#mechanic labor times

[m1autorepair]

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[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

anyone else have multiple traumatic memories associated specifically with holidays/family vacations? because that is a topic I never see discussed in all the So You Had A Shitty Childhood, Now What? self-help books i've been reading. but for me, it was a significant thing. and the more i think about it the more it seems like this would be an (unfortunately) common experience. would be grateful to hear if this matches other peoples' experiences...

[izloveshorses]

sometimes the stupid soft-spoken midwesterner in me makes me feel like i'm overcharging for commissions and then when i sit and do the math. when you charge a professional hourly rate ($40 per hour) alone. you realize i am severely Undercharging! and we haven't even factored in cost of supplies, additional revisions, price of labor,,,,,, someone shake my shoulders and tell me to toughen up pls.

[axellis-archv-2]

a moment abt overhalliday if you dont mind but its in the tags bc im embarrassed sowwy..

[daculadaculadacula]

damn we really got shafted by funnay long ass fight scenes and dead dad cop b (c?) plot............... i havent looked at the producers and what theyre all about etc but seeing the queer angles get shafted (like its all at once not heavy-handed enough but the next step would have been on-screen making out sloppy style like. tenderness? or something) due to whatever the fuck else that all was...... man

i appreciate that this is a new and fun interpretation and i do love receiving little lgbtq+ pellets but idk. some ingredients in this soup arent doin it for me

[msboutofcontext]

[prozach27]

.

[scotty-nobody]

I have never felt like more of an adult than at my new job today

[just-barely-awake-thoughts]

good, free/cheap (aka subsidized) public transportation systems are just *chef's kiss* mwah so fucking good. disabled? public transportation. poor? public transportation. wanna cut down on personal emissions*? public transportation. need to go for a ride to clear your head? public transportation. bored as a person without a license? hop on a bus or train, baby. visit the city and check out that little ice cream shop you were curious about. take a train out to a rural area and find a nice little spot to sit. hop on the bus and go see your grandma, idk.

the possibilities are literally endless.

*disclaimer ik that personal emissions are high-key bullshit unless you're a celebrity (*cough* taylor swift *cough*) but this is in an ideal hypothetical world where public transportation is subsidized and far-reaching so we can pretend that in this world something like that can make a significant difference. let me be.

[llycaons]

I know I praise the series for how it handles trauma a lot since I like the way the characters react to it and it is realistic in many ways but uhm do the author (and screenwriters) know that even if you repress memories to cope often they still like. come back eventually

[m1autorepair]

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[spectrum-color]

As much as I like to rag on Sedric for everything, I can’t about his uselessness at the kind of manual labor required to live in the wilderness because I would also be total garbage at that

[edwinspaynes]

.

[amplexadversary]

Still would rather buy three machines that are really damn good at three separate things than one machine that sucks at all of them for four times the price of any one of the others. Geez is that the goal these device designers have? Shackle their consumer base to one line (theirs) as if we don’t already have to deal with that with our physical fucking meat bodies? I really really hope that isn’t the fucking endgame here.

[patroklides]

tag drop 2

— ii. muse. ✧ your peace has always depended on all the ashes in your wake. ﹂EDELGARD.﹁ — ii. muse. ✧ another knife in your hands & a stain that never comes off. ﹂HUBERT.﹁ — ii. muse. ✧ you need someone to remember your name when all that you can do for them is done. ﹂DOROTHEA.﹁ — ii. muse ✧ the flowers she gave you are rotting but you refuse to throw them away. ﹂MONICA.﹁ — ii. muse. ✧ to labor in love; to toil in tenderness. ﹂MERCEDES.﹁ — ii. muse. ✧ the world’s a beast of a burden & you’ve been holding on a long time.. ﹂BYLETH.﹁ — ii. muse. ✧ the map of your heart; the landscape after cruelty. ﹂DEDUE.﹁ — ii. muse. ✧ fix your heart & build an altar where it swells. ﹂HARROW.﹁ — ii. muse. ✧ it’s the light & it’s the obstacle that casts it. ﹂ANDERS.﹁ — ii. muse. ✧ a mechanized heart never misses a beat. ﹂VIKTOR.﹁ — ii. muse. ✧ it’s always been about catching people when they fall. ﹂DICK.﹁

[charliemwrites]

Still thinking about Nikto, and that anon ask I answered just a bit ago.

Content: Dissociation/Depersonalization, Unhealthy (not harmful) Coping Mechanisms, Codependence, Trauma/PTSD symptoms, Sexual Themes

After the hallway incident you’re a bit shaken. A life of a heavy burden, but your shoulders are used to the weight; you’re a medic. But what Nikto offered you in the hallway — no, not offered, but gave, devoted. It makes it hard to breathe.

You’re not sure if what he’s seeking (or perhaps found?) is solace or penance. You don’t think you have much say in the matter really. If God asked His disciples to stop worshipping, would they?

The comparison feels too bold, even in the privacy of your own mind. Smacks of narcissism and ego. You don’t feel powerful. You feel scared. Of what it means to hold this broken, burdened man in the palm of your hand, trying to keep all the pieces together without cutting yourself on them.

Don’t be so careless with your life, you told him.

He’s taken those words as religious creed. He doesn’t storm around corners, guns blazing anymore. Doesn’t drop from heart-stopping heights to stamp-sized targets. Hes not the first one out nor the last one in anymore — though he never lets you get out first or hop in transport last either.

Suppose that shouldn’t be a surprise.

He cares for his wounds now, too. Cleans and changes them regularly, doesn’t over exert them before they’ve healed. You’re so dizzy on pride in him that you kiss the front of his mask one day, telling him “thank you”.

He grunts in something that sounds almost like shock and shakes his head at you. You figure he doesn’t feel he deserves praise for doing as you’ve told him. You do it anyway.

Things start to settle into this new normal.

Until you can’t find him anywhere. He’s become your new shadow, another limb, and suddenly he’s gone like so much smoke. You’re both fresh off a rough, but successful mission. You’ve just finished a stint in the infirmary and your debrief. Usually hed take that time to clean off and change in privacy, back before you could miss him.

Where is he?

You find him bleeding in his room, trying to care for his own wounds. Mask off, shirt gone, a new knife wound added to his macabre collection. You scramble to his side and collapse at his feet, snatching the needle from his shaky, slippery hand.

“Don’t you ever—” you choke on the words, unusual tears welling. You’re a medic; you’re not allowed to cry during treatment. But all you see if Nikto and blood and—

“I am okay,” he says in that low, crackly voice. Gravel in a blender. “It is not bad.”

You swallow and don’t answer, can’t because you’ll start weeping into his wound. Just stitch him up, hands steady even as you sniffle and the rest of you trembles.

When it’s done, you start wiping away the excess, prepping a bandage. He’s so silent you can even hear him breathing, but you feel his eyes like a physical touch. Finally make yourself look up at him meet his piercing eyes.

“You come back to me from now on,” you say. Quiet, firm, fervent. “I don’t care what it is, you return to my side always.”

The silence stretches and stretches, and he just stares with that unfathomable gaze.

“Understand?” you insist.

“Yes.”

Those two commandments become that basis of his new existence. Nikto once thought he survived it all because he still had work to do. He was wrong; it was because he still hadn’t found his purpose at all.

He’s found you now though, and you are a demanding god. But not a cruel one

Your first commandment is atonement. This vessel requires so much work. Food and water and rest. Maintenance for every abrasion, upkeep to stay strong enough to stand at your side, to protect you. It is endless, bitter work. He doesn’t care for the labor itself, but it must be done.

It is made bearable with you.

Your second commandment is salvation. Your quiet chatter during meals, the lingering taste of your mouth on his water canteen. Your kind hands mending tears and holes, keeping whatever he is now whole and hale. Your company in the gym, on sparring mats, at his side at the gun range. The smell of your sweat past the mask, your laughter goading him into another round.

You let him sleep in your bed. Let him wake you with nightmares or memories. Keep him warm because this thing he inhabits doesn’t always remember it’s not dying anymore. You are so very alive, the realest thing in any room. Your touch is the only thing he can feel sometimes.

It takes him a long time to realize that his body (because it is a body you tell him, a living one that needs care) reacts to you.

That some mornings the press of you against him is especially sweet. That there’s more than relief and pride when you pin him down. That, at most points of the day, his body wants your touch for more than just grounding.

He’s hard most times that he’s with you, simply for the fact that you are there. And he is with you almost always.

(That it is not actually always grinds at him, niggles in the back of his mind. A sticking point. He wants it to be always, you with him at all times. Like when he used to wear a cross pendant.)

You notice, of course you do, sensitive to your most loyal devotee. He can’t tell if you’re offended, but you haven’t sent him away. Sometimes you flush and he thinks he’s certainly upset you, but for all he’s survived it would kill him to break your second commandment. And so he stays, even if he waits to be told to leave.

“Nikto?”

You never need to call his name, he is always listening. He likes the sound of it anyway. These syllables and sounds that have a meaning, that you use for him.

“Do you… want to do something about that?” you nod to his crotch. There’s a blatant bulge pressing at his tac pants. At some other time, he would probably would have found it uncomfortable.

“Do what?” he asks.

You shrug. “Get off? I could leave—“

“No.”

You blink but don’t seem surprised. “Do you want to just ignore it then?”

He shrugs a bit. There’s a flicker of amusement in your eyes. You like when he makes gestures. He tries to remember common ones, and when to do them, and tries them out for you. Though you never seem to mind his stillness either.

“It does not bother me.”

You hum, look like you’re going to go back to your tv show.

“Does it bother you?”

Your eyes dart up, mouth parting in surprise. You didn’t expect him to continue the topic. Neither did he.

“It doesn’t bother me,” you reply, tilting your head. “But if you want to do something about it, we can.”

We.

“We?”

“If… if you want me to do something… I would.”

He couldn’t ask that of you. Not ever. He’s not allowed to want anything of you when you’ve given him everything.

“No,” he says quietly finally. “Just ignore it.”

“Okay.” You smile at him, touch his hand. It is bare, mangled tattoos on display. He wishes he could feel it more. “Come snuggle in?”

Snuggle in.

Such a quaint turn of a phrase for a creature in your room, wearing a man’s face. He climbs in, shoes gone, mask gone. You wedge yourself against his side and he stares absently at the screen as you continue your show.