was struck dumb. Lance was around 16 movements... or weeks... he’d have to do the math again after their stay at the outpost. His husband wasn’t comfortable. He knew that. He knew that his changing body left Lance frustrated and confused. His husband always wanted a family and now his anxieties were hampering his happiness. These were their twins. With their tiny hands and noses... the way they seemed to be sucking on their thumbs in the scan... God. He’s pay good GAC to see Lance happy over them again. “I want him to be happy” “I know you do” “If I say yes, can we give it a few quintants? He’s still shaken by the attack” “We have about a movement before we’ll make another formal announcement over the tour. Then it should start within a couple of quintants. Is there anything in particular you guys want or need?” Keith closed his eyes, racking his brain before opening his eyes at the memory “A chest of drawers. For the outpost. We’ve got blankets, clothes and soft toys, but the wardrobe wasn’t quite right” “I think I can manage that. Have you got a change mat?” “I don’t think so?” Keith’s tone was one of questioning confusion. He’d neglected the baby book with everything that had happened. He didn’t understand why people needed change tables and all the fancy things if it was literally a place for changing poopy nappies “I’ll talk to Curtis, and to Hunk. Shay’s worried over both of them. She doesn’t want Lance to feel awkward over helping her with Earth wedding things” For all his awkwardness with words, Keith was certain that all of this could have been sorted sooner if Hunk or Shay had come to them to talk about things. Lance wouldn’t be miserable and Hunk wouldn’t be baking Shiro out of the Atlas “I’m sure he’d be happy to have something to do. He can’t sit still. It’ll distract him from the tour” “Plus, he’ll be ready for when Curtis asks him to be part of his wedding party” Taking half a step back, Keith gaped at his adoptive brother. Laughing at his reaction, Shiro clamped his robotic hand down on Keith’s left shoulder “I haven’t asked him yet. We have talked about it though. Two more years, then retirement. Two years is more realistic than hoping to retire by this time next year, plus, it’ll give us time to make sure Veronica is adequately trained to accept the position” Recovering, Keith nodded. Everyone was growing and moving on. The ugly feeling of abandonment reared its unwanted head. There was a time when everyone moved on, their relationship wasn’t through blood... But if anyone deserved the “happily ever after” it was Shiro... Veronica stepping up as commander barely registered “That’s great, man” Shiro let his shock slide, knowing him his brother already knew where his mind had gone “Maybe it’ll help if you two marry again, and... you know have an actual ceremony with your friends. So we can watch, and laugh...” “We might not have known we were married, but I wouldn’t change that night” Lance was so happy. The wine had been awful, and Annla had tricked them both, but Lance had been so happy with their union “Think about the rest of us. You would have been a nervous wreck if you’d known what was going on” “I’m not sure I know what’s going on, even now” “You should have more faith” “Keith? Are you paying attention? Of course you’re not. I am trying to talk to you” On the screen at the end of the lab, Daehra was glaring at both he and Shiro. Daehra’s “Mum” look was enough to make him shift his weight in guilt. He’d insisted on overseeing Lance’s medication being created, yet let himself be distracted by his brother. He should have just had Shiro take the Atlas out to the outpost and picked up personally. It’d all have been faster and simpler than this “Sorry, Daehra” “As you should be. I have been trying to tell you Lance just sent me a message. I’m afraid it doesn’t make much sense” Keith cleared his throat “He was pretty tired. He was going for a nap” Glancing down, Daehra’s lips moved as she silently reread the message “That’s makes sense now. Please tell him to sleep, then to reread his message. I’m not completely sure, but I do believe that “Keith estupido” translates to stupid Keith . I really do wish he’d teach me at least a little Spanish. His full message reads “Keith, ese estúpido esposo mío no está aquí, estoy tan cansado. Te llamaré después de haber tomado una siesta”. I’m sure he’s going to have a laugh at that one... whatever that means” Daehra butchered the Spanish so spectacularly that Keith couldn’t find it in him to be mad. He might not be all that great at Spanish, yet he knew enough to know “siesta” was a “sleep”? or a “nap”? “He said he’s tired and going to take a nap before he calls you. And that Keith isn’t with him” Daehra huffed out a sigh at Shiro. Keith felt annoyed at his own shortcomings with the language of his family “He should have said that then. Marco is busy with Lucteal. They’ve gone to visit with Yule... You’re both terrible at keeping us in the loop. Marco found out that Lance had been attacked while watching the live stream. Miriam’s call was another three vargas later, and that was because Krolia had called her. Wherever he is, he’s always finding trouble” “I’m sorry, Dae. Things here have been hectic. You’re right though. I promise to have Lance call you” “Good. Three movements with very little news over both of you is not good for ones nerves. Marco has the same flare for dramatics as his brother” “I don’t know about that...” “Then try living with him. Now, the compound is nearly complete. Make sure he resumes the same daily routine as before. The injection requires another varga until it’s completion. There is enough for three doses, all to be injected preferably into his thigh. I am entrusting the injections to you, and I want a copy of his latest medical reports for my files” “I’ll ask Krolia how to go about sending them through. If Marco’s being too annoying, we can always transfer him out here with us” Despite Acxa basically being his sister, Keith would trade Marco for Veronica happily. Veronica’s love caused continual head butting, whereas once Marco had cooled his heels, he and Lance had gone back to being tight “He has his moments. He’s not as natural around here as Lance was, nor is he that adept working trade, yet things are running smoothly... mostly. We’ve taken on the two staff Lance authorised for me, there is a more detailed report on his comms, in accompaniment with his movement report. I know there’s no use, but please tell him not to worry. The outpost is still functioning, which is the main thing” “Good. I guess we’ll see you... maybe during the tour? Of after...” “We’re all looking forward to seeing you and he on screen. You never look comfortable in front of the camera. It is quite entertaining” “Remind me again, why exactly have I missed you?” Daehra shrugged her shoulders “It’s not my fault you left with Lance. Please make sure he rests before you call” Doing his best impression of Lance, Keith put his his hands on hips as over exaggerated the sass in his simple reply “Yes, Dae. I wouldn’t dream of letting my husband rest. I’m so relieved you gave me this vital suggestion” Nudging him, Shiro shot him a scowl “Ignore him, Daehra. He’s been in a mood since the attack. Thank you for this, we’re all worried over Lance’s seizures. I’m sure you must have work to do, so we’ll let you get back to it. Thanks again, right, Keith?” Daehra looked amused. They’d moved past politeness into a comfortable banter like relationship “Yeah. Right. Thanks, Dae. I’ll talk to you later” “Bye, Keith. Thank you, Shiro. I’m happy our idiots have someone with a brain cell looking after them” Daehra cut the call as Shiro turned to him “Would it hurt you to be polite to your friends?” “You have no idea what you’ve just done. She’s never going to let me live this down” “What did I do? Unlike you, I was polite” Keith sighed “That’s just it. Daehra and I are past the polite stage. She’s nearly as sassy as Lance. Did you see how happy she was that you were scolding me? She’s a monster” Shiro rolled his eyes at him “I’m sure you’re imagining all of this. She’s a perfectly nice young lady” “Riiight. This coming from “Silver Fox”. Of course you can do no wrong. She doesn’t know you like I do” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “You’re too polite for my good. I’m going to stay, but you can go ahead if you want. I doubt Lance will take anything that I took my eyes off” “Do you mind if stop in to check on Lance. If he’s sleeping I’ll leave him sleeping” It’d kind of been a douche move to leave Lance the moment he got out of the infirmary... He’d wanted a nap, and Keith didn’t want to interfere with his husband resting. Unconsciously his top lip curled up slightly so he was baring his teeth at his brother “No waking him up if he’s sleeping and no complaining if Kosmo bites you” Shiro held his hands up in surrender “I’m simply going to make sure he’s not upset that you’re not there. I’m not going to bring the baby shower up... or the attack” “Make sure you don’t. He hasn’t taken his medication. I want him resting as much as possible before the tour begins. The last thing we need is him having a public seizure. He’d feel too guilty to carry on in public if he thought he’d insulted our hosts” “I really hope you didn’t say it to him like that. You know he can’t control his seizures” “Like what? You know he anxious he gets over things” “Saying it like that sounds pretty accusatory. Think about it, it’ll come to you. I’m going to head off now. I’ll see you later” Keith was stuck brooding on his wording. Lance would be crippled emotionally if he thought he’d insulted the people they were visiting or scared them with a seizure... What was wrong with his wording? He was worried for his husband, so he didn’t want him having a seizure and being upset... So why had Shiro told him to think about his words? He simply didn’t understand how it could be accusatory. He wasn’t accusing Lance of intentionally having a seizure... Deciding he was getting nowhere, Keith kept himself in a self hug as he watched Lance’s injections being synthesised. * Cold and annoyed, Lance wasn’t impressed with his fur son at all. After huffing off, the Cuban had thought he wouldn’t be seeing the cause of his current troubles so soon. Either sulky because he’d been sent back to the human who’d growled at him, or miserable because his fur was soapy, Keith’s wolf had teleported back half a varga or so after he’d given up on life and proceeded to sulk on the stripped bed. With Kosmo’s cold body against his, Lance was left shivering, not game to venture back into the wet bathroom, nor was interested in playing games with Kosmo over bath time. Disturbed by a soft knock on his door, Kosmo’s lazy arse didn’t move as Lance failed to reply. If it wasn’t Keith, he wasn’t sure he wanted to see them, or for anyone to see how badly he’d messed up immediately upon release. With a soft “swoosh” the bedroom door opened, with the figure at the doorway clearing their throat “Lance? Are you awake? Something seems to have happened to your room” Shiro’s voice was soft and level, Lance hating how happy it made him to have someone come check on him, despite the fact it wasn’t Keith. Up until the moment had spoken he’d wanted to be alone in his misery, now he couldn’t be more grateful to Shiro for being there. Slowly pushing himself up, Lance blinked his eyes clear before sighing softly to himself. His clothes were damp, smelling like wet dog... said wet “dog” wore an expression of shame, though Lance wasn’t ready to forgive him quite so readily “Hey, Shiro... yeah, I’m awake. Sorry the room’s a mess... things... things went to quiznak” Moving his hands to his stomach, Lance drew his legs up to cross them. Shiro moving across the room to sit on the edge of the bed, taking the unsaid invitation in his stride “Want to tell me what happened?” “Kosmo hijacked my bath, then decided halfway through he didn’t want a bath” Receiving no love from Lance, Kosmo dragged himself up with exaggerated patheticness as he settled with his head next to Shiro’s leg “Ah. That explains a few things. Keith said you were going to nap?” “One of the joys of pregnancy I’ve learned that sometimes, no matter how quiznakking tired you are, sleep refuses to come. Plus... I’ve already messed everything up” With a soft smile, Shiro shook his head “Not everything. I’ve got some time if you want some help? Maybe we can get everything sorted before Keith comes back? I can hold him while you wash him” For an instant Lance’s mind went to “Shiro holding Keith while Lance bathed him like a dog”, before his thoughts kindly reminded him that Shiro meant Kosmo “The bathroom’s too wet... Keith would kill me if I ended up back in the infirmary so soon” With a laugh, Shiro held an arm out. Lance completely uncoordinated as he climbed from his spot to hug his brother-in-law. It wasn’t as good as a Keith hug, but fuck if he didn’t need a hug. Hiding his face against Shiro’s shoulder, he let out a shaky breath “Thank you... Keith left so soon... and I think he’s mad at me” “Nah. He’s not mad at you. He was in the middle of something, and thought you’d be napping while he took care of it. Nothing bad. When he’s done he’s coming straight back” “Are you sure?” “I promise you he’s not mad. I’ll take Kosmo for his bath. Are you up for helping?” “I don’t want him to see how I fucked up so fast” “You didn’t “fuck up”. Kosmo’s the one who’s in trouble here. Bathing him may not have been the best idea, but you did say he stole your bath. How about I get you fresh clothes to begin with? I’ll washing him while you get changed then we’ll sort your bed out together. Keith’s not going to be back for another varga. That’s plenty of time to get things straightened out” A varga seemed like a lifetime. He didn’t trust his body not to decide to betray him. All the wanted now was to cuddle with his husband. He’d wanted to clean, but it’d been too much effort alone, leaving him mentally dreading a confrontation or scolding when he wanted Keith so badly. Hugging Shiro had killed his libido the moment his arms had wrapped around the older man. His instincts said Shiro wasn’t “safe”, not like Keith, though it wasn’t like he’d been planning on sleeping with Shiro as it was “Thank you. I didn’t mean to cause all this chaos” “Lance, trust me, if you’d seen the state of mine and Curtis’s room, you’d know this is nothing. I’ve left it worse... and learned my lesson for it... though it might have taken a while” Lance wrinkled his face, pushing Shiro away as he did “I don’t need to know about your kinks. Gross. You’re my Space Dad” “There was nothing kinky about waking to find each of my dirty socks collected and left by my face. The point I was trying to make is that Keith is less scary than Curtis over mess” “Curtis is domesticated. He’s too good for the three of us” “That he is. I’m happy you like him so much” “He’s kind of easy. I mean... he knew and he accepted things. He didn’t pry or try to pry... and when I talked, he actually listened. It meant a lot to me” “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you have a crush” Lance rolled his eyes “Nope. Moment over. He’s all yours. I leave the demon mutt to you. I’ve got clothes in the bedside drawers here... I think. I’ve at least got underwear in there and that’s a start” Reaching out, Shiro ruffled his hair “That it is. Call me if you need help? I really don’t...” Brushing Shiro off, he reminded himself that he had to do better than he had been. He was being too clingy, needing too much attention. Shiro would be in the next room and he wasn’t so much of an invalid that he needed everything done for him “I’ll manage. I’d rather Kosmo be washed off properly. I don’t want him making more of a mess with his sulking back to our bed” Shiro flexed his robotic arm “I’ve got this” Shiro did not “have this”. Kosmo simply teleported around the bathroom with Shiro’s robotic hand still firmly holding onto Kosmo collar. Their precious varga passed with Shiro attempting to corral Kosmo, while Lance was sitting on the toilet lid enjoying the show. He didn’t enjoy Kosmo further messing up the bathroom, but he did enjoy knowing he wasn’t the only one Kosmo was misbehaving for. Lance harboured no doubts that if Shiro had wanted, he easily could have brought Kosmo back under control. Yet, Shiro let the silly scene play out, Kosmo thinking it all a game teleported to his side then teleported them both into the bath where Shiro promptly lost his footing causing him to fall into the bubbles. Coming up, he looked unimpressed, leading to Lance laughing so hard he was wheezing. Licking at his face, Kosmo settled himself down in Shiro’s lap triumphantly “Lance, this isn’t funny. He’s a menace” With his face burning hot, Lance could only shake his head. A tick or two passing before Shiro started laughing too. The pair of them laughing like idiots over the shenanigans that’d crippled Lance with anxiety earlier. Not that he’d gone swimming with Kosmo, nor had his robotic arm gone for a ride on Kosmo’s collar. Laughing until his stomach hurt and he’d slightly wet himself, Lance couldn’t glance Shiro’s way as each time he did fresh laughter bubbled up. That was how Keith found them. Opening the bathroom door, Keith stepped into chaos. In the bath Shiro was recovering better than him, deciding that if he was going to be soaked, he might as well be soaked and washing Kosmo as he did. Raising an eyebrow, his husband crossed his arms “What the quiznak is going on here?” Lance sucked in his bottom lip, his body shaking slightly from the repressed laughter “Hey, Keith. The thing is... we were going to bath Kosmo... but I think I’m the one who ended up having the bath instead” A squeak escaped, Keith’s eyes flashing from Shiro to him “Babe? I thought you wanted to take a nap. Why’s the bed wet and why are you sitting on the toilet?” “I’m... Kosmo decided that he wanted a bath and didn’t at the same time. You should have seen it... he had Shiro’s arm...” Doubling over in laughter, his stomach cramped painfully, he wanted to stop laughing but couldn’t get the image of Shiro’s arm out of his head “What he means is, Kosmo attempted to steal my arm mid bath. He messed up the bed trying to escape, so we got him back into the bathroom then this happened” Keith sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes and shook his head for a tick, before fixing his gaze almost coldly on his brother “I thought I told you to let him sleep. Not get him all worked up” A chill ran down Lance’s spine as his laughter came to an abrupt halt. Why was Keith so mad when the situation was clearly hilarious “Lance was awake when I got here. He couldn’t sleep, and Kosmo hijacked the bath he was going to have. That’s why we tried to give him a bath” “Babe, you know you need to be resting. I trusted that you wanted to nap” “I did, but I had too much energy. Shiro didn’t do anything wrong. He was trying to get the shampoo out of Kosmo‘s fur when Kosmo turned it into a game. I’ve been sitting over here” “And what if you’d had a seizure while they were messing about?” Lance’s heart gave an uncomfortable beat. He hadn’t really thought about having a seizure while sitting. He’d thought himself kind of safe because he was simply watching and not overexerting himself. Keith should know better than to think he was looking to hurt himself or the twins. He was doing his best and trying his hardest to ignore all his past impulses, not wanting to cause his husband any unnecessary pain or worry “Kosmo’s good at warning me, and I’m already sitting. The real question is why are you so mad? No one got hurt... the bed and the bathroom got a little wet, and Shiro was arm-napped, but I wasn’t hurt” “But you could have been. I made sure everything was perfect for you, and now I come back to our room destroyed and you... you don’t laugh like that when I’m around. I had this planned in my head and this wasn’t the plan... you... I spent the morning synthesising your medication with Daehra on call... and I come back to you having fun with my brother” Lance’s hurt swayed to anger, then to bitterly hurt anger with tears. How many times did he have to tell Keith nothing was going on? “Newsflash, you dumped me here and left. You didn’t explain where you were going, only that you had to go out again. I wanted to come back here and cuddle my husband who started neglecting himself because he was too caught up in looking after me. And I wanted to hold you and make sure you were ok. That you were feeling better and make sure you understood I only did it because I was worried about your stupid mulleted arse. I’m sorry I’m such a goddamn burden to you and I’m sorry that I was happy when Shiro came to see me because I was fucking lonely. I’m sorry I can’t even wash your wolf properly. That I let him teleport out to your bed where he rolled around. I’m sorry I didn’t clean up your precious bathroom because I didn’t want to fucking slip and cost you your kids. I’m sorry that I can’t do anything fucking right... all I want is to be good for you, but I’m fucking useless” Clutching his stomach, Lance was well aware that he was ugly crying over his baby bump. Why was he in trouble? If Keith had been here for all the shenanigans Kosmo had put Shiro through, he would have been laughing just as hard as that “Babe... that not what I was saying. I was worried about you. You haven’t had your medication in days...” “So because I’m fucked up you don’t want to k-know m-me if I’m not drugged?” “I’m not saying that. Please, you need to calm down...” “Fuck you! Fuck you and your dick! You knocked me up! I’m doing everything I can for your kids... maybe they should have just killed the three of us...” His words were a bitter poison that choked his throat and stung at his tongue. He didn’t want to be saying these things. Keith swayed on the spot, a hand going to the door frame as Shiro stood up in the bath tub “Don’t... you don’t... you don’t mean that. You don’t mean that, Lance. We’re supposed to be starting a family” “Some fucking family when your husband’s a whore! Go fuck Krystaal! He’s in love with you and you’ve obvious got a crush on him! Go be happy with him! He doesn’t burden you like I do!” “I don’t have a crush on Krystaal! This is why I didn’t tell you he was a guy! Because I knew you’d be like this!” “What? Jealous that he’s everything I’m not!?” “No, because you get it in your head that you’re worthless then tell me to go him! What am I supposed to do, Lance? All I want is you to be happy!” Lance let out a raspy sob, his hands moving from his stomach to wipe at his face “That’s what I want too. I’m sick of us fighting! I’m sick of it! I want my husband back! The man who knew I trusted him, and that he was the only person I want to be with! I just want my husband back... I want to be happy with you again... not ruining your life all the time...” Taking the few steps across the space, Keith went to take his hand, Lance snatching it back before he could “Babe... I don’t want to fight either. I’m worried about you” Dios. Why did he have to worry? Everything had been fine until he’d left him. He’d been bad. He didn’t deserve Keith’s love “Don’t touch me. I don’t want you to touch me” If Keith touched him, he’d cave. He’d throw himself into the embrace and cry it all out on Keith’s shoulder “I love you. I’m sorry. I’m scared you’re going to have another seizure and you’re going to end up hurt” “It was fine until you came back. I’m sorry you I couldn’t fall asleep. I’ll... I’ll organise something. Somewhere to stay until the tour... I was feeling so lonely without you, but now it hurts so bad I don’t know if I can look at you” “I’m sorry...” “You don’t have to apologise to something like me. Shiro, can I stay on the Atlas... actually, never mind. I’ll ask Krolia to let me go to Altea. I’m sorry...” With great pain, Lance rose to his feet, ignoring avoiding Keith as he tried to help. They’d been so on top of each other since they’d gotten back together that they’d been smothering each other without knowing. Or at least Lance knew he was smothering Keith by needing his constant love and support. All he’d done was continually stuff up. “Babe... please. You haven’t done anything wrong. I’m the one who did. I didn’t listen about the photos. I didn’t listen about the photos with Klearo. I told you I trust your gut then chose the easy way out because I was scared of the truth. I’m fucking terrified of you leaving me. I get so scared that I get angry... and jealous... because... because you’re my husband. You’re my husband and I can’t make everything better for you. I hate it. I hate you not being you. Everyone fucking shattered you, and you still put us all first. You... you were my friend... and I didn’t even care about your feelings when I came back. I noticed things were different and I ran from it because I didn’t know what to say because I loved you... and I was so cruel to you. You’ve been working so hard and I’ve done nothing. I’m not a better leader. I’m not a good husband. I still hate public and formal events and I’m happy to dump the royal duties on my unborn sibling. I don’t know how to be... me. I don’t want to hurt you. I want to spend every morning waking up with you. I want to hold you. I want to see new things out there in space with you. I want to see the way your face lights up... I... I love you... I’ve loved you for so long...” “The person you fell in love with no longer exists. Everything that happened to me, I deserved... everyone simply noticed how unworthy I was before you. Now you’re seeing it, but you don’t know how to leave...” Their was an air of indifference in Lance’s tone. His heart was breaking at his husband’s words. He knew Keith had his issues. He knew Keith was terrified but this clinging thing... it... it was held together with duct tape and paper clips. Keith was working his hardest, but it seemed lately all it took was a few misspoken words and the same fight would flare into life. The Atlas would have been preferable to Daibazaal purely because it would have been easier to lift a ship under Shiro’s nose rather than the whole Galra empire. Krolia understood what Keith was going through... his step mother would stress and want them to talk it out. He’d used all his spare time while recovering sleeping, rewatching the attack, and worrying over Keith’s state of mind, and the way he’d given up and neglected himself. That wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted Keith to be able to do his own thing. To chase after his dreams “... I’m going to find Mumma K. Shiro, can you please not tell Veronica about any of this. Mami has enough to worry about. And take care of Keith. He really needs a friend” Shuffling out the bathroom, Lance left everything where it was. He vaguely remembered how to get to Krolia’s quarters, and if he got lost, he was sure to find someone who could direct him to her. Besides, he may get lucky and be assassinated before he could ruin things for Keith further.

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