#poor fine motor skills you know how it is

[theradicalace]

slowly working my way through making these little character refs for the whole htf cast... just basic info and lil bits of trivia :3

these were Heavily inspired by @hostilemuppet's art because their interpretations of the characters are so perfect and their art is super swag!!

[eleilinnrallin]

Looking for information on how pre-existing motor tics (specifically head-jerk) would interact with a severe head injury within an hour of the injury being sustained. Does anyone have any experience with this?

All I'm finding is information on the interactions between stimulants and tic disorders or a general 'yeah tics can get worse within a few weeks/months after severe head injuries' and that's not what I need for what I'm working on.

I specifically want to know what that looks like tic-wise in the moment to a medical professional or onlooker who can recognize tics (could it trigger tics? exacerbate them? not effect them? How would a head-movement tic be influenced by a head injury?)

I'm acting in a drill where we are given fake injuries. I am currently signed up for a serious head injury. However, last time I participated, it triggered my tics, and I didn't prepare my acting to include how that would have affected my injury. This time I want to be more prepared, especially if I need to change what injury I have due to physical acting limitations.

(Even if you can't help, reblogs/boosts are appreciated! I have until March 25th to get an answer, and my research over the past two days has come up with nothing helpful.)

[saetoru]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。RIGOR — AL-HAITHAM.

contents. mild injuries (al-haitham), established relationship, fluff, really bad banter, al-haitham is left handed because i say so

notes. literally just 2k embarrassing words of you taking care of al-haitham after he’s injured from a trip to the desert. yeah.

“that stings,” al-haitham hisses, glaring at you—which earns him an equally as harsh glare back. “why don’t you just pour the entire bottle of antiseptic down my arm at this rate?

“don’t yell at me,” you hiss back, scowling as you dab at the (already clean) wound some more, “i’m not the one who came back with this. why didn’t you get it checked?”

to your utter dismay, al-haitham comes home from a visit to the desert injured. gravely.

well, truth be told, it’s not really grave. that’s just how you see it because anything beyond a scratch is enough to throw you into a fit of panic. he’s not really used to coming home to someone fretting over him like this—standing between his legs as he sits on the edge of the bathtub, dabbing ever so gently at the small (and hardly deep, he’d like to point out) cut on his arm.

running into eremites is an inevitable part of most visits to desert ruins. usually, al-haitham manages to come back unscathed, but sometimes, things don’t always go accordingly. in his defense, he’d thought he’d be able to dodge the blade of the eremite he happened to be fighting. al-haitham has the precision and athletic ability to not only manage, but excel at dodging things that are thrown at him. but still, even he has his moments of miscalculation, and just by a hair, he feels the sting of a blade’s edge tearing through the surface of his skin.

it’s unfortunate, but it’s not a big deal—at least, that’s what he thought. apparently, but not unusually, you have a tendency to disagree with him on most things.

“i was going to check it myself,” he says simply, “it would’ve been fine.”

“oh, i didn’t realize you graduated in linguistics and biology,” you raise a brow.

al-haitham is a well rounded man—he reads books from just about any subject so long as it’s informative and offers him new knowledge that can assist him in being well versed in any topic. more importantly, al-haitham rarely loses arguments, and in order to be able to always win said arguments, his understanding of most subjects is required to be thorough.

he knows how to treat a small wound or two, especially with as often as he lands himself in small fights as he explores ruins.

he looks up at you with an unimpressed stare as he mumbles, “i’ve taken at least a few classes from every darshan.”

“i hate you,” you huff. he exhales tiredly.

“it’s only a cut,” he argues, “there’s no need to be so worried—”

“i’m always worried,” you sigh, staring dejectedly at the injury littering his arm. no one should ever leave a mark over his skin—unless it’s you, and that’s only in a very different context. “does it hurt?” you ask quietly.

a small part of him feels guilty that he’s worried you over his well being, that he’s come home harmed even the slightest bit and disrupted your peace. but the larger and more rational part of him reasons that injuries of this nature are common and inevitable in trips to the desert like this, and he’s skilled enough to ensure that nothing serious ever happens.

still, for your sake, he mumbles, “no.”

it’s a bit of a white lie—it does sting a bit, and the antiseptic you pressed just a few moments ago didn’t exactly help, but admitting to you that he’s in any sort of pain is only opening up more avenues to making this into a larger deal than it really is.

al-haitham is fine, and he’s doesn’t need anything for the slightly inconvenient but not serious laceration on his skin. he’s sure of that.

but then, you cup his cheeks and press a small kiss to his forehead as you murmur, “my poor baby,” with a small pout, “i’ll feed you dinner, okay? they got your left arm.”

he wants to tell you that his motor skills are good enough that he can function with his non dominant hand—being left handed in a world catered for right handed individuals forces you to acquire functionality in both hands. but before he can open his mouth, you kiss down his cheeks, tracing your lips along him until they map out his jaw.

it distracts him for a moment, making hie eyes close and his breath hitch as he lets your warmth settle into the deepest crevices of his skin.

“don’t worry, haitham, i’ll take care of you until this heals,” you murmur sweetly.

and just like that, al-haitham is a bit conflicted now. in his two plus decades of life, he has always been an independent and capable individual—more than most his age. he doesn’t need the assistance of anyone, nor has he ever really needed the assistance of anyone. but you’re making it very hard to resist with the way you’re doting on him with affection.

“i’m fine,” he tries to argue, “really—”

“i should run you a bath,” you mumble, cutting him off. he gets the strong feeling you’re taking more to yourself than him. “and i’ll wash your hair for you too.”

even with the self control someone like him has, even he can’t help but sigh in content when your fingers slip into his hair, stroking through the strands and scratching gently at his scalp. it’s a bit nice—he has to admit that being taken care of, even as minimally as fingers in his hair, is nice.

“you don’t have to do all that,” he mutters.

“i don’t want you moving that arm,” you huff, “would it kill you to stop acting high and mighty for once? most people would take advantage of being spoiled.”

“i don’t enjoy taking advantage of others like most people,” he shrugs.

“you know what i mean,” you glower, rolling your eyes.

it’s a common understanding to most that al-haitham is a bit difficult—you don’t think you ever remember a time where he hasn’t been. he’s stubborn and always believes his views to be correct, and he’s not ashamed of arguing his point no matter who it is. you’re surprised that mouth of his hasn’t landed him in trouble yet—although, you suppose he’s not exactly in the good graces of most at the akademiya.

and as the akademiya’s acting grand sage, you admire his unwillingness to back down. but, as your boyfriend and the man you love, you wish he’d just compromise sometimes—and maybe let you wash his hair and hand feed him dinner for a bit as you nurse his injury back to health.

just this once….and maybe just a few more times later on too. you don’t ask for much, you like to think.

“i’ve gotten injuries like this before,” he reasons, “i’ve survived.”

you look at him with that delicate look of yours, the one that makes him feel like maybe he’s been living his life wrong this whole time. that it only became correct once his life involved you.

he thinks that’s might just be the case when you grin slightly, pinching his nose as you lean down, pecking his forehead and mumbling, “you don’t always have to just survive. you can indulge a bit, you know.”

“is that so?” he raises a brow, his good arm snaking around your hips.

“yes,” you hum, “if you give it a try, you might just enjoy indulging here and there,” you grin, stroking a thumb over his cheek as you admire his features, relearning every curve and every angle of his face. you don’t think you’d ever get bored like this—just standing in your bathroom, staring at him. you think you could comfortably stay right here like this forever.

maybe longer.

“i see,” he says slowly. al-haitham has always had a strong sense of control. but that was before you—he’s now forced to admit that his resolve is a bit weaker, just a bit shakier after you’ve come along. “does this begin with washing my hair?”

“and feeding you dinner,” you nod, tracing your thumb over his brow, letting it wander along the hook of his nose. “do you want me to kiss your arm better too?”

“is that really going to help?” he asks in amusement, making you giggle.

“oh yes,” you tease, “it was in a class i took from amurta. you probably didn’t take it—it’s far too rigorous for you.”

“oh,” he nods playfully, “of course. you’ll have to excuse my lack of understanding. not everyone can be as advanced as you.”

“here,” you grin—and it’s wide, and it’s warm, and it’s far too bright to ever be dimmed by the light of your bathroom as you stare at him, “i can demonstrate if you want. hands-on learning is always the best.”

“i must ask—have you ever learned hands-on like this with anyone else?” he raises a brow.

“and if i have? would that make you jealous?”

“perhaps a little,” he admits, fighting desperately to keep his own smile hidden. it’s hard not to smile when you’re around—how could he not when you swallow the sun with your lips every time they curve upwards in that honeyed way that they do?

“don’t worry,” you giggle again—and god, he thinks, he really loves that sound. he watches you lean down and kiss softly along the edges of his wound, tracing the cut slowly as you say, “you’re my only academic partner now.”

“i’m most grateful.”

“well?” you peck his shoulder, “a kiss helps, doesn’t it?”

“it does,” he chuckles quietly, “maybe you can show me a bit more.”

he’s given into you completely by now—you can tell by the way his body is relaxed on the edge of the bathtub. you can tell by that easy grin plastered on his usually blank face. you can tell by the way he leans into your touch every chance he gets. you can tell by the way he asks you to kiss his wound some more—the same wound he didn’t think you needed to care about.

but you always care, and he’s starting to understand you always will. so he stares at you hopefully, expecting just a few more presses of your lips.

so you do, kissing along his arm, peppering scattered pecks along his shoulder, pressing your lips gently along the column of his neck as he sighs softly and closes his eyes.

maybe being taken care of isn’t so bad—maybe he’s been missing out all this time….but then again, he thinks it’s just that he’s always been missing you. like he was born to find you. like he was made to be yours and you were made to be his and you both were made for each other if nothing else.

if nothing else, al-haitham is glad to be yours.

“does it still hurt?” you ask after some time.

“just a little,” he lets himself admit, “it’s nothing i’ve never dealt with before.”

“you really worried me you know,” you breathe quietly, making him squeeze your hips in reassurance, “don’t hide next time you’re hurt.”

“and will you kiss me back to health if i tell you?” he hums, leaning his head back to let you kiss his jaw easier.

you smile against his skin, letting your touch linger for a moment before you mumble, “of course, it’s only the best treatment. only those who take rigorous classes would know that.”

“good thing i have you to teach me.”

“yes, you’re really quite lucky,” you say with a cheeky smile.

there’s a warm bath waiting for him after this. and a hand fed meal. and perhaps a few more gentle kisses. but most certainly a lifetime of you—that much he knows.

i feel like i’m borderline violating myself by posting this bc it’s so self indulgent but here u go

[totally-sick-blogger]

Sustainability is rarely accessible

This post is dedicated to Audrey, hi king!

Like many people, I think sustainability and taking care of the environment is really important; however, something that I feel isn't talked about enough when discussing ways to be more sustainable is how it's often inaccessible to disabled people and low-income people.

A lot of "alternative products" aren't viable options for disabled people because of factors such as cost, how easy they are to acquire, or physical accessibility issues.

some examples include:

paper straws and wooden cutlery - I know that for me both of these products give me major sensory issues and as for wooden cutlery I'd also like to note that they're much more difficult to eat with which could cause problems for someone with poor dexterity or fine motor skills.

pre-packaged foods - a lot of disabled people rely on pre-packaged meals and snacks for all kinds of reasons such as sensory issues, having specific safe foods, fatigue, and physically being unable to prepare foods. etc. One example I see often is being told off for buying precut produce because why not "just cut it up themselves" when in reality, some people physically cannot cut it up themselves or don't have enough spoons to make that a priority; not to mention that frozen and pre-cut produce is often cheaper than fresh produce.

medical supplies - A lot the medical supplies that disabled people rely on every day are made up of single use plastics and most of the items aren't meant to be used more than once (though some products can be used for multiple days if cared for properly) that being said, disabled people tend to produce more plastic waste but it's not our faults so we shouldn't be getting flack for it!

Another element of environmental advocacy that a lot of people talk about is veganism; which is of course great thing to practice if that's what works for you but a lot of people (disabled or not) cannot be vegan for dietary reasons. This could be because of allergies, intolerances, restrictions, location, finances, etc. For example, I've got a soy allergy and I've got a friend with a severe nut allergy. This means that neither of us could be fully vegan because the majority of vegan products are made with soy and nuts. I also rely partially on tube feeds for nutrition and as far as I know, there aren't any vegan, soy-free formulas yet (and if there are they're probably absurdly expensive)

This brings me to my final point about cost. A lot of alternative options for vegan and sustainable products are significantly more expensive; making it much harder for people who are already struggling financially to afford those products. Not to mention people who live in food deserts (areas of a city that don't contain grocery stores) or rural areas. There are very low chances that either of those places is going to have specialty food stores or even have alternative options in the few stores that they do have!

In conclusion: stop blaming poor and disabled people for the awful state of our environment and start blaming billionaires and massive corporations!

[sea-lanterns]

excuse me but how many girls are there in the harem!!?? 😨 I'm very afraid for the poor empress!!!

straps are nice and all that but let's be honest it would get boring and repetitive after like 10 girls pounding in the empress. so i wonder how good her girls learned to use their fingers, mouth and hips. 🤭

imagine ei teaching her fellow archon furiri how to use her fingers. furina is a pathetic top but you know what? ei's fine motor skills are so good its a little scary even!! teaching furina all the little and subtle finger movements that send you to heavens, and which wrist positions are more comfortable in different poses--

or maybe there's something that the empress only lets yelan know!! how surprised would the poor empress be when someone like ayaka suddenly goes straight to your weak point that nobody except for one person ever knew before!!! there's probably not a single inch of your body that the courtesans haven't covered with their love before, but what if there is a certain way and/or combo that makes you go insane!!?? kissing the empress behind her ear while simultaneously stimulating her clit in a very specific way!!!

so what are your thoughts👁

-😇

You’re so right 😇 anon! Straps do get repetitive after some time, but we could switch it up with fingers, mouths, and other toys if you wish!

nsfw under the cut—————————

Poor Furina is so pathetic she needs the guidance of Ei to help her top you. Ei is so much more skilled than her (especially with her fingers) and teaches Furina the proper positions, hand movements, and speed to go at when burying her fingers into your cunt.

Perhaps Ei sits there, watching carefully as Furina dips her smaller, nimble fingers into your pussy and gasps in fascination for how tight and warm you were. Poor girl has like…never fingered or pleased a woman before, so the feeling of your walls wrapped around her fingers has the girl trembling and blushing. She’s at a loss for words since she had no idea pussy felt that good.

And of course, Ei is amused by all this and encourages Furina to keep going. Wanting the smaller woman to stretch and push your limits as best as she could do. Furina is absolutely enamored, eyes locked on the way your hole sucks her in, as she slowly becomes pussy-addicted to the way that you feel.

Besides those two, Yelan teaching the subbier courtesans all your body’s secrets and sensitive parts would be the bane of your existence. Yelan is probably the only courtesan in the harem who knows your body better than you do, and if she spills all your secrets to someone like Ayaka? Oh god, that’d be so unexpected.

Ayaka would be fondling your breasts from behind or something and suddenly she leans in to bite an odd, yet extremely sensitive part on your body that has you writhing and shaking. Yelan smirking to herself as she watches Ayaka completely take advantage of all your hidden secrets and spots. You’d be so confused as to why Ayaka of all people would know of such an embarrassingly sensitive area, yet one look at Yelan and all your questions are answered…

[fangirlofallthefanthings]

heard you have headcanons on ody and dio meeting again after he returns. how does that go? how does penelope feel?

Ooooo!!! Boy, do I have ideas [insert shakey turtle of excitement here]

So, it's a little bit complicated, and I don't want to give too much away since it relates to what I'm currently working on, BUT!

I GOT YOU, FAM!

Basically: after Diomedes gets kicked out of Argos (it's very sad, the poor man), he realizes he has nowhere else to go except literally anywhere but the Eastern Mediterranean. So, he sets off for Hesperia (aka modern Italy) to start a new life there. But in this time of heartbreak, he's missing Odysseus even more (they had a sad goodbye on Crete; it's a long story), and he decides to stop at Ithaca on the way to get some supplies and maybe visit Ody. But when he gets there, he finds that Ody is MIA and Penelope is running things. So he hangs out for a while and gets to know Pen and Telemachus (who is about 11 or 12 by this point), and quickly figures out why Ody would talk about her literally any chance he got. She's beautiful, yes, but she's also just as cunning and wise as Odysseus is... The same qualities Dio fell in love with. And Pen is curious about Dio, too. She's heard many stories and news about her husband's schemes with Dio, and she starts falling for him a bit, too. But Diomedes doesn't want to dishonor the Bro Code by getting with Penelope. Ody loves Penelope! Dio could never hurt Ody like that. So... He leaves. He says goodbye to Pen and Telemachus and heads off to Hesperia. He and Penelope wonder what could have been since they believe they will never see each other again.

BUT THEN ODY RETURNS TO ITHACA!!! YIPPEE!!! Diomedes hears this news, but he has his new city to run, so he doesn't return immediately. After a few years, though, he gets usurped and kicked out again, so he's like, "Welp. I have nowhere else to go," and he goes back to Ithaca. He and Ody reunite and there's hugs all around and it's really sweet. Dio soon finds that OdyPen had another kid, a daughter (I haven't figured out a name for her yet, but she's two when Dio shows up). This part of the story is very loose, but I do know they all put two and two together eventually (Odysseus is very happy about this as you can imagine lmao!) It's little slice of life stuff from there. A little hc I have about the three of them is that Dio teaches OdyPen's daughter how to box because she's a little firecracker and needs to get rid of excess energy somehow, but she can't stay still long enough to weave (plus she's really little and doesn't have the fine motor skills for that yet). Dio and Ody also work together to hone Telemachus's and Diodotus's skills (who Diodotus is... you'll know soon enough lmao). I also hc that Pen frequently tricks OdyDio into wrestling each other so she can watch for her own entertainment. She's just sitting to the side, eating her bowl of table grapes, enjoying the show okasdfhsdugif- I also hc that... Once OdyPen passes on, Diomedes leaves again. The kids don't want him to go, but he can't stay. He wants to honor Ody's wish for Tele to be king. If he stays, people will think he wants to take over. He doesn't want a war among Ody's people so... he leaves. He establishes one last city in Hesperia and feels his life coming to a close. He climbs a nearby cliff by the sea to enjoy the view, looking east. Then Athena shows up, and he accepts immortality. Sorry... Got sort of sad toward the end there, but that's a few things! I have a lot of thoughts, but I'm very scattered rn. If you have more specific questions, feel free to ask! I don't bite, I promise! :D

[cripplecharacters]

i want to give one of my ocs intellectual disability because nobody ever represents it in media. in terms of trying to pick a character, 1. are poor motor skills a requirement for id, 2. would it be weird to have a character with id who uses she/it pronouns, 3. one of the characters i am considering has large eyes that 'clip outside' of her face as a stylization thing, would this resemble any stereotypical depictions of people with id or is it fantastical enough to not resemble anything bad?

Hello,

No, intellectual disability by itself does not cause motor disabilities, but if she has any co-occuring conditions, like Down Syndrome, those can.

Also no. People with intellectual disability use all kinds of pronouns. As long as it isn't being used by you, the writer, to dehumanize her, it's fine.

The only stereotypes I know of surrounding the eyes of people with intellectual disability are either "wide-eyed innocence" or "empty" eyes, usually "the lights are on but nobody's home," implying that intellectually disabled people aren't really people, they're more just brainless shells. The stylistic thing you're doing doesn't sound like either of those. Just make sure to keep in mind that any other conditions the character has could have stereotypes of their own to avoid.

Keep in mind that writing intellectual disability into a character that already has a fully-formed personality is going to be difficult. Usually, it's recommended that you keep a character's intellectual disability in mind as you create them due to how much it can impact experiences, emotions, backstory, personality, etc. It's possible to add intellectual disability in later, just be prepared to have to rewrite a few things and make sure you aren't giving them intellectual disability in theory, where they don't have any signs or symptoms of intellectual disability but you say they do.

Feel free to check out this post on writing characters with intellectual disability.

Mod Aaron

[ghostiguro]

shamwow ref sheet, finally!!!!! :D

figuring out how to draw them was tough, still ironing out their design a bit, but overall i'm happy with how it looks. :3

you know what time it is-- ramble that no one asked for, aw yeahhh.

firstly, when designing them i for sure knew i wanted their design to be fuzzy & inspired by a tarantula; i know they're supposed to be a jumping spider but.. don't care, fuzzy spider supremacy. also tarantulas have weirdly adorable paws?? i love it.

their eye colour is supposed to be somewhere between red & violet; they look a bit more pink than i intended, so i'll probably adjust that as time goes by.

final thing i wanna add about their design specifically; because they are the eldest sibling, & it's insinuated that they absolutely merced all the other gods, i wanted their design to stand out more & be a little more fancy to show their status. i want to eventually add more details cuz i feel like i could make it look way cooler, but this is good for now. :3

it's made clear in the game that the bishops relied on the crowns to work around their disabilities, so when shamura is indoctrinated into the cult, they struggle a LOT with their head injury. their symptoms including, but not limited to; memory loss, poor facial recognition, visual trouble, brain fog, migraines, loss of fine motor skills, lack of balance & coordination, vertigo, struggles with vocabulary (stutters, can't find words, or sometimes makes up their own words), they often repeat things that don't really have much meaning, hand tremors, hallucinations, etc. they start out really bad, & their injury would be far worse if it weren't for the fact that they're a god & the crown prevented the injury from being as bad as it could have been. their siblings are all very patient with them, & the lamb assigns them a buddy as they begin to recover & are able to move around the cult grounds more. they eventually get to a point where they're able to function, still with moderate memory loss & brain fog, as well as migraines & hand tremors, but it takes them a *long* time to get to that point.

in their free time, they used to enjoy sewing & reading, but due to their injury, they struggle a lot with it which frustrates them to no end. they later get glasses to help with their vision so they can read, & learn how to knit & crochet, as sewing is a bit hard when your hands are constantly shaking & you're holding a tiny needle & thread.

later on in their recovery, they start helping out around the cult, doing a little bit of everything; they help the lamb with everyday duties when they can, usually small errands like delivering & retrieving items (they write them a little note in case they get lost along the way; shamura holds onto many of these notes, & have a basket in their room filled with notes they've collected over time); they help leshy in the farm/garden, heket in the kitchen when she's chefing it up, & kallamar in the healing bay, & occasionally keeps him company while he paints or crafts things. eventually, shamura & narinder are able to repair their relationship-- i haven't figured out what exactly narinder's tasks & hobbies are yet but they would keep him company & help when they can, too.

ok this is getting long so i'm gonna leave it here for now. :3

now i just have to finish the lamb & goat, & then all the rest of the characters & cult members... hoo boy.

[joannasteez]

"im with you" - installment two

featured characters: mother's milk & female reader. warnings: alcohol usage (misuse) and angst. MM being his supportive, caring self. mutual pining? (kinda) authors note: this second installment has been sitting in my drafts since the release of season three, so over a year maybe? i don't see myself progressing the story (sorry?) but i was tired of seeing this in the drafts. so i give it to you all who wish to read it!

You hate 'The Reserve', not just for its sordid means of molding into fruition false delusions of grandeur, but because it is also a reflection. A mirror, smudged and stained, bitter callousness webbing sharply from the heart of it, mangling its way to the furthest reaches, but a mirror all the same. And when the sun wanes low into the horizon, that bombastic need for liquid comfort livening up the bar, in the solace of yourself you say 'I am not like these people; degenerate drunks and reckless hedonist, bleeding the poison of a heartless raging machine who thinks them too low to even consider their existence. I am not like the super-abled, I am better'. The hatred is beautiful enough in those times, consistent enough that it waters the dust and forms thought into palpable word. Then where is this mantra now? As the weeks grow colder, air nipping sporadic bites into the skin, lethargy soothing something still and lukewarm into your veins.

Grief is loud, 'where is your mantra now?', and your need for comfort is as bombastic as theres.

On this unsteady line of desire, here must be where the attraction falls short for him. Clips its wings, falling from on high.

'He sees you', the brandy says, auburn and taunting. 'He pity's you'.

All those years ago when the ache was new, splitting raw and lethal at your chest, you're almost sure it was pity that drew him in, that made him linger. It had to be, or that's what the sluggish, drunken part of you thinks, the part that takes comfort in dark hard spirits and makes you believe all the untrue shit that stains the foreverness of wayward esteem and memory. But sipping from the bottle is good, it's easy, feeling like a drizzle of fresh rain on the skin. The burn goes dull after while, when the sky bleeds something angry and orange,  leaving just the smooth glide down the path of your throat, and when your eyes shut to escape the welling of tears, you hear that everlasting crunch of metal.

It's a hard piercing, that cringing screech and scratch of metal etching into itself, the friction tearing into flesh and bone, and just mere seconds remain before the face that shares your own fades into something distant and lifeless.

Twins, a true phenomenon, and yet as you stare into the bottle, it all feels false and unnatural, like retribution. Something beautiful and different, worth no more to the state than a cover up story and a check for $75,000.

She was worth more. She deserved more, true justice, and yet here you are wasting away, your stomach a pool of brandy.

Like clockwork your phone vibrates. 'Here comes the pity', you think.

--How you holdin' up?

His wonder is a grey text bubble, nothing more than routine and after several years still its consistent. Maybe that's why desire has etched into your skin so, a slow gradual drag into nerve, entangled to the pulse of your veins, because at least some semblance of him cares. Even if it is all just obligation, when others stopped their award wining performances of sympathy, he'd still roll around in the early cool of October asking 'Are you holding up?', and 'How are you doing?'

The tears and liquor screw your senses well, fingers slipping over some of the right keys and missing others. It takes a while to gather thought, and even then it's driven by lies and poor motor skills.

--Mi fi.

--Im fie.

--Fire*.

--Fuk Im fine*.

--Fuck*.

The disappointment is palpable, heavy on the tongue and an uncomfortable warmth to the skin. You know it, can picture the way those brows of his pull together, mouth screwed and on the verge of disgusted. Well fuck him, if he thinks you care, he isn't the one in pain, drowning in perpetual heartbreak. Saturated to the bone with it really and its ripping at you slow and dreadful, a vicious tear of tissue and vessel. And God-- but...but doesn't he know? No, no, no he has to, he's suffered similar... but it's not the same... but it is, you stress to yourself, it has to be... but it isn't, and the tears taste more salty as they come. An aged bitterness that makes you wince.

--... are you drunk?

You keep him suspended, seconds, minutes even.

--No

--A but,, Im ok.

--A bit but Im ok*.

He's quick to reply.

--Where are you?

He waits, with a staling patience just at the top floor of the flatiron building, where the city bustles and groans, exhausted and restless. In just a few measly minutes, still nerve goes erratic with impatience and then comes the hammering of his pulse.

You're drunk and alone, drowning in the memory of shitty circumstance. His chest aches in that familiarity-- Harlem and a blazing summer sun, the hard blow of barely cool air, a child's excitement and then the coming in of doom, Soldier Boy, and then the swooshing in and fatal crunch of metal-- the ache a vicious sting. Growing nails make slight indents in his skin, fingers coming into his palm, to ball and harden, to feel and never to forget.

He was lonely then, just a wild vengeance to keep him company.

Marvin moves before he can think, leaves, turns the key in his ignition and joins the hard rush of the city before resolution melts loose and hesitant.

Your Brooklyn apartment is old, as old as the house he loved destroyed by the hurling in of a benz, and as he breathes, alleviating the hard brick of tension in his shoulders, he understands why he's here. Why-- in the most inconveniencing of times-- he thinks about you. Why desire, a fervent stream in his blood, has become more ungovernable by the day. You are new but familiar. Soft and alluring but recognizable to the bone, a reflection of pain and survival that wholly scares him and excites him just the same.

When the door opens, it's the petulant embrace that catches him first, the bottle of brandy nestled in your palm, but the smell curls about the air bitter and heavy, unsullied by shame. Even in the most dismal affair, your eyes are blood-shot, daring him to go beyond whatever is shy and lingering, a plead to make the pain go away. To call out the itching twitch in his skin by name and validate its presence.

"What?", you start, feeling his eyes. The stony weight. "You're not gonna wish me happy birthday?"

"You're a mess".

You'd waited for this, hoped for it even, to have the burn and the break of desire collapse against you. For it to scorch flesh and that unrelenting part of the heart that says 'yes, i want him, need him', but it never comes. There is no fracture, even when he tears you open with concerned eyes, just the unreconcilable truth that if you are a mess, royally fucked up and drunk out of your mind, that you do not want to be. Not when or where he can see. Because there is no middle, no point at which allure and brokenness meet in a charming enough compromise... right? So this must be judgement then, 'you're a mess', the knocking in of the gavel.

The quiver to your lip is fragile. You are fragile. "If you're here to judge, you can fuck off".

The lone tear you give makes his heart squeeze. Maybe he shouldn't have led so strong, so exacting.  

He brushes in anyways, like a piece of him belongs here and steals the bottle from your fingers. Palms growing idle now, fearful, balling and releasing, grasping at air --like your whole being-- grasping at everything, anything and gaining nothing. Nothing but the soreness of muscle once bent about glass fighting for strength, for the will to straighten. All there is, is the leaning in of silence, as he cracks the windows for a fresh breeze, a hard press that leaves you scorching and loose with a raw bare boned awareness. The mantle of your belly churning and awakened with a sullen impatience to hear his words, the charge of his thoughts.

Wont he do it now?

"Just say it already", knotting pain in your throat leaving your urgency dry. Brittle. "Whatever straight laced bullshit speech you got about effective coping, and-and-and pain... and whatever the fuck".  The new air is chilling, makes the grate of your voice wane and shiver. "Just say it".

He's next to you, sinking into the couch, and it's the closest he's ever been. "What's the point of preachin' shit you don't practice".

"Drinking isn't effective coping but tearing through the city, through the damn country, offing supes left and right with Butcher is?"

You were both wrong, but so terribly right. The through-line of your lives, just narrowly escaping death, broken already but always seeming still to be on the precipice of breaking.

For some time there's nothing, no word or deed, and then, there's everything. A delirious unearthing, barbarous and desperate. 'Look at me, understand me, please', fragile, on the borders of begging. "I never meant to drink so much, it-it just happened I-", your tongue goes lax and dry from temporary thoughtlessness or the swimming and draining of liquor in your veins, you aren't sure. "I don't even like the taste but June she... she made it a thing. Our thing".

You look to him, and see through the blur of your vision, the forming together of intent and attention. No crease of pity, just tenderness and patience, without blame. Just understanding.

And then it's here, nostalgia, a wistful coming together again of memory. "My father liked to have his taste every now and then y'know... a little sip just to feel some shit I guess", you start. A finger pulling at and curling into another. "So he'd hide little bottles of brandy around the house. A stash here, stash there, but he'd always end up forgetting. He had shitty memory that way... still does", the knot in your throat grew, forming a choking sensation. "But June would find them  and re-stash them, so when our birthday came around we'd sip and get shitfaced together".

You can feel the build, a hard rushing in, the levee soon to break. "We both hated the taste, but we were doing stupid shit together and thats all that mattered".

She comes clearly in your minds eye, a replica yet different. Glassy eyes dazzled by the soft burning away of innocence. The liquor is strong on her tongue, makes her touch something tight to the skin, a holding on to that bites but comforts all the same, and the air is pungent. Rife with rebellion. In the shared bedroom of an old family owned Brooklyn Brownstone, the world opens, teems founded and un-conforming with the blazing of this single moment. Oh sister, my sister. She was your mirror, your opposite. Everything. "She was just here my whole life and now she's gone. What thing am I supposed to have that I can touch, that-that-that I can feel other than this, other than our thing".

Something in Marvin wonders, if he reaches out, forms you with his hands, will you take him in or stretch away? Will you break? Shatter into a fragmented loathing because he is not her. And there is the curt twitching in his finger, he feigns for the answer.

"You never told me that".

You laugh, mirthless and ironic. "I never told anybody because I feel like a fucking joke. I speech those kids to death almost every damn day, about being present and making room, growing in grief and look at me." Your head feels full and heavy, a sharp pounding meeting just at the forefront of your skull. "I didn't even have the fight to do anything about it. They took her away from me and I just let that shit fade. I let her go Marvin, me".

He pulls at your chin softly to face him, smearing away a lonely rolling tear. From here, just inches away, everything about him is tender and warm. But if you lean further into him, will he pull you in?, or will the comfort of his touch fall away?

It travels instead, holding firm at your shoulders. His eyes settling light and easy.

"You wanna go all Rambo with the shit, and find out what happened, I'm with you 100%, but what happened to June isn't on you, its not".

The brandy on your tongue wears old, the solace of it going stale.

'I'm with you'

His embrace is a furnace, a delicate purging. A new opening of the world.

"Thank you Marvin".

[quietlyimplode]

Dearest Anon; thank you for your kind gift of no ads. I can’t quiet articulate on what it means but know I’ll try and find a way to pass it forward.

Whilst you mentioned it wasn’t needed, I wanted some way to say thank you. So, what follows is some Clint/Nat hurt/comfort and them taking care of each other. I hope the rest of the week greets you kindly. And if it doesn’t know that I’m rooting for you. 💜💜

secret languages.

Word count: 1.8k

Warnings: blood/dissociation

.

“Tash,” Clint whispers, “come on, we’re almost there, one foot in front of the other.”

Blood drops from her fingers and she focuses on his words.

“Yeah. That’s it,” his words dutifully guiding her forward.

“Come on, two more steps.”

She takes the final step to his loft and looks balefully at him.

He knows words won’t come easily and even following instructions need to be broken down into manageable components.

His body feels so heavy.

Clint feels like if it wasn’t for her, he would be just crashing on the couch with the fallout from the mission.

The bruise on his left cheek darkening and gravel rash on his thigh smarting.

He leads the way, unlocking the door and guiding her inside.

She stops once through the threshold, unsure of her movements.

Grabbing a towel from the pile of washing he’d never put away, he lays it strategically to cover the sofa.

“Sit,” he commands softly.

She doesn’t even watch as he moves around; her vision tunnelled as she drops blood onto the wooden floorboards.

Taking her hand, he guides her to sit on the couch.

He doesn’t think it’s a concussion, likely not anything permanent.

Clint hopes not anyway.

Squatting next to her, he unzips her top.

There’s a moment where he thinks she might resist, instead she closes her eyes, and blocks him out.

“Sorry, I should have said,” he tells her, and helps her take her suit off her shoulders down to her waist.

She shivers.

Clint stands and puts the heater on, grabbing a blanket to place over her legs, another towel and the suture kit.

“Nat, I need you to tell me when it hurts okay?”

Even as he says it, he knows she won’t.

She looks at him, but he thinks it’s only because he’s spoken.

Only in a bra, she shivers again, and he apologises, placing the blanket over her lap.

The cut runs from her shoulder to her elbow, weeps; the bruising on her face is accompanied by swelling, just like his.

Clint wants a shower, and wonders if she wants one too. He feels sticky and can smell his sweat when he moves.

“I smell,” he comments on a whim, hoping for something, anything other than unfocused eyes.

He hates it; but he understands it.

“Okay,” he says under his breath, “we’ve got this, just some stitches and maybe some painkillers, then a shower and bed, okay?”

He says it like a checklist himself, like it’s that easy, but he knows that it’s not.

The small kit for stitching is ready next to the sofa, and he reaches for it.

Poor fine motor skills and a tremor in his hands makes it crash to the floor and Natasha flinches.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles, picking it up.

He focuses on her, trying to gauge what and how’s she’s feeling but apart from being nonverbal, her body language gives nothing away.

“Okay, Nat, I’m going to wipe the blood okay? The towel is scratchy.”

Clint wipes it down, the wound not too deep but almost instantly refilling with blood.

“Now, this will sting, it’s the alcohol wipe,” he says as he dabs a small bit then looks up.

No reaction.

Eyes watch the wall.

He tries to give as much information as he can, and likewise it almost helps to ground him.

The piercing of her skin with the hooked needle makes his face contort; and even though it’s met by no reaction, he still hates that it’s him that’s hurting her.

“Okay, it’s started,” he narrates.

“Hook… tie… snip,” he tells himself, doing the action and then looking up to check again.

She’s watching now.

It must hurt.

Or at the very least pierced her subconscious.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and then looks back down the the wound.

“Maybe four to go,” he tells her.

“Nat? Does it hurt?”

Clint glances at her back, his gravel rash from being dragged by a motor bike seems nothing to the staircase fall down a fire escape.

He’d watched in horror, but she’d just gotten up and ran, motioning for him to do the same.

Gas in the building, their escape had been quick.

Hers had been frantic.

He’s not even sure if it touched her, but the fear was real.

“Nat, does it hurt?” he asks again, three stitches to go.

On the last stitch, he ties it off, wipes it down again, then stands to get an ice pack.

As he stands, she vomits everywhere, just missing Clint.

“Fuck,” he swears.

He grabs her and pushes her to the bathroom, the smell overpowering, as he wonders just what was left in her from their meal the night before.

He sits her on the toilet, handing her a bin.

“Do you still feel sick?” he asks.

“Nauseous?”

She stares into the bottom of the bucket.

There’s an increase, only slightly, in her breathing.

Clint catches it, hoping it doesn’t escalate to a panic attack. He wonders if it means she’s going to vomit again.

Was it the gas? Or holding it together whilst he stitched her arm?

He turns the heater on.

“H..” the word doesn’t pass her lips, but the attempt does.

He nods at her her attempt.

“Yeah?”

Eyes searching, she finds his and breathes forcefully through her nose.

“Hurts,” she huffs, and looks down at the bucket, vomiting again.

“Okay.”

He leaves the room briefly, and finds the painkillers, the little packet holding big promises.

Taking it to her, he punches one out into her hand, and then gives a glass of water.

She shakes her head.

Clint knows.

He always knows.

“Watch me.”

He pushes out another tiny tablet into his own hand and downs it with the water.

He hands it back, and motions for her to do the same.

In a state like this, he gets it, and his effort is rewarded by her copying his actions.

He just hopes she doesn’t throw it up.

Two tasks down, it’s just the shower and bed.

They can do this.

He can do this.

Removing the puke bucket from her hands, he tells her to stand.

She does without thinking.

He wants to get ice on her face to decrease the bruises, he wants to be in pyjamas, he wants this day to have never have happened.

“Does anywhere else hurt?”

The question is redundant, as she doesn’t answer or even acknowledge it.

“Okay, shower,” he murmurs.

“Socks off, pants off.”

He almost doesn’t expect anything to happen, but she moves at his request.

Clint nods.

He turns the shower on, the hottest it can go, hoping it can help heat the room.

Undressing alongside her, he winces at his his own wounds, the drop of gravel onto the floor makes him think he should probably clean it, just like he did for Natasha.

He ignores it.

The shower will help.

Steam fills the bathroom.

He doesn’t think.

She grabs him, breath caught in his throat.

“No,” she squeaks, “not…”

Gas

Her words get lost again, as scared childlike eyes stare at him to help.

Clint can’t move quickly, his muscles sore and tired. He gets to the fan, and switches it on, sucking up the steam and making the room loud.

“It’s okay,” he assures, “it’s nothing, it’s the shower.”

She sits back down, breathing heavily.

“It’s okay,” he says again, “it’s the shower.”

He gives her the glass of water, thinking maybe it will help to ground her, but this time, she can’t take it, hands gripping her thighs.

“Come on,” he sighs, “quick shower.”

She shakes her head.

“I can’t.”

Torn between pushing her and honouring her request, Clint sighs and gets in the shower, watching her through the glass.

He sees her, holding herself together, and he hurries himself as much as he can.

Feeling like he can’t move quickly enough, he hurts himself in his roughness.

He swears.

It’s enough for Natasha to stand and come to the glass to check on him.

Attempting a smile, he tries to reassure her.

He opens the door, to say something and she follows him in.

She looks at him.

Really looks this time, and raises her hand to his bruised face.

Water hits her arm and pink water streams down the skink.

“Such dangerous lives we lead,” he says softly.

She avoids water on her head and he lowers the shower head so he can control it.

He washes her gently, then she takes it off him and does the same.

Clint is thankful she’s coming back.

He sighs heavily, feeling the pain pulse in his leg, as she gently cleans it.

“Think it’s time for bed,” he murmurs.

She nods, switching off the shower.

He moves to open the door.

Pulling him into a hug, Natasha hopes she conveys everything in it.

For taking care of her.

For getting her home.

She leaves first, passing him a towel, and then one for herself.

It’s slow, the descent to bed.

Natasha cleans her vomit.

Clint wraps his leg.

He passes her some juice and she takes it gratefully.

Finally, bed.

He crawls in after her and feels himself sink into the mattress.

“Mm’sorry,” Natasha says into the darkness.

He moves his body closer to hers, and touches his feet to hers.

“What happened, Nat?” he wonders out loud.

“What made you… go?”

There’s nothing for a while.

She sucks in a breath.

“It hasn’t been like that in a while… I thought… I was worried,” he finishes.

She’s silent, trying to find the words.

“There’s a room, in the Red Room, I think it’s what it’s named for. They use it and release red gas; it makes you hallucinate your greatest fears. Today...” she pauses.

“It smelt the same.”

His body stiffens.

The gas, whilst not red, had been visible, the smell permeating the world as they escaped.

He understands.

“I get lost,” she whispers. “But I know what’s happening, it’s like words are too hard and even telling myself what I need to do takes all the brain power and focus, but the alternative is worse, if I let go, if I just give in and don’t do anything, I lose time.”

Clint reaches for her hand.

“Trauma changes shape, but doesn’t really leave, huh?”

Natasha scoffs, a low release of air.

“Isn’t that just the story of my life.”

She rolls to the side.

“Thanks for stitching my arm, and getting me home,” she whispers,

“I got you,” he whispers back.

He shuffles closer to her.

“Wake me, okay? When the dreams… arrive?”

Neither of them are stupid enough to believe that that dreams won’t come.

Natasha rests her head on his chest.

“Yeah,” she yawns.

“I’ll try.”

.

[dira333]

Passing Peonies - Post War Touya Todoroki - Part IV

When the war ended, Midoriya Izuku had proven one thing: That Villains did not need to be killed to be defeated. That you could make friends from enemies.

Touya Todoroki, formerly known as Dabi, had been one of those taken into the rehabilitation program. After one year of intense physical and psychological therapy, he's got the chance to prove himself. To prove that he can be a part of this world.

Complete fic length: 30.600 words - Masterlist

Warnings: poor mental health and resentment against past actions is mentioned, burn scars etc. as well. There is angst but this is mostly soft Touya coming back to his family...

Part 4: (2,1k words)

You’re a good teacher.

He’d known before but it becomes clearer now. 

He’s still got problems with fine motor skills, his fingers often too stiff to tie ribbons or cut the smallest branches without damaging the rest of a Bonsai but he’s learning so much, not just about taking care of plants but other things as well.

The old ladies that used to coo at your friendly gifts now flock around him, tell him about their grandkids and ask for his opinion on what to buy them.

He figures out quickly which students like his snarky comments and who’s appreciative of being guided toward a cheaper alternative.

The week after he gets his ZZ plant, he can choose between a bouquet or an indoor plant.

“You don’t even know if I’ve taken good care of him.”

“Well, have you?” You ask, pushing the sleeves of your cardigan up your arms as you prepare to dig into the roots of fiddle-leaf fig, the sight of your bare underarms distracting him for a second.

“Of course. But that’s not the point.”

“Bring him in tomorrow then if you want me to review your work.” You cheekily smile up at him. “Even if you’re just fishing for compliments.”

He picks a golden pothos for his therapist, knowing that he desperately needs a plant to light up that office while also knowing he can’t take that free bouquet and gift it to you, even if he’s starting to want to.

🌺.

Three months later you’ve fallen into a rhythm. 

Every second Friday after closing you let him into your apartment where, after a grilled cheese sandwich and a shared bowl of soup, he waters your plants and renames them.

Bob’s doing so well, he’s already a parent, one of his kids now sitting on Fuyumi’s shelf. 

Hawks has put in a request for more Bouquets for his agency, as well as his father and Shouto, who in turn has seemingly told all his classmates about this great flower shop downtown.

Touya would love how much more money you’re making now if all those customers wouldn’t cut into the time he gets to spend with you.

At least the purple-haired gremlin Shouto calls a classmate hasn’t shown up since he scared him off. He doesn’t like guys buying flowers as an excuse to check you out, especially when they’re too cheap to buy a proper bouquet.

🌺.

“No grilled cheese today.” You tell him one Friday evening as you close the door and turn the key. “I’m buying you dinner.”

His heart skips traitourously.

“You sure your plants can survive without my care?” He jokes and you grin.

“Positive. Now grab your jacket and let's head out.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“Oh, multiple things. We’ve got so much business now we’ll have to start dividing our orders into two different pick-up dates. What do you think of Tuesday and Thursday? We could use Monday and Wednesday to make the bouquets.”

“And the other reasons?”

You laugh, clearly figuring out that there’s no use in redirecting his thoughts. 

“I don’t believe in anniversaries but I’ve heard people say that it’s always hardest after the third month, so I thought you could use a little celebration.”

He looks at you, calculates the slope of your nose against the curve of your lips, and cocks his head to the side.

“And the last thing?”

You sober up quickly, looking down the street into the dark night, the sign of a gas station glowing in the distance.

“Today’s the anniversary of my father’s death.” You look up at him, your eyes open and vulnerable. “I like to do something nice for someone else on that day. As a gift to the world, you know?”

He doesn’t know. But it fits you. Like green aprons and cardigans, white shirts, and grilled cheese.

-

“Do you want to talk about him?”  

You walk in silence for a while, the same comfortable silence he’s shared with you since he’s met you, until eventually you open your mouth.

“We have the same quirk. It has been in our family for generations. My great-great-grandmother was a hero, actually. She made sure to marry someone who complimented her quirk and so on and so forth, until my father decided to marry someone quirkless, to not be a hero, or even a fancy landscaper. He just wanted a normal, comfortable life.”

You point at the door or the restaurant and he follows you, feeling like your story isn’t over yet, but not ready to push you to talk when you never do that with him.

The restaurant isn’t fancy, but it’s not fast food either, telling him that you’re spending quite some money when he’s seen how you live and knows how much the shop used to bring in.

When the waiter leaves your table and he opens his menu, you lean across the table to whisper, bringing along a scent he’s grown so familiar too. The scent of earth and greenery, of flowers and foliage, of you and your shop and your home.

“Sorry, what?” He shakes his head to clear his mind, realizing he missed every word you’ve just said.

“I said if you’re not against sharing they have this amazing combination of gyoza dumpling and melted cheese. They line the Gyoza up and when the cheese is melted you can dip the gyoza in. You can choose what the fillings are and if you want other dips for it but it’s usually a serving for two.”

He blinks at the giddiness lighting up your face. He’d never been especially inclined towards cheese until his mind started linking it to you and now, linking it to you being happy.

“Of course.” He hears himself say and sees you lighting up even more. “But if we order it, we have to go full in. Filled with cheese to dip in cheese. We’re not cowards after all.”

You giggle and he looks back down at the menu to keep himself from staring, glad that his skin grafts cannot blush.

When the waiter returns, however, he’s pulling a face that spells uncomfortableness.

“I’m sorry.” He says, clutching his notepad with both hands. “But I’m… well, I was made aware that we cannot serve you.”

“What do you mean?” Your face is full of confusion while Touya catches on faster. 

“He means he can’t serve me.” He explains and the way the man cringes tells him everything he needs to know.

“It’s alright.” He says when he feels that it’s not, in fact, alright. “I’ll just see you tomorrow then.”

“No.” Your hand’s flat on the table and your voice serious. “Matsumoto-kun, you’ll be serving us.”

“I’m sorry, please, I-”

“Leave it.” Touya tells you, the hard line of your mouth something he hasn’t seen before.

“Is there a problem?” Behind Matsumoto, a new face appears.

“Yes.” You’re standing now, smaller than the two men, but standing your ground. “You’re taking part in the rehabilitation agreement, yet you’re not willing to serve a member of the same agreement. I don’t want to do this but I will have to make a formal complaint if you continue to refuse us service.”

“Madam.” The man behind Matsumoto, obviously the manager, is wringing his hands now. “This isn’t about the agreement. You have to understand what your companion did-”

“It doesn’t matter who he is or what he has done.” You tell them sharply. “He could be Tomura Shigaraki and it would still be your duty to serve him as a customer if he came in here as part of the Rehabiliation agreement.”

“This isn’t our decision,” Matsumoto whispers, eyes looking everywhere but at Touya himself who’s now standing himself, hand on your arm as if that would do something but ground himself.

“Come on.” He tells you. “Not today.”

And somehow he’s said the right thing because you nod and grab your purse and your jacket, following him out of the restaurant.

Five steps from the door he can hear you curse under your breath.

Ten steps from the door he can hear you sniffle and when he turns, you’re full on crying, fat tears dripping down your face.

“Hey. Hey, don’t cry about that. It’s not worth it.”

“It is!” You disagree wetly. “They shouldn’t treat you this way and now I’m mad and I’m hungry and I’m upset that I always cry when I’m mad, and-”

“If it would make you feel better you could let weeds grow in front of their door.”

“They would just pull it out, that’s just hurting the plants.” You complain but you’re almost smiling now.

He’s grinning back at you. “We could spray paint their windows. Egg the front. Put toilet paper over the door.”

“What are you? Five?” 

He laughs and you laugh with him, frozen on the sidewalk in your shared little bubble.

“There’s a Kentucky Fried Chicken down the street, isn’t it?” He asks. “They have cheese fries. It’s not as good as dipping cheesy Gyoza into melted cheese but would it satisfy your cheesy needs?”

“You make me sound like an addict.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Maybe a little bit.”

-

He watches you pop another cheese-covered fry into your mouth and feels only a little weird about it.

“Feeling better?” He asks, chewing on his straw.

“A bit. But I’m still going to put in a formal complaint. It’s not okay.”

“It’s been a year. It’s going to take some time.”

“Still. God, now I can never go back there again and I don’t know anyone else who offers that dish.” You complain.

“I could learn how to make it.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them and he bites his tongue, regretting them immediately when you pinch your brows.

“I didn’t know you can cook.” You offer him an easy way out and he shrugs.

“I don’t. But it doesn’t sound that hard.”

You laugh. “Oh, it is. Why do you think I only offer you Miso soup and grilled cheese sandwiches?”

“Because that’s your favorite food?”

“True. But it’s also the only thing I can make. Well, when the sun’s in the right position and the moon’s not looking, I can also make a fried egg.”

He laughs at that. 

“You seem so talented, I thought you’d be good at everything.”

Your smile wavers and you wipe your fingers, signaling you’re done with your food.

“Want to take a walk?” You ask and he nods, throwing away the trash and meeting you at the door.

Something in him wants to take your hand, make sure your pulse is still the same as always, that you’re fine and well and there with him, but he knows that’s not the whole reason.

He wants to take your hand because he wants to hold it and feels like a ZZ plant that’s been put in a dark spot, longing for more light and scared it might burn him at the same time.

He doesn’t put his hands in his pockets, lets them hang by his side loosely, hoping against hope that your hand will knock into his as if a ray of sunlight might accidentally come his way.

-

“My father died five years ago.” You tell the night sky above you. “He had a heart attack and died in his sleep. I miss him every day. And I know he’d be proud of me. Of what I’m doing and how I’m doing it. He’d love my apartment and my shop and even if he’d call every bouquet I make perfection, he’d still pluck around in it, because he couldn’t let anything go untouched. Isn’t that love, that you love something not only despite its imperfections but simply because of them?”

Heaviness settles in his gut yet again as your words sink in. 

You look at him and he wonders if you’re talking about him too. 

He thinks about his parents, his siblings, his friends - if he can call them that. 

He wonders if they love him despite his imperfections and he wonders if he loves them.

“My mother remarried three years ago. And I’m happy for her, because her new husband is really nice, and she’s happy. But they moved, about two years ago, to America of all places. Plane tickets are expensive.”

“It gets lonely sometimes.” He says, not really knowing why until you nod.

“Yeah.” You breathe out. “Yeah.”

He wants to say that he’s here now. That you can lean on him. That he’ll be there for you.

But he doesn’t. Because he can’t. He shouldn’t. He won’t.

So he doesn’t say anything and it seems to be the right thing, allowing the two of you to walk in silence through the dark.

taglist: @misfit-megumi @shoulmate @pixiesavvy @the2ndl @neko-my-cat @chelseaquake

taglist is open, if you want to join, just mention it in a comment or send me a message.

My Kofi if you want to tip me

[teaboot]

I'm a good artist. I know that.

For some reason, though, I've never been able to capture weight, or gravity, or that bone-deep oomph heaviness you get when your body hits the ground, a fraction of a second before your skull bounces back up off the pavement. No matter how I practice, I can't seem to grasp it in my mind.

I can handle motion. Inertia, movement, swinging wild through still air. Just not... depth. Interaction between the self and the outside. As a result, I find that a lot of my work ends up with this uncertain sort of weightless quality. Solid, but free-floating, no context to the action. A gamble with worthless stakes. A boxer leaping out of cotton to swing punches at clouds.

I've never been very athletic, either. I have no hand-eye coordination, and even though I'm strong and have a good grasp of the theory, my body stutters and slurs where it shouldn't, the way I remember holding a pencil was like when I was small and drawing circles.

I know that I axphyxiated when I was a baby. I know that I had a facial palsy that faded as I grew, went from an unresponsive mask on one side to a rare spasm that's embarrassing but harmless.

Recently, though, I found out that I was tested for brain damage, and absolutely failed the test for gross motor skills.

Now, it makes me wonder at the difference between reasons and excuses.

I try to be active, but I can't follow dance steps and my legs give out under me and I can't fight my way out of a wet paper bag despite four years of training.

Can my poor physical performance be attributed to a single bad result found over twenty years ago, or am I just not trying hard enough? Should I cut myself some slack, or is going easy on myself a result of seeking at excuses for failure?

Do I want to grow, really, or do I just want something to blame so I can be complacent in my smallness? Something to blame my failures on while I half-ass it? What if there's nothing there to blame, and I'm trying not to try, because trying is messy and embarrassing and difficult?

The tests I did also showed abnormally advanced fine motor skills. As in, I could draw my parent's faces before I could walk, and was illustrating stories before I could skip or balance on one leg.

Am I allowed to be proud of my art if my easy grasp of the mechanics was predetermined? If I can't be held accountable for weaknesses beyond my control, can I really claim ownership of skill which came to me the same way?

Am I a puppet through and through, a victim of the universe in every way, or is my every action and limitation a reflection of my psyche? A representation of who I am?

Does the dog chase the cat because that is what dogs do, or does the dog chase the cat because it wants to?

Is to be a dog to have the innate inclination to do things which dogs do?

Is a dog a thing with four legs which chases the cat, or is the thing with four legs which chases the cat a dog?

Am I what I am because it is what I was made, or am I myself because I do the things which someone who is me would do?

And what is the difference?

I'm going to keep dancing badly. I'm going to keep painting astronauts. I'm going to figure it out

[slocumjoe]

Can you do a companions react to a sole with poor fine motor skills that is really skilled in battle but can't do stuff like open can tabs or walk in a straight line or has trouble lile tying their shoes?

- Leaf anon 🌱

Cait; Wouldn't think much of it. She was an addict, she's known lots of other addicts, she's known raiders. People who's heads get messed with, either with substance or by getting hit too much. Fighting and shit like grabbing a door handle are different. Her worry is that they'd need their motor skills in a fight, or in a retreat...Cait would gripe about helping them with anything if they ask, but she can respect someone who's useful when it matters.

Codsworth; Would offer a hand whenever they looked like they needed it, but otherwise wouldn't comment or acknowledge it. It would feel very improper. They've got things handled most of the time, and if they aren't in pain, he doesn't need to worry. Would consult wasteland doctors if he felt they were legit, get their opinion, but Codsworth isn't the type to micromanage.

Curie; Worried mama hen. Curie would hover and possibly overstep. She means well, but if you don't want help with something, and don't need it, someone insisting they help is very 🙃🙃🙃. This is the first time I've used emojis in a react, only because I cannot describe the emotion those ones convey. Anyway. Curie would look into motor skills disabilities/in general in hopes of finding a way to remedy their struggles, make things easier. Some people might appreciate it, others would feel really patronized.

Danse; Would send them to Cade every time they returned to the Prydwen, just to check up on things. Obviously can't so that post BB. Danse has probably seen this before as well, but since he'd be traveling with them, he'd see it more and in different ways. Small corridor and they can't walk straight? His power armor is huge and lacks agility. They're bumping into each other. This would be an exercise in spacial awareness for him.

Deacon; one of the more worried ones. They're both spies. They need to be sneaking. You need to be able to move straight, pick locks, quickly type on keyboards. He's pleasantly surprised to see that Sole is still good at what they do, but there's always a little part of him waiting for that Chekov's Gun to go off. Also tends to hover around them, especially in hostile areas.

Gage; Don't let anyone know they have this issue and Gage is fine. Raiders will sniff that kind of thing out and get dollar signs for eyes. Walk straight the best you can, or play it off as a personality eccentricity. Don't say shit, don't go for soda in public. Very confused how they beat the Gaunlet. Very confused how they have such a high kill count. Will only help them out if its time-sensitive.

Hancock; Takes him...so long to notice. Not because he's high, he just fully doesn't realize it. He spends time around alcoholics and chemheads. Like Cait, that's just...normal for him? Hancock will offer help with some things, and still not notice what kind of help he's actually providing. He'll realize out of the blue one day and barge into the room asking if they have problems, just to make sure he's right.

MacCready; As long as he's the sniper, there's no reason to worry. If they start eyeing scopes to add to their guns, he might sweat a little. If they're a pickpocket type, he's just sweating. Pickpocket, sweating bullets. This would turn MacCready off crime, watching them try to sneak whatever from someone's pocket, when just three minutes ago, they had to bite their bag's zipper. Leave the precision stuff to him. Please. Please for the love of god.

Nick; Look at either of his hands. He probably doesn't have such great motor skills there, either, purely because he's just so old and banged up. This is a major source of bonding. Nick is the least likely to have any worry or concern for them; he gets around fine, so can they.

Preston; Second longest to notice. Faster than Hancock, but it still long enough for him to wonder if they were always like that, or if they're injured in some way. His concern comes before combat—they fight just fine, its the getting ready. Flicking their safety off, getting the gun out, reloading. Preston tends to go in front, so they have some time to prepare before they get into the action.

Piper; Like Preston, worries about transitional periods. Downtime, they're fine, firefight, they're fine. But those little moments in between, oooh, does Piper worry. Piper will keep count of how many bullets they use and let them know to reload, switch to something else, etc. Basically tracks all the info around, gets it to them so they have a few extra seconds to think and fiddle with whatever they have to.

X6-88; They are forbidden from heights. They are to remain at least ten feet away from more than a three-foot drop. Area too small? Understood, we're not going there, we're leaving. No, I don't care who asked for what. X6-88 hates heights as is. Someone pirouetteing their way off an edge is not happening. He truly does not care about anything else. Can't open things? Whatever. Bad with precision? Whatever. You can't walk straight, you are not going near ladders, bridges, scaffolding, cliffs, maybe even stairs if he thinks they're too tall.

[illarian-rambling]

Thanks for the tags @mysticstarlightduck and @leahnardo-da-veggie!

OC Fighting Game Tag

Rules: Give us your ocs stats like they're in a fighting game. For the sake of my own sanity, I'm going to mark 10 as the max stat, but feel free to do whatever you want for your own stats.

Mortal God edition! (Come to think of it, Mortal God does sound like the name of a certain fighting game)

Astra DuClaire

Health: 7

Strength: 6

Armor: 3

Speed: 5

Cunning: 10

Special Attack: Actual Literal Napalm (It's actual, literal napalm. Enemies take half the damage of any fire spell she casts on the round after she casts it, followed by a quarter damage the round after that.)

Weaknesses: Flurry attacks and insecurity

Idle Animation: Quickly stitching a rune onto a ribbon using an embroidery hoop. She briefly picks her teeth with the needle, then cocks her hat like a proper cowboy.

Mashal Darezsho

Health: 9

Strength: 10

Armor: 8

Speed: 4

Cunning: 3

Special Attack: Oh God, That's the Terminator (When reduced below a quarter health, Mashal forgets his humanity. His speed increases to 10 and his attacks do double damage, though his armor is reduced by half.)

Weaknesses: Fire damage and fine motor skills

Idle Animation: Just kind of standing there awkwardly. He shoots glances at the camera every so often, and occasionally gives a shy wave.

Ivander Montane

Health: 1

Strength: 2

Armor: 2

Speed: 10

Cunning: 10

Special Attack: Called Shot (When wielding a ranged weapon, Ivander can aim for multiple parts of the body. Depending on if he hits the hand, face, or leg, he can disarm, blind, or knock an opponent prone while still doing damage.)

Weaknesses: Any damage at all

Idle Animation: Checking his watch and readjusting his tie like he has somewhere better to be. He seems annoyed that no one has provided him with someplace to sit down.

Elsind Cavernsight

Health: 7

Strength: 3

Armor: 10

Speed: 6

Cunning: 4

Special Attack: Like Fighting Jello (Elsind takes no damage from bludgeoning effects and cannot be knocked prone or restrained.)

Weaknesses: Slashing damage and moral uncertainty

Idle Animation: Constantly shifting from liquid to solid, Elsind also occasionally takes on the slightly cooler versions of their competitors' faces. They nervously fiddle with a dagger, as if unsure they want to use it.

Avymere Spearsong

Health: 6

Strength: 7

Armor: 5

Speed: 10

Cunning: 9

Special Attack: Guards! (Avymere can summon two guards at the start of every round to aid them in battle and give their attacks advantage to hit.)

Weaknesses: Poor stamina and not realizing they have poor stamina

Idle Animation: Carefully polishing their rapier and dagger until they shine. They also make sure their glasses are nice and clean. When they do deign to look at the camera, it's clear how confident they are.

I'll tag @sableglass (cause I know you wanted to see Astra) @mr-orion @falco-underscore-77 @cat-esper @cartoonghosts and anyone else who wants in :)

[aingeal98]

hiii i consider u a cass expert and since this has been eating at my brain for a few years at this point; do you have any thoughts on the way cain's poor excuse for parenting impacted cass on more of a cognitive/developmental level? like children need stimuli of all kind that she clearly didnt get even outside of literacy and social interaction and i think its super interesting to explore how cass has complicated relationships with things most people take for granted (like... did cain allow her to have any toys? to play any games other than the "two for flinching" thing? does she struggle with the fine motor skill needed for writing bc she really didnt have smth similar? omg is she ok?? i want to peel her like an onion so badly) sorry for brain vomiting over here i have thoughts and feelings about cass cain and its incurable

Anon you've come to the right place for incurable thoughts and feelings about Cassandra Cain! And you raise such a good point like there's no way Cain's abuse didn't leave her with more than just aphasia, illiteracy, cptsd, all the emotional issues... OK well he left her with a lot of stuff but still! You're definitely right that there's more. I'm no expert but one thing I know how to do is ramble about Cass, so:

In flashbacks we see young Cass doing a jigsaw of a rose in the dojo Cain's raising her in, which makes me think he did want to find ways to make sure her cognitive skills functioned even without words. Of course this is just me theorising but in terms of toys I think he would have carefully selected things that would stimulate her brain and improve her motor skills even without reading and writing. The image of David Cain carefully buying Jenga and Operation and making sure all the packaging with words on it never reaches Cass is now permenantly stuck in my head so thank you for that.

I do think she was definitely deprived of a lot though, and things like the jigsaw were clearly meant to be filler stuff for her before the actual fun games like "getting shot and dodging the next few bullets". I don't think Cain would have ever wanted Cass to be relaxed and comfortable enough to actually fully enjoy playing with toys, you know? If she was actually able to find things like jigsaws meaningful and fulfilling then his conditioning of her to associate getting shot with "fun game of dodgeball" wouldn't have been as successful. Cass may not have liked two for flinching but she did love the fighting and the dodging. Any thoughts of "why am I in pain when I could just be playing Jenga" would have never been allowed enter Cass's head. Which would be easy enough because (understandably so given the isolation) Cass looked up to Cain and got joy and fulfilment from seeing him smile. He doesn't care if she finished the jigsaw other than getting angry/worried if she fails. Whereas being able to assemble and break apart a gun while blind makes him light up with happiness/pride. So naturally, even with Cain making sure her brain isn't TOO different for her not to be able to function as the perfect weapon, she would still be deprived of important cognitive skills and stimuli.

The writing specific fine motor skills would definitely be impacted imo because while her training makes sure her hands can work a massive variety of weapons and probably permenantly injure a man in multiple places with each finger, writing is such a specific task that only comes naturally to us because we learned it so young. It can be learned later in life of course but the natural act of holding a pen and writing would feel so alien to Cass. And that's before you factor in her dyslexia like no wonder we only saw her pick up a pen once 😭 Cass being able to write the alphabet with any sort of ease and lack of intense focus would be a massive accomplishment given David Cain's fuckery.

And just in general being so isolated for most of her childhood would have impacted her brain so badly like even without the autism Cass must have been in overstimulated sensory hell after leaving Cain. So many voices talking, which she'd never heard before. So many smells and sounds and new textures and sights that are too intense for her eyes to handle. She missed out on an entire world and only got to start experiencing it when she was 8, that's got to have a longterm impact. I think as well as autism Bruce and Barbara had her tested for adhd due to all the symptoms she displayed. Doctors aren't clear if she actually has it or if its something different brought on by her upbringing. She spent nine years homeless and travelling so she's more adjusted than she was at the start but there's still times that the whole world just goes blurry and whoops panic attack time need to find an empty place and hide.

I'll stop here so I don't rant forever but thank you for giving me the chance to yell about head. canons and theories. Cass is indeed the most fascinating onion, and the layers are endless. Feel free to rant in my inbox whenever you want I love hearing other people's thoughts on her!

[in-omni-scientia]

COMPOSURE [Medium: Success] — Hey. Pssst. VOLITION — ... COMPOSURE — ...You've been staring at the wall above your little desk completely motionless for what can't be more than about two minutes straight now. I think Authority is getting weirded out.

You turn your head to where Authority has, also, been standing and staring at you completely motionless for two minutes. He tilts his head back and to the side a small amount.

COMPOSURE — Almost... inquisitively, I think.

"Just gathering myself. I'm okay." Involuntarily, your body tacks on a (rather awkward) thumbs up. He huffs and turns away.

COMPOSURE — Give him five seconds maximum, and he'll turn back again. I don't think he wants to let you out of his sight right now.

Shifting your gaze back to the notepad in front of you, you run your eyes over the list of allocated duties once more.

ENCYCLOPEDIA (FACTS)

Claims to be: "what I should be"

Currently useless.

Allocated job: Prevent Authority from speaking.

Allocated job: Stay quiet.

THE OTHER ONE PERCEPTION

Claims to be: "joy"

Currently useless.

Allocated job: Perceiving.

VOL ME

Claims to be:

Be dumb and stupid forever, haha. With love, Authority.

?

Allocated job: Do what we are supposed to.

COMPOSURE

Claims to be: Social cues, knowing how to act, culprit of the Suggestion Anonymo

Allocated job: Making us *appear* normal to the others.

Allocated job: Just generally keeping our shit together?

AUTHORITY

Do *not* allow to speak under ANY circumstances.

Allocated job: Movement.

VOLITION — Good. A rather rough draft, though I'm sure we can continue to allocate roles as we find them necessary. ENCYCLOPEDIA — A rather poor effort for categorization by your standards. PERCEPTION — Come *on*, why do I have to be Perception just because I do the seeing? I'd be far better suited for Ele... VOLITION — You both have *new* jobs now, stay quiet unless you can contribute something of use.

Flipping your notepad to a new page, you start to write:

WHAT CAUSED THIS?

ENCYCLOPEDIA — A good place to start. Theoretically, all reactions are reversible... VOLITION — What can you recall about our affliction? Anything at all.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Trivial: Success] — Obviously, this happened after the Whale communicated with us. We were experiencing its effects prior to that interaction, but to a minimal degree; the pain inflicted upon its response to us prior to this beginning is not negligible. Causation can be assumed here. COMPOSURE [Easy: Success] — I have to point out -- well, look at Authority.

You cast a side glance in his direction. Even with your blurry vision, you can see him pacing back and forth, occasionally throwing a glower your way.

COMPOSURE — He’s fine, even after communing with the Whale. A little bothered by all this, obviously, but that’s natural. VOLITION — Yes -- it’s unusual. Charmer is fine as well.

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Easy: Success] — There’s a logical explanation for it. We just have to find one.

[Encyclopedia - Challenging 12] Do we know why you could have been impacted so adversely compared to your colleagues? (WHITE CHECK)

HIGH - 72% +1: Know about the Whale. +1: Savoir Faire’s fragmentation. -1: No Logic subskill. +1: Authority is here.

Rolling...

⚂⚄

CHECK SUCCESS (Challenging: 12 vs. Your Total: 14)

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Challenging: Success] — If *they* have not been impacted by a pale anomaly to the same degree as you have, you can only assume it has to do something with mental fortitude, or something similar. VOLITION — …Are you saying the Psyche skills know Volta do Mar? ENCYCLOPEDIA — No. Well – you could always ask, but I don’t know if you would get a good response. What I’m saying is, it may have something to do with your level. VOLITION — Go on…

ENCYCLOPEDIA — Recall the average pulses per minute for each attribute as studied by the Turtle -- [110 for Intellect, 150 for Psyche, 70 for Physique, and 50 for Motorics]. This lines up fairly well with the base levels for them, 4-5-2-1 (though some individual skills *have* been levelled beyond this via Thoughts). ⠀⠀Remember, too, the Turtle’s studies into the neurons. They made sketches of them – but some neurons had a strange pale sheath on them that was slowing their communication. (The fact they selected a Motorics neuron for that diagram is significant, too, as it evokes Savoir Faire’s current state).

ENCYCLOPEDIA — We know that it is unnatural for neurons to have that sheath on them. What I am trying to say is, I believe that perhaps the Pale Whale has given us pale exposure, and the skill’s levels afford certain Skills protection from being affected by the pale exposure.

ENCYCLOPEDIA — The effects of pale exposure for us seem to follow a pattern: high-levelled Skills, such as Authority, Suggestion and Empathy, receive no visible afflictions. Medium-level Skills such as yourself, Drama, Composure, Rhetoric, Pain Threshold and Interfacing have their abilities to communicate affected, and low-level skills experience partial fragmentation. ⠀⠀I am unsure of *how* this fragmentation exactly occurs, considering our and Savoir Faire’s presentations are very different. Though I believe we have the resources to figure this out.

VOLITION — Hmmm… ⠀⠀This theory may have some flaws in it. I will begin with smaller flaws. First of all, cop radio was affected with a similar presentation to Skills from medium levels. How do you explain this? ENCYCLOPEDIA [Easy: Success] — Esprit De Corps was the first to contact the Whale, of course; perhaps their initial contact overcame the natural protection their level afforded them.

VOLITION — *How* were we affected by the pale? The closest origin point is in Martinaise, and we have not been there for some time. ENCYCLOPEDIA [Heroic: Failure] — Admittedly, I have no rebuttal for that. Perhaps the theory that Harry has one in his own head is correct. Perhaps the Whale has the power to reach beyond the bounds of where pale ordinarily can.

VOLITION — Savoir Faire’s affliction was caused *prior* to the Whale’s first contact. ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] — Remember, the incident occurred after you had explained the Pale, when they claimed to ‘backflip into Rodionov’s trench’. While that is completely ludicrous to believe they could actually pull that off six thousand kilometres from the nearest point of even porch collapse, I do believe the Pale has something to do with their presentation. ⠀⠀Furthermore, the Whale claimed in its contact with you that ‘Mother Nature’ is disgusted by us, that ‘the verdict’ had already been made. Perhaps it has had its eye on us for some time now, and Savoir Faire’s affliction is another case of pale exposure, simply occurring before we were aware of the Whale’s presence. VOLITION — So it wasn’t me… PERCEPTION — It wasn’t you.

VOLITION — Okay. And finally… ⠀⠀We have six points. Not that far off from the Psyche skills. This fragmentation is *not* a low-level presentation, unlike what you said. PERCEPTION [Easy: Success] — Actually… I’m so sorry. VOLITION [Formidable: Failure] — ? PERCEPTION — You are at two points currently. VOLITION — What? Why?

ENCYCLOPEDIA — Minus-two from No Wedding Bells Chime in this Church Anymore. Minus-one from Brilliant Bibliolater’s Blues. Minus-one due to the lost morale. (Normally that last one wouldn’t be an issue, but I think the fact you’ve been proclaimed Volition is doing that…) ⠀⠀They’re distributed among us, but they add up to minus-four overall for Encyclopedia, the construct.

VOLITION — You’re kidding me. ⠀⠀*Thinking about the concept of marriage* caused this? Made me more prone to it? ⠀⠀And I’m even more prone now because Authority yelled at me?? PERCEPTION — I’m sorry. IN MEMORIAM — Until pale do our atoms part. VOLITION — We… we have to forget those thoughts *now*. Do we have the points? ENCYCLOPEDIA — No. VOLITION — *Shit*. We need to—to ask someone what to do. Who do we talk to about this? Can Volition do something?

PERCEPTION [Medium: Success] — Are you sure you want to do this?

VOLITION — Of course I am!! I’m going to be *completely torn apart* if this goes on! PERCEPTION — If you forget those thoughts, you will never be able to think about them again.

VOLITION — Yes, well… ⠀⠀… ⠀⠀Never? PERCEPTION — Never ever. VOLITION — Well, I can’t get married or have favourite facts if I’m dead. PERCEPTION — Don’t you want to take the chance? VOLITION — Empathy wouldn’t want me to. I’d leave them all alone.

IN MEMORIAM [Godly: Success] —

⠀⠀‘Tis better to have loved and lost Than to never have loved at all.

PERCEPTION — Yes, exactly -- it will hurt them far, far more knowing you saved yourself but doomed yourself to never wanting more, than to know you risked yourself to finally put a name to what you are. You *talked* about that.

VOLITION — …Uhm. ‘Exactly’ to what? PERCEPTION — Uh. I don’t remember…? ⠀⠀But seriously, please. Just take the chance. It’s irrational, it’s irresponsible, it’s impossible. ⠀⠀But… give it a try.

VOLITION — ...Sigh. ⠀⠀You… *people* are terrible. Fine, I’ll leave them for now. But the *moment* any funny business happens, we’re dragging Authority with us over to Volition’s zone and demanding they give us the points to get rid of them.

AUTHORITY [Challenging: Failure] — You want me to do something?!?! VOLITION — Not *you*. I don’t call you Authority by choice, it’s simply because it is convenient at the moment. AUTHORITY [Legendary: Failure]— (;´༎ຶД༎ຶ`)

VOLITION — So… what do we do now? ENCYCLOPEDIA — Actually, can I try to figure out what exactly is causing fragmentation to occur? It’s a rather big step up from language difficulties. This could be important to figure out. COMPOSURE — You should tell Authority what you have worked out. Just to let him know this hasn’t been a waste of time. PERCEPTION — If you want to regain a level, you need to heal that morale you lost; I would recommend finding Empathy. It’s been a little while since you last saw them. AUTHORITY — Definitely *do not* do that; not in your current state. They’re already far too stressed. ENCYCLOPEDIA — Finally, something reasonable from that one.

VOLITION — Hmmm…

[Encyclopedia - Legendary 14] Do we know how this fragmentation could be occurring? (WHITE CHECK)

About going to talk to Empathy…

“Authority, I think I’ve worked out what is happening with all of us.” (Finish thought.)

[Encyclopedia - Legendary 14] Do we know how this fragmentation could be occurring?

LOW - 28% +1: Know about the neurons. +1: Know about Savoir Faire. -1: Holes in your theory.

Rolling...

⚃⚄

CHECK SUCCESS (Legendary 14 vs. Your Total: 14)

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Legendary: Success] — It has to be the pale sheath that’s doing it. ⠀⠀The sheaths are slowing the action potential of the neurons they are attached to. Theoretically, if the neurons that make up *you* could not communicate fast enough to keep you together... VOLITION — …they’d start dissociating from one another. ENCYCLOPEDIA — Yes, like the turtle proposed. And each one may begin to function as separate entities. Perhaps it would get to the point where they disconnect entirely. VOLITION — Lord. Is-- is it reversible? ENCYCLOPEDIA — I don’t know.

You gaze down at your notepad unseeingly, half-filled with a near-unintelligible frantic scrawl that has barely kept up with the pace of your thoughts.

AUTHORITY — Unintelligible?! I’ve been doing my best! PERCEPTION — OG, we can find out. Heal that lost morale, get that one point back; see what it does for you. VOLITION — But… that’s not going to do anything. Losing it hasn’t actually done anything in regards to how this… condition is presenting itself. AUTHORITY — Wrong again, worm. Look up. COMPOSURE — I think you meant bookworm? AUTHORITY — Irrelevant. Look up.

You do – and gaze directly into a near-identical copy of your own face, with the notable exception of two pinprick lights flashing at you from the abyssal shadows.

AUTHORITY — Boo.

With a yelp, your stool clatters to the ground – but as soon as you’ve jumped up, it’s gone.