#I don’t know if this is coherent or not but I am tired and angry so I don’t really care

[small-plants]

I really hate the trope of when a villain is trying to be displayed as creepy and stuff through mannerisms and it’s just… autistic traits. I don’t think it’s always intentional but just the whole you can tell this person is evil because they have harmless mannerisms that are just… me when I’m not masking. It’s really annoying to see over and over again. Like oh this guy has an obsessive interest with something most people find scary clearly this leads to them being evil and trying to murder people instead of just like learning facts?

They act differently when they are alone and are only a nice “normal” person for show but are actually Strange and Weird when they drop the mask and therefore must be manipulative and Evil.

They talk less or in a different cadence or tone that is “creepy” so that the viewers know they’re evil. Even though that’s just how some people talk???

They don’t understand social cues and customs as well, clearly this is going to be their motive to destroy the world.

They don’t feel or display emotions “normally”, clearly this means they are unfeeling and evil.

Constantly seeing harmless traits I have only be shown in villains really doesn’t help with the feeling like there is something inherently Wrong and Bad in me that I must suppress no matter what, which has been a common feeling since I was in elementary school.

This doesn’t exist just in fiction either. For example I know someone at school who people will make jokes about how he’s going to be a school shooter and when asked why they literally just say because he’s quiet, laughs and smiles too much or too little in conversations and makes unusual eye contact? Like he’s actually really nice and also tries to be polite and respectful what more do you fucking want from him. Sorry someone doesn’t perfectly fit your arbitrary social norms, no that does not mean they are going to kill you where the fuck did you get that from how are those things your “evidence” that someone is actually Bad and Evil.

I don’t necessarily hate villains who happen to have autistic traits If they are written well I just really hate it when those traits are seen as just like inherently evil and the villain has no coherent motive other than just being weird and evil which seems to happen a lot.

[mostly-imagines]

Motion Sickness

jason todd x fem!reader

aka jason makes you cry after a fight

warnings: angst with comfort

“Jason—”

He waves you off immediately, “No, I’m not your problem, okay?”

Your arms drop, “You’re not a problem at all, that’s not what I’m saying—”

“Then what are you saying?” he challenges. 

You almost bite your tongue but then decide against it, “I’m saying you’re being an asshole right now just because I tried to help.”

He’s angry and you’re someplace in between desperate and tired, but you push on, hoping you’ll be able to solve this without an extended argument. To little avail though, apparently. 

A tense exhale from him, “I don’t need your help, I don’t know how I can make it any clearer.”

“It’s not about needing it—”

“No, it’s about wanting it. I don’t want your fucking help,” he snaps. “I’m grown, I can handle my problems myself.”

You drop your hands to your sides, “Then what am I doing here, Jason?”

“I don’t know!” You can literally see the regret sweep over his face but he lets the moment consume him and the words linger anyways. 

You know he doesn’t always think before he talks, especially when he’s mad. You’ve seen it plenty when he’s fighting with his family. This is the first time it’s shown up with you though, and while you know it’s not coming from a place of genuinity—it still really fucking stung. 

Far from being in your control, tears slip out, more at his tone than his words, and you remove your gaze in favor of the linoleum tiles. He says nothing as you start to cry, which only makes the heat of the moment worsen. 

“Okay,” You take a deep breath, pursing your lips. “You need to go away.”

There’s a long, hard moment of silence, but ultimately he doesn’t fight you on it, only exhales harshly and slams the door on his way out.

The resulting reverberation of the apartment has your shoulders shaking, tears falling onto your shirt.  

You and Jason don’t fight often but when you do it’s usually about insecurities and fears coming forward. He’d been having a bad night to start with and all you wanted to do was make him feel better but he wasn’t willing to talk to you or let you do anything for him. He gets selfishly selfless like that, but you know why.

You know him, in and out. You could’ve anticipated this—you should’ve. You should’ve approached the topic more sensitively. And it’s not his fault, his life has taught him that it’s safer to believe that other people don’t have his best interest. You know that. 

Yeah, you know him in and out, but he knows you in and out, too. He knows you’ve shown him nothing but kindness and generosity since the day you met and you’ve reinforced a thousand times how safe you are for him. But if he still can’t trust you to care about him, then what are you doing here?

You let yourself fall back onto the arm of the couch, huffing in defeat. 

It’s nearing two in the morning when Dick awakens, the bandages across his abdomen digging into his skin uncomfortably. He sits up, bedsheet pooling around his waist. The ache of the bruising pushes him towards his old bedroom door before he’s even fully coherent, narrowly missing shouldering the door frame as he passes through.

He’s still half asleep as he thumps down the staircase, cold hands stuffed in the pocket of his sweatshirt. He’s so out of it in his blind search for painkillers, that he nearly misses the large shadowed figure huddled up on the couch.

Dick stills, blinking warily.

“What’re you doing here?”

His younger brother says nothing, only continues to stew in the shadows, staring at the rug.

As his eyes adjust, Dick takes in his appearance: messy hair, tired eyes, only clad in a t-shirt and sweatpants.

He rubs his eyes, approaching with measured steps, “What happened?”

Jason remains silent for a long minute before grunting out, “Got in a fight.”

Dick nods slowly, shuffling forward a little more to sit on the far end of the couch. 

“What’d you do?”

Jason doesn’t have it in him to comment on how his brother immediately knew he was the issue. It just makes the entire thing hurt even worse. Instead, he tells the truth. 

“Be myself.”

Dick says nothing, 

When the silence persists, Jason elaborates, even though it’s the last thing he wants to admit to.

“I made her cry,” he says, voice below even a whisper. He hates it and he hates himself for leaving you when he knew he’d hurt you.

Dick nods, not saying anything. He’s definitely been there before, though he’s not nearly as volatile as Jason can be, so he can imagine how this likely played out. In any case, Jason has never responded well to being pushed to talk about his feelings so Dick lets him get there in his own time.

He’s half expecting to end up with no results at all, but Jason pipes up after a minute, voice broken.

“I don’t know what she wants me to do,” he rasps.

Dick takes a deep breath, adjusting his posture. “When girls are mad you give them space but when they’re sad you definitely don’t. Is she sad or mad?”

Jason exhales desperately.

“Both, I think.”

Dick nods, understanding.

“Then go home.”

Jason shakes his head, defeated. “She told me to leave. She doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“What did you say?”

He huffs, not wanting to bring the memory back up. “I basically told her to fuck off.”

“Yeah,” Dick drawls. “I wouldn’t let that simmer.”

Jason’s head snaps over to him. “She’ll break up with me?”

“No, I don’t—” Dick pauses, thinking over his words. “It’ll be fine. Just go home.”

Despite taking the long route on the way to the manor, Jason sped back home on his bike, now unwilling to leave you alone for another second longer than he had to. 

He creeps through the front door of your apartment, proud and only a little hurt that you’d remembered to lock it. 

The apartment’s mostly quiet, nothing but a lamp lighting up the front half. He can hear the shower running from where he stands, the waterfall noise awfully muffled from behind the closed bathroom door.

He bolts the door behind him, pushing forward towards the hallway. He approaches the bathroom door, noticing how there’s no light flooding out from underneath.

“Baby?” Jason calls it out quietly, like he’s scared to commit to alerting you of his presence.

He hears no response, but he knows you heard him. He knows you heard him in the same way that he knows you’re sitting on the shower floor, curled in on yourself under the sensory relief that the pouring water brings. He doesn’t know how, he just does.

So he leans against the door, listening closely, and calls out again, “Can I come in?”

There’s a solid ten seconds of silence before you respond, just barely audible over the cascade of water.

“Not right now.”

Your volume has him wincing, saddened and embarrassed that he’s the one that made you feel like this.

He reluctantly walks back to the bedroom with heavy shoulders, thudding his weight down on the mattress. He sits half folded over himself for the next ten minutes, thinking only of you, sitting alone in the shower with your thoughts.

He perks up considerably when he hears the water shut off, and after several long minutes, you emerge from the bathroom, towel wrapped around your middle.

He stands up when you enter the bedroom, hands stiff and awkward at his sides. You barely look at him, having trouble willing yourself to do more than glance. 

Your eyes fall downward, your lips pursing. You instinctually move to clutching the towel tighter around you, more than anything because you don’t know what to do with your hands. 

It makes his heart break to see you so out of comfort around him—because of him—so he gives you the benefit of privacy, turning around so you can get dressed. It kills him to do it, makes him feel like he’s just some stranger in your life rather than him. But he supposes that he deserves to feel like that right now. 

Whether or not you wanted him to turn around goes unsaid, he can only hear the quiet shuffling of you putting clothes on.

He waits until the movement stops, after he hears the squeak of the bed springs and the faint sound of the sheets being pulled up.

He turns around again with a silent sigh, taking in the sight of you laying in bed, back turned to him.  

He approaches slowly, stopping just before his knees hit the mattress. He notices quickly that the t-shirt you’d chosen was one of your own. He frowns.  

“Sweetheart. Can I touch you?” His voice is soft and low, like he’s trying to coax you back out to him.

It takes a long few moments, but you nod.

He sits down on the bed, still hesitant to go through with it.

“Will you turn over?”

An even longer pause and you’re flipping over to face him. You don’t make eye contact, only look blankly past him. Your blinks are heavy, and even in the dark, he can see that your eyes are still bloodshot. 

He brushes your hair back, his fingers feather-light against you, like he’s scared to touch you too harshly. Like he’s touching porcelain.

He lets you hold the silence for a while, reasoning with himself that you’ll talk when you’re ready.

You let it go on longer than he’d hoped, past the point of him knowing what to do with it. He’d hoped you’d yell at him. He can take that, he knows he can. He can see plainly that you’re thinking deeply and wants more than anything for you to say it, scream it if you have to. 

He knows he deserves it and he frankly would take anything over the silence. But then again, he doesn’t deserve the reprieve, does he? No, but he’s not strong enough to deny himself the chance to hear your voice.

“Say it,” he urges. “Please.”

Your fingers tap against the bed sheets for a moment before you sit up, almost defeated. 

You face him, taking a breath and relenting. “I don’t like that you said that to me.”

He nods, brow deep. “Me neither.”

Your shoulders sag at that, and you feel stuck in the moment. You feel guilty too but you don’t know if you should. He didn’t mean it, you know that, and they weren’t his words, really. But the snap of his voice when he’d said it and the look on his face—it made you feel terrible. It still does.

You look awkwardly to the left, feeling heavily spectated by him and so hyper-conscious of all of your movements. The downturn of your lips gives way to burning in your eyes and before you can do anything about it, tears are spilling out. 

Jason sees it immediately, his head lulling helplessly. 

“Oh, baby. Please don’t cry, please.”

But that only makes it worse, the tears falling faster and heavier at his soft tone.

He forgoes asking permission and pulls you directly into his chest, a firm hand on the back of your head. It’s what you needed though, to be close to him right now.

“I’m sorry. I’m really fucking sorry, baby—” he murmurs against your hair, pressing a rough kiss as he holds you tighter.

You shake your head, sniffling. “It’s okay, Jay.”

“No, it’s not.”

That sentiment lingers for several minutes, as he holds you cheek to chest and rubs soothing patterns into your hair.

It’s not long before you’re able to fully relax against him, his touch feeling nothing short of therapeutic. Your breathing eventually levels out back to baseline and your thoughts start to find peace amongst themselves.

When you’re ready, you sit back from him, letting him see your face again.                    

He visibly winces as he scans over the tears on your cheeks, how they’re starting to stain.

You’re still upset, a little, but not nearly as much as you’re sure your face is conveying. 

“It’s okay,” you tell him, wiping your eyes with your sleeve.

He shakes his head, “If I ever say something like that to you again, hit me. I’m serious.”

You drop your hand onto your lap, tilting your head at him with a serious look. “I’m not going to hit you—”

“Then break up with me. Don’t ever let somebody talk to you like that, especially not me.”

His voice is hard and you can tell the impact of his words have every bit of weight intended.

Your mouth closes and you waver unsure of where to go with that. Your gaze falls down to where your hands lie discarded on your lap and there’s a palpable shift to the air in the room.

“Hey.” He pushes your chin up to make you look at him, “Listen to me. You’re the love of my life. You hear me? I’m supposed to take care of you, make you happy. I don’t…I can’t talk to you like that. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Your eyes flicker back and forth across each others and you can see the genuine sincerity etched plainly across his face.

He processes the comprehension across your own before his jaw tenses for a moment and he adds, “Nobody’s gonna talk to you like that, much less me. Yes?” 

You start to nod slowly and he mirrors you until he’s convinced of your belief in the statement. 

He rubs calm circles into your thighs as you both sit with the conversation, the light sounds of each others breaths the only sound heard. This silence isn’t the same as it was before though, it’s safer, more comfortable. It’s familiar, if not weighted.  

“I love you,” you tell him quietly.

His eyebrows furrow like his heart was just shattered. 

“I love you too, baby. So much.”

🦟 if you don't reblog things i'm actively sending bad vibes your way 🦟 and maybe also a plague

[jrow]

May Prompts (1)

Thank you for doing this @calaisreno! This year I am endeavoring to write a single story using some (most?) of the prompts. Consider it a creative writing exercise. Will I write everyday and use every prompt? Unlikely! Will this be a coherent story in the end? Possibly! Do I know where this story is going? Hells no! So ... enjoy, I hope?

Open

“Open your eyes.”

His brain may be foggy, but the words come through clear. The voice saying them sounds pained. Pleading. He knows that voice—it’s comforting—but he’s far too confused to place it. He’s far too confused to place much of anything.

Now someone is retching. And crying. Sounds he’s all too familiar with. He must be in Afghanistan; something must have gone wrong. Which means the chaos is coming. He should prepare.

He doesn’t want to prepare. He wants to sleep.

There’s arguing now, hushed but angry. Machines are beeping. Have they been beeping the whole time? Why is he so tired?

He hears the soft click of a door opening and closing. Is he alone now?

No, there’s another voice. Familiar. Not the slightest bit comforting.

���Do wake up, Dr. Watson. He won’t survive if you don’t.” A pause. “Forgive me the double negative.”

Another click. He knows he’s alone now.

He sleeps.

Day 2 here.

[like-a-bantha]

Sleep Study

Summary: When there's no time for piloting lessons, you suggest a sort of learning-by-osmosis experiment to Tech. What could possibly go wrong?

Pairing: Tech/GN Reader (No Y/N)

Rating: T

Warnings: Language, not beta-read

Word Count: 6.2K

AO3 | Masterlist

Now, this might sound weird – maybe even a tad disrespectful – but bear with me.

I’ve recently begun piloting lessons with Tech and I couldn’t ask for a better teacher. He knows, while I am a proficient mechanic, I’m a total novice when it comes to actually flying, and the man deserves a medal for his patience with me. I’ll ask the same question five times and he only gets mildly agitated around the third, but he’s always been understanding. Not everyone can be a certified genius, after all.

So lessons have been going pretty not bad, I’d say; it’s the workload that’s been causing problems. Cid’s got us going from job to job with almost no breaks. Lately we’re lucky if we get half a rotation to stop and refuel, let alone catch our breath. We’re all exhausted. We’re all on edge. It’s gotten to the point where we’ve had to put a pause on the lessons for a few days just to keep up with general maintenance on top of the back-to-back missions. Thankfully, in those few quiet moments where we can get to that maintenance, I’ve been able to sort of keep up on my lessons thanks to Tech’s rants. And maybe, for whatever reason, my brain decided these rants were incredibly soothing on one particular sleepless flight. And maybe, who knows why, I may have fallen asleep just a bit. It didn’t seem like Tech was angry, or even upset. He was almost apologetic when he gently nudged me awake.

Today, after landing on Ord Mantell for an incredibly brief pit stop, Tech and I work in silence below the ship. He’s been quiet with me since my last accidental nap and I just can’t figure out how to voice how sorry I am without sounding — I don’t know. Disingenuous? And if I’m honest, how do I avoid sounding like a total creep? But we’re just working next to each other, neither of us saying a word, and it’s nice but it’s not us and there’s this massive knot in my gut saying well, it’s your own fault, don’t you remember? 

This silence is awfully comfortable. It really would be such a shame if something were to change that.

“Hey, Tech,” I jumped in without a plan and I’ve given up hope on this being eloquent in any way, at this point I’ll be glad if my question is at least somewhat coherent, “I’m sorry about,” I trail off a bit, I don’t want to finish that sentence actually, “I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but I just, I had this idea — weird idea — and maybe a request? Feel free to shoot it down, I mean, if it’s too much. Would you mind sending me the audio files of your lessons? Sorry, just, they’re really interesting but also relaxing and, and, maybe it can be a sort of experiment, y’know? If I fall asleep listening will I retain the information? Strange idea, sorry.”

Tech stares blankly, and when I turn to meet his gaze after giving myself a moment to reboot, he continues to stare blankly. His head is just barely tilted, and he wears a look somewhere between genuine confusion and borderline concern. With a slight shake of his head he finally responds, “Forgive me, I’m afraid I do not follow.”

If only there was a way to smash your head into a wall a few times without doing any real damage. I’d kill for that right about now. I could’ve just kept my mouth shut but no. Real bang-up job on my part.

“I, uh, I fell asleep the other day because – well, because I was tired, mainly – I don’t know, I just find your voice really soothing? Like, everything’s been really chaotic lately but listening to you talk about paralight systems made it,” I take a deep breath, no going back now, “ah, it made it a lot less chaotic. Like everything was quiet for a minute. Safe.”

Another long exhale. Tech’s still silent, processing, but his brows are raised now and his eyes have gone a bit wide behind his goggles. I can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing just yet. It’s probably best to go against my gut and keep my mouth shut for a few minutes, but now the minutes feel longer than usual. Karked this one up a bit, I think.

“So you would like the audio files to… study?” I nod before he even finishes his sentence. “Or will you be using them to fall asleep?” I’m still nodding and it certainly isn’t helping his confusion at all.

“Both?” I shrug.

He raises his gloved hand inquisitively to his chin, and his face is blank aside from the visible pondering, and now I’m really starting to think I’ve karked it all up. I could’ve put more thought into it, taken my time both in the apology and easing him into the idea of sharing his pre-recorded knowledge, but instead I sloppily tossed all my cards on the table knowing I had a shit hand. And not just any shit hand, no, it’s an alarmingly weird hand. Just as I’m about to start spewing apologies his hand drops slightly from his chin, index finger extended, “An interesting experiment indeed. I shall transfer the files of our previous lessons as well as my own personal recordings.”

Huh.

Wait. “Personal recordings?” Why do my ears feel warm?

Luckily for me his face is buried too deep in his datapad to notice the tinge of red creeping up my neck. “Yes, before you joined our squad and long before our schedule became so hectic, I kept an audio diary of sorts. Detailed accounts of my findings on missions.”

“Cool,” Yes, I can feel how wide and dopey my grin is but I’m still riding the high of my botched opener somehow working and couldn’t care less. “I feel like I remember seeing you telling a bug facts about itself way back when I met you guys. Makes sense now.”

His brows immediately furrow as he finally pulls his gaze away from the glowing screen in his hands. “You assumed I was talking to the insect?”

Straight faced, I raise both my hands like I’m pleading innocent. “Hey, I don’t judge.”

I break first. My shoulders begin to shake, then my still-raised hands, as the laughter bubbles up. Tech isn’t far behind. We look at each other as we laugh and I can’t help thinking that if it were anyone else I’d hide my face, but it’s like I’ve just now realized turning away would mean missing this uncharacteristically uncontained joy. 

Normally I hate sleeping in my helmet. I know it’s for protection or whatever, but there are few things worse than waking up with a crick in your neck and the gnarly one-two punch that is the bed-head-helmet hair hybrid. Alas, I am dedicated to not only my experiment but also not getting mocked by Wrecker for the next week for listening to Tech’s lecture on, let’s see… “Botanical Symbolism in Folklore Across Kashyyyk”? Sounds interesting. But since I’m not on watch for another seven hours, I can actually take my time choosing rather than scrolling a few pages ahead to the B’s and picking the first one that stands out. I kept scrolling and skimming for a while, he must’ve sent his entire audio library to me; there are hundreds of pages and I’m barely halfway through the aurebesh. Then I’m suddenly scrolling rapidly back to the top of the page as if my subconscious just had a great idea that I’m simply too conscious to understand, and that great idea is to sort the files in chronological order.

I don’t have to scroll back very far at all, Tech wasn’t kidding when he said he only stopped his audio diary when the work started. There’s one titled “The mountainous planet of Guntcania 5” from a few days before we last left Ord Mantell. We’d been sent to loot a newly abandoned Imperial shipyard, driven out by a group of formidable freedom fighters whom we were told were not in it for the profit but the valiant cause. Turns out it was both. I remember Tech quietly commenting on the geological formations to no one in particular. I remember standing a bit closer to hear his comments. I fell asleep just shy of eleven minutes after hitting play.

He caught me in the kitchen not long after I woke up, both of us beelining to the instant caf.

“Thought your shift was over,” I grab two packets from the drawer as Tech retrieves two mugs from the cupboard, “Want some of that herbal tea instead? Get some rest, maybe?”

It’s nice, these quiet moments with him. I’ll watch the kettle, if that old saying is true maybe I can buy us a few more of those moments.

“I have yet to decrypt the schematics from the refinery,” With a heavy sigh he sets the datapad down on the countertop, his shoulders hang and his exhaustion is visible, “Once I’ve completed that and analyze the data I will rest. Until then, I will stick with caf.”

I give a sympathetic smile, “Y’know, I’d offer to help but I think that isn’t exactly my area of expertise.”

“I would more than appreciate the company,” Tech interjects, and by the look on his face I think it took us both by surprise. “If you would be so kind as to join me, that is. Though, if you have duties you must attend to I completely understand and–”

My surprise quickly melts into a warm smile. “‘Course, Tech. I’d love to.” And his face softens in turn. And then there’s a beat where we’re just standing there smiling at each other. Then another. And another. Have you ever seen a tooka knock a cup off of a table and jump at the sound of the crash? Now, imagine that but instead of a tooka it’s two mercenaries, and instead of the clatter of a cup it’s the kettle coming to a boil with an abrupt screech. I think we’d find it much funnier if we weren’t still in the vast realm of half-asleep. Right now, it’s just enough to elicit a soft chuckle at most.

Tech retrieves his datapad as I fix the caf. “Have you begun conducting your experiment? I’m sure you’ve already seen, but I have transferred all of my files from the past year or so, I’m interested to hear your findings.”

It’s enough to slow my movements, brain power diverted to processing his question as I reach for the milk at half speed. “Oh. I, uh, I played the one from Guntcania 5. Didn’t last long, though, I was out by the time you got to regional climates.”

“You were with us for that mission. Perhaps choosing a mission or topic you are unfamiliar with would better prove your theory.”

I nod once before turning to join him, a steaming mug in each hand, carefully placing the caf in front of him as I sit. “Realized as soon as I woke up. Any recommendations for tonight's file?”

He names several from memory as he works on his own task, giving brief descriptions of each without giving away too much — that could skew the results. I add them all to a separate folder, sorting them in order of how excited Tech seemed at the topic.

Of course, things got hectic again and I didn’t have time for experiments – I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been listening to those files, though. Five rotations, a standard week’s worth of sleeps and dreams in the tune of Tech’s voice. I’m waking up well-rested despite sleeping only a handful of hours at a time. I’m practically begging the force to fry some wiring or call off a job to spend even just a few minutes with him. I’m starting to think I may have a problem.

Cid called while we were out hunting down puffer pigs for one of her clients. Hunter walked away with the holoprojector about halfway through the conversation, he later told Omega this was to avoid scaring the animals but Echo and I overheard the real reason. That’s another ten credits in the swear jar. When we get one, that is; right now it’s sort of just an honor system. Next mission – big client, big payout, big enough to hack away a good chunk of our debt and take a couple days off – was called off at the last second, she’d try talking to the client again but, right now, and I quote, “He ain’t budgin’.” We’re still on call, though, and flat broke after our last refuel, so this is really just the galaxy’s worst vacation. Hunter’s hushed and extensive vocabulary perfectly summed up our feelings on the matter.

I was going to try to get some rest on the way back to Ord Mantell but puffer pigs are noisy enough in a relaxed state, toss six of them in a cramped starship and toss that starship into hyperspace and you’ll start to realize noisy doesn’t even begin describe it. Poor Hunter’s locked himself in the ‘fresher, of course Tech installed some sound dampening element to the audio relay in his helmet, but that can only do so much. Omega and Wrecker tried calming the animals to no avail, they’ve resorted to tossing bits of ration bars at them as – I’d say tasty, but eugh – edible bribes. Echo and Tech are arguing over something; it’s small, I think, but I’m too tired to step in and mediate right now. What was supposed to be a short flight felt like years.

“Never thought I’d be happy to be back here, but it sure beats being stuck in hyperspace with these things,” Echo says quietly, carefully lowering the crate in his arms, making sure not to wake the puffer pig that had just fallen asleep. I gently placed the crate I was holding right next to it, maybe when they wake up in this new place seeing one another will calm them down. Or they’ll freak out together.

“Between you and the puffer pigs, I must choose the latter,” Tech mutters, still snippy after the long journey, Echo and I turn to look at him in unison.

Echo’s expression is that of a brother who’s accustomed to that sort of teasing, flat and unphased. Mine, however…

“Hey,” I do my best to keep my voice down, “Not cool.”

Echo’s expression is no longer unphased. It is phased. There’s confusion, surprise, the hint of a smile; he seemed as tired as the rest of us before, but this clearly perked him up. Usually when I step in on these little disagreements I remain as unbiased as I can but I am now, very clearly, taking Echo’s side and now he’s visibly interested in seeing how this plays out. I know I still look hurt by the comment that wasn’t even about me. And Tech, his shift in emotion is visible, I could see him process his remark and my reaction, and his furrowed brows loosen as he looks between the two of us.

“You are correct,” Tech nods once, looking to his brother, “Apologies, Echo, I did not mean that.”

After a moment, a smile graces Echo’s face, “I’ll accept that apology.” And gives his brother a solid pat on the shoulder on his way over to the bar.

“I get grumpy-tired, too, I know how it is,” I bump him with my shoulder, an attempt to break a tension that was not there.

“You do not seem grumpy right now,” Tech breathes out a laugh.

I shrug, “Well maybe I’m not tired right now. Maybe I’m just–” My body decides this is the perfect time for an unsuppressable yawn. “Maybe I’m too tired to be grumpy-tired.”

Tech hums, “A valid theory, it seems.” With a tired chuckle and lazy nod I glance around the near-empty bar. Wrecker and Echo sit at the counter with their drinks while they recount the mission to Cid. Hunter’s setting up the cot for Omega, who is already beginning to fall asleep at Cid’s desk, before he joins his brothers. “I am going to head back to the Marauder and get some rest if you care to accompany me.”

“Yes, please, a quiet ship and sleep sounds like heaven right now,” He stands aside, allowing me to lead the way out of the parlor after saying goodnight to our squadmates.

The cool air of Ord Mantell is enough to keep me awake just long enough to carry myself back to the ship. I hear the ghost of a laugh beside me as another yawn takes hold of me. “I fear you may have conditioned yourself, the sound of my voice alone seems to be putting you to sleep.”

Turns out I’m not too tired for a good laugh, “Yeah, keep talking and you’re gonna have to carry me the rest of the way.”

“I assure you, I was trained to carry men twice my size across the battlefield, I can manage.”

“Right,” I nod, later I’ll blame my dopey smile on exhaustion, “Hey, wait, why men twice your size?”

“It is standard protocol.”

“No, like, isn’t it a one size type of deal? Clones and all, y’know,” He stares blankly at me. “Well, yeah, a few exceptions, but broadly speaking it’s just the one size.”

“I see,” Tech says, and I’ve got this look like I just beat a holochess master, “Your exhaustion has caused a state of delirium. Perhaps this means I’m forced to carry you the rest of the way to best keep you safe.” A barked laugh escapes me at that. “Very well.”

Wait. “Wait! No, no, I’m good! I’m up! I’m awake!” And I am, very much so now as I pick up my pace to evade capture. After my laughter subsides I slow my steps to a walk, and Tech quickly catches up, as we traverse the familiar streets of Ord Mantell.

The Marauder’s ramp lowers with a hiss as we approach. “Dibs on the sonic,” I call over my shoulder as I scurry towards the refresher, Tech makes no protest and takes his time boarding the starship. Our water supply, while it is thankfully abundant these days, always seems to be stuck at the average human body temperature – no warmer, no colder – but at least the cycle itself doesn’t last long at all. A full-body shower only takes about three minutes in the sonic, Republic standard for conservation of resources and time between missions according to Tech. While it is efficient, I do miss a good boiling hot, thirty minute shower to tell the truth; I’d never tell the squad that, though, I’m grateful for what we’ve got.

The chime of my datapad sounded halfway through the sonic’s cycle and I emerge to find a message from Tech. A new audio file and a handful of recommendations. I dress myself with an all-too-giddy smile. After hastily gathering up my things from the ‘fresher I elbow the door control, ready to shout my thanks to the clone and surrender the now warm ‘fresher to him. Instead, however, I am met with the clone himself, standing in front of the doorway, datapad in one hand while the other is in position to knock on the now open door.

He retracts that hand quickly, though, he still looks as if he’s about to say something but nothing has come out yet.

I decide to take the lead. “Hey, thanks for the message. ‘Fresher’s all yours.” 

His parted lips form a smile. “I- you are welcome.” But when I exit the refresher and step to the side he makes no move to enter. “After reviewing a handful of files I found those to be most interesting, I hope this helps your experiment.”

My grin widens, “Thank you, Tech, it’ll definitely help.” He nods just once with a smile before retreating into the ‘fresher. Maybe I stared at the door just a second too long. Maybe I even let out a quiet little giggle before heading over to my bunk.

I can hear the sonic start as I finally turn in, scrolling through highlighted files on my datapad while I try to get comfortable on the flat old mattress pad which always proves to be an impossible task. My sights lock in on a file between two of Tech’s suggestions labeled “Repairs and Maintenance”. Do I already know the in’s and out’s of most starships? Of course. Do I still learn something new everytime Tech talks about the in’s and out’s of the Marauder? Of kriffing course. Perfect.

The sonic’s still running when I put my helmet on and hit play, and I’m promptly out like a light.

I wake with a stir when I feel something plush fall on my helmeted head and open my eyes to see a large hand reach down and grab the offending object. Wrecker whispers an apology as he gingerly retrieves his Lula after dropping her into my bunk. Still half asleep, I can’t decide if that sorry was for me or the doll. The guys are back.

With a quiet, sleepy groan, I roll onto my side and pull my knees to my chest, blindly reaching for the datapad behind me. Waking the device is a mistake as I am instantly shocked by its brightness, my eyes snap shut and I dim the screen. I’ve moved onto a new recording, it seems. This one is titled “Atmospheric Changes of Taccoh”, about five minutes in. Taccoh was one of my first missions with them, I remember my excitement at how well we worked together as a team. I’m not usually good on a team, but clicking with these guys was just easy. It just felt right.

“—they seem to be adjusting rather well to mercenary work. I must say, they are quite the knowledgeable mechanic and are proving to be a great asset to the squad. Wrecker’s comments on their romantic interest in me are, in my opinion, absurd. Though I would not be opposed to such interest, I find the probability highly unlikely. Their interest, as I’ve observed, lies both in their work and the pursuit of knowledge. Qualities I find most admirable, as well as —“

Pause.

The heart rate monitor on my dimmed HUD glows an ominous red as the number rises.

Oh god. Kriff. I found Tech’s kriffing diary.

I pry the helmet from my head, foregoing any attempt to fix my surely frazzled hair, still damp from the fresher, and swing my legs over the side of my bunk to sit up. My whole body is tense, my knuckles pale from the force of my grip on the durasteel frame. Fresh air. Yes. Fresh air would do me good right now, I’d say.

The room seems to spin as I fumble for my boots and the sheer volume at which my mind screams nearly drowns out Echo, half-asleep and confused, staring at me through squinted eyes from his bunk.

“You alright?” His tired voice repeats.

“Yes, yeah,” I answer, all too quickly, “just need some air, is all. You okay? You good? Sleeping okay?”

Echo’s brows furrow, he shifts slightly to face me properly, “I was,” he suppresses a yawn and I hurry up with my boots, “but then you shot up like you saw a ghost.”

My laughter is quiet but crazed, and I can barely hear it, “Ship’s not haunted, Echo, go back to sleep.” 

I stand to leave but the quiet call of my name stops me in my tracks, I turn to face the sleepy clone. “You sure you’re alright?” 

“I’m fine,” I try to make it sound convincing but I know it’s a sorry attempt, “really, get some rest. Be back soon.” His gaze remains fixed on me for a moment longer before he shuts his eyes, nodding before settling his head on the pillow once again. I let out a portion of a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding as I hurry out of the ship and into the crisp night air of Ord Mantel.

My feet take me to Cid’s. She shut the sign off but I can hear the jukebox from the street, no luck kicking out the regulars for the night, it seems. My feet then decide to take me down the stairs. Then to the bar.

“Great, I try to kick two out and a third appears,” the trandoshan huffs from behind the bar, “If you’re looking for dark and broody and the kid, they’re sleeping. Not sure how, these two bozos won’t shut up.” She shouts in the direction of the booming jukebox and patrons as she pours two drinks before sliding one to me.

“Hey, can I get your take on something?” I down the drink, extending the cup in a silent request. 

She glances tentatively first at my now empty cup, then at her own drink, before quickly finishing it to pour us each a second round. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Tell ya after I hear it.”

I laugh into my drink. “This stays between us.” She laughs into her drink. “Or I can just finish my free drink and leave.”

“Fine, fine. Between us.” She waves a dismissive hand. “But it better be interesting or these are going on your tab.”

My brows furrow, I nod just once before finishing my second drink, and the second the empty cup makes contact with the sticky countertop I blurt it out, “I listened to Tech’s diary.”

She waits for me to go on, I wait for her to be a voice of reason. Neither of us get what we’re looking for. “Alright, you found Goggles’ diary. And?”

“And?” I echo, incredulously. “I accidentally listened to some really, really personal stuff that I can’t un-listen to, what do I do? Do I tell him? What, do I say ‘Hey, Tech, so the learning by osmosis experiment was a bust but a little birdie — you, you’re the birdie — told me you had a big ol’ crush on me, for, like a while, so I just wanted to —‘ I don’t know what I want. Kriff, this is bad, isn’t it?”

Cid stares at me like I’m a three-headed mythosaur for what feels like hours, I try to calm my breathing, try to take a sip from my already empty cup. I’m only pulled out of my thought loop by the howl of Cid’s laughter. It even manages to pull Bolo and Ketch’s attention away from the jukebox, if only for a second. In all the time I’ve known her, I’ve never heard Cid laugh so hard. My look of shock remains even as her laughter subsides.

“Good one, kid. You almost had me for a second there.” She gently wipes a tear from the corner of her eye, but the laughter returns when she notices my expression is unchanged. “Oh, you’re serious?”

“Obviously I’m kriffing serious! Cid, I’m kind of in deep shit here, I need advice, I don’t need you laughing in my face!”

“Oh, relax, it’s not like you didn’t know. You idiots have been pining over each other from day one. Didn’t think Goggles would make the first move, though, I owe Muscles ten credits.” She mutters, though clearly still amused.

“I didn’t know! Force, how would I have known!” I put my head down on the bar with a sigh. “So, what, everyone knows and I’m just the last to find out?”

“Got it.”

All I can manage is a dramatic groan.

“Just talk to him, what’s the worst that can happen?”

I don’t even need to think about it, “I say exactly what I said before, weird him out, and go back to working by myself because he never wants to see me again.”

“Yeesh, try living a little sometime, kid. It’ll do you good,” Cid cringes into her cup, “Talk to him. Trust me.”

With a roll of my eyes I extend my empty cup one last time, Cid fills it without a word and I down the drink before leaving the empty glass on the bar as I stand, “Those were on you, I could’ve gotten better advice from Bolo and Ketch.”

“Can’t argue with you there, they’ve been together as long as I’ve known them,” She rinses out the empty cup and tosses it into the washer. “He’s crazy about you, kid. Just tell him how you feel.”

Cid’s words play on repeat in my mind as I wander the now empty city streets. Talk to him right, easier said than done. What if he’s not ready for a relationship? What if I’m not? We’re already so busy, will we really have the time? What if this changes our dynamic irreparably? What if I lose my closest friend?

It takes hearing someone call my name to pull me from what could’ve been an eternal thought loop. I’m back at Cid’s, a weary Hunter stands below the glowing sign, his arms crossed and he somehow looks both concerned and amused, “Going for a fourth lap around the block?” My lips part as if I could form a response but I come up short, opting to shrug instead. “Care if I join you?” I nod and we walk side by side, allowing silence to settle between us.

“Thought you were asleep,” I break that silence. Better to get it out of the way now, I figure I know where this is going.

“Not with all that noise,” Hunter lets out a deep sigh, he must know he could just power the damn jukebox down and get some rest. “I don’t know how Omega does it, that kid can sleep through anything.”

“She’s exhausted,” I let out a sigh of my own, “We all are.”

“Cid’s focused in on this puffer pig client, that’ll buy us some time to regroup, rest up.”

“Good. That’s good.”

Hunter nods, the silence that follows is not as easy or relaxed as earlier. He breaks it first, “I’m assuming you know what I’m about to say.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s the plan?”

“Talk, I guess. Can’t not now, huh?”

“That’s your choice,” He stops walking, catching me off guard, I stop a few paces ahead and turn to face him, “Never thought I’d say it, but I’m with Cid. The happiest I’ve ever seen him is when he’s talking to you. I get the feeling the same goes for you.”

I bite the inside of my lip, suppressing the smile that threatens to light up my face. Not the time. I nod, crossing my arms, “It does.”

“Good,” He smiles this warm, genuine smile before his serious sergeant demeanor returns, “Don’t let it get in the way of the job.”

“Copy that.” I give him a mock salute, to which his head drops with a tired laugh before his ears perk up. I raise my eyebrows in question as he turns his head in the direction of the parlor.

“Music’s stopped,” Hunter takes a step forward, extending an arm to pat my shoulder before retreating. “Get some rest.”

“Thanks, Hunter.” I give a little wave and watch as he retreats to the now quiet bar down the dimly lit street.

I begin my walk back to the ship, my mind still racing but not nearly as catastrophically quick as before my chat with Hunter. He’s probably still asleep, and I’m not planning on going back to the ship to wake him up and talk about this. My best bet would be to shoot him a message, ask if we could talk when he wakes up. Word travels too fast with these guys and the last thing I want is Wrecker bragging to his brothers about how he put his money on Tech and won. When I reach for my datapad I find the pocket is empty. Of course. I pick up the pace, almost frantically trying to recall whether or not I locked the device in my hasty departure. Odds aren’t looking great, though.

I take my boots off at the bottom of the ramp and tip-toe up in bare feet. Two out of the three men aboard are light sleepers and the last thing I want is to wake them as if I’m some teen sneaking back home after a party. Quiet as a mouse droid, I make my way back to my bunk as Wrecker’s snores reverberate through the durasteel walls. I’m greeted by my helmet, tossed haphazardly next to my pillow, but no datapad. Uh-oh. I glance into Echo’s bunk and find him sleeping, but the bunk above his, Tech’s bunk, remains empty. You’ve gotta be kriffing kidding me. Back to my tip-toes, I make my way to the kitchenette first, also empty, then the cockpit. The control panel is dimmed and all of the seats turned forward, if it weren’t for the tell-tale glow of a datapad screen I’d have thought Tech had simply vanished.

Without a word I join him, only releasing a quiet sigh as I sit in the copilot’s seat. He doesn’t look up from the datapad, its screen displaying the evidence of my discovery in bold text. “I didn’t intend to include such personal files.”

“Yeah, I didn’t intend to listen.” He nods before handing me my device, our gazes still not meeting. I take a turn staring at the display, rereading the title of the file over and over as I continue, “I fell asleep listening to ‘Repairs and Maintenance’, woke up to this one.”

“I, again, must sincerely apologize for any discomfort this finding has brought you, I was not planning to tell you in such an impersonal manner.”

“How did you…” I trail off, he was fast asleep when I left, I never pegged him for the type to pretend to be asleep and his quiet snores sounded so real.

“Echo woke me up, it was shortly after you had left. He said you appeared to be in a state of shock, I found you’d left your datapad open on your bunk.”

“That checks out.” Now that I’m here with him I can almost find the humor in the situation, I even manage a quiet laugh, “I’m sorry I flipped out, I just wasn’t expecting to wake up to that, I guess.”

He finally turns to face me, “You have nothing to apologize for.” “Neither do you,” I retort, meeting his gaze with a smile. I can almost see his thought process before his mouth forms an ‘o’ shape as he realizes the meaning behind my words. I continue, regardless, I heard him spill his guts, it’s only fair I do the same for him, “I feel the same way, Tech. I have for a while. Come to think of it, maybe I always have. Your feelings didn’t scare me, the possibilities did.”

He cocks his head in question, “Possibilities?”

“I’m scared of our dynamic changing, I’m scared I’ll kriff it all up and lose you. I’m no good at this kind of stuff and the last thing I want is for our relationship to suffer because of me,” I ignore the tears beginning to form in my eyes, turning my attention back to the viewport. Tech’s gaze, however, remains locked on me.

A hand reaches out, resting gently on mine, his thumb ghosting across my shaking fingers, “My darling, the fact that you are willing to voice these fears should be evidence enough that you have nothing to worry about. You contain a level of emotional intelligence that will never cease to amaze me. Should you choose to act upon these feelings, I assure you, we will be just fine.”

My eyes meet his, I don’t notice a tear has fallen until he reaches his hand up to wipe it away. When he notices how I lean into his touch, he cradles my cheek ever so gently, and I shut my eyes to savor the feeling, letting a warm smile wash away my worried frown. I rest a still-shaky hand upon his, opening my eyes to meet his once again, “What do you say we figure it out together, then?”

“A wonderful idea, darling,” Tech closes the small distance between us, placing a kiss upon my forehead. I can feel his smile. “However, I’ll need to review my files before you continue your experiment.”

I pull back, a look of faux shock on my face, too giddy to feel the real thing right now, “You mean there’s more?”

“Frankly, an embarrassing amount, perhaps we will review them someday but I’ve taken the liberty of deleting the more… risque files from your library.”

I’m glad the door to the cockpit is closed, otherwise the volume of my laugh surely would’ve woken both Echo and Wrecker, “Risque?!”

“I would greatly appreciate it if you refrained from mocking me,” Tech sighs, the mirth in his tone evident.

“Maybe that can be the next experiment,” I laugh with a smirk.

“Mocking me does not sound like an experiment I would have any interest in partaking in, thank you very–” His mild offense fades away in realization, “Oh. An interesting experiment, indeed.”

A/N: Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! As always, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated, I love hearing your feedback! Part two will be posted soon <3

[coffeehighallthetime-blog]

I am Kind not Complacent Chpt 5

Hello! Here is Chpt 5! warnings: some mention of overstimulation and comfort through panic attack.

Chpt 5: 3K

{Prev}-{next}

Heimdall x fem!reader (they're both kids rn)

multi chapter

hope you enjoy it! and thank you to @engardeitsme as usualllll love you buddy, thank you for your support!

thank you to @lunaryasha, @nokolla as well for reading!💜💜💜

A/N: also sorry for the typos it's very late lol

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

“Is there a single thought going on in your head?”

Heimdall had asked the question at least three times now and the girl was starting to lose her patience, twiddling her thumbs as Heimdall glared at her. The discomfort of letting the boy try to have free range of her mind made her uncomfortable, no matter how many times they had done it now. And his lack of empathy, taking her time, running through her head, only to blame her? He really was a weasel. 

“Certainly,” she spoke stiffly, breathing through her nose. “I’m just not focusing on any particular thought. Which is the point of the exercise in case you forgot.” She watched as his eyes squinted and snorted, poking at his furrowed brows.” also, I don’t think you’re supposed to make it this obvious that you are running through people’s heads.” Heimdall’s cheeks flushed in embarrassment as he batted the girl’s hand away. 

“I’m working on it, ok?” He muttered, trying to relax his features as he continued to pick through her thoughts. It was a jumbled mess of things, like muttering getting louder and quieter, with just a few words popping out at him. He could tell she was getting frustrated with him, an angry rumbling in the undertow of her musings. Nothing to give him coherent information. It didn’t help that anything he was able to grab onto was interrupted by the thoughts of people all the way on the other side of the lodge. One moment, he could hear Yn’s thoughts start to get louder, and the next it was some trivial rubbish of a maid doing chores, or the fighters sparing outside, horses in the stable, or his damn brother, Thor, snoring. Heimdall growled and threw his head back, rubbing his temples with his palms.

“It’s still too loud!” the girl sighed at this, pulling a leg up to her chest while the other dangled over her chair.

“We’ve already moved three times, Weasel. I think this is as quiet as it’s going to get for us.”

“I know, which is why I feel even more pissed off!” he bolted from his seat, pacing around the room. “We’ve been at this for weeks and all I can hear is gibberish and your surface-level musings! It’s ridiculous. Do you have ‘any’ thoughts in that walnut you call a brain?!” the girl frowned, turning her head away. In the thoughts that thrummed threw her into Heimdall's ears he only heard: ‘...I…..Heimdall……idiot….’

“Excuse me?” he frowned, turning to her. She looked at him confused.

“What?”

“All I heard was my name and the word idiot!” the girl raised a brow, knowing she had more to her thought. She was tired of being treated like an idiot. Still, she decided to smirk and held her hands up in defeat.

“Well look at that, it seems I do have some thoughts in this walnut.” she snorted as the boy crossed his arms, trying to hear more insults.

“Also, I don't know if it’s occurred to you,” she leaned back in her chair, “ but I’m not enjoying you clumsily poking around my head either for weeks on end. So forgive me for trying to keep some things private.”

They indeed had been meeting for weeks now, after supper in Heimdall’s room. Only to migrate through different parts of the lodge when it got too loud for him to concentrate. The first few lessons had gone well, but the two thought this was merely due to Yn concentrating on a single thought for Heimdall to listen to. This obviously would not be the case when he had to find out information from people against their will, so the girl suggested they move on to Heimdall trying to read her free-roaming thoughts. This proved to be much more difficult and only seemed to get worse the more he strained to listen, instead being overflowed with noises and thoughts far from where they were. The girl also didn’t enjoy the next level of mind reading, flushing when Heimdall would point out thoughts she didn’t even know she had. It was all very invasive. 

“We are getting nowhere,” Heimdall growled under his breath, flopping back into his chair across from the girl. He sighed and looked up at her, arms crossed. “Why is it that I can hear you perfectly fine sometimes and the next, there is nothing but mumbling?” the girl relaxed her shoulders, sensing the boy’s frustration.

“Well,” she started, her hands folding over her raised leg, “I want to try to hide things in those moments. I don’t like having you up here,” she pointed to the space between her brows, “but if I focus on what I want you to hear, you seem to have an easier time with it.” Heimdall sighed, rubbing his face in frustration. 

“I need to be able to look at everything no matter if you want it hidden or not.” The girl frowned, not liking the idea of the boy with that kind of power. She sighed, however, remembering their agreement.

“Do you think you may be siking yourself out?” he just looked at her, a confused pull at his brows. She continued, standing up to pace as she spoke, “What I mean is, when it’s based on instinct like the first time we fought, or when you could hear me on the wall…it was like a survival instinct. You knew automatically what to do.”

“I guess,” he frowned, crossing his arms, “but it’s not completely quiet, it’s just a mess. Like thousands of people talking over each other. And I can’t tell what’s your thoughts, other’s thoughts, or outside actions. But when I concentrate I get closer to honing in on just your sounds.” the girl nodded in agreement, a hand on her chin as she stopped in front of the window, the afternoon breeze flowing through and the sunset light shining over the horizon, covered by the wall. She hummed as she got an idea, and because it was louder than the rest, Heimdall could catch wind of some of it. “What about the wall?” He asked, looking at her over the back of his chair. She smiled and turned to him, and his face fell as he heard the rest of the plan racing through his head.

“Oh, no. No no no. we are not going back out there. The All-Father is already suspicious.”

“We’ll go in the dead of night!” she said with an excited smile, getting closer to him.

“You’re crazy!”

“Does anything come out of your mouth except insults?” she huffed, hands on her hips.

“ For you?” he asked with a sarcastic smirk, “Never.” she ignored the boy, grabbing her things. 

“It’ll be an experiment.”

“I’m not an experiment.”

“Are you sure about that?”

He huffed. Though he couldn’t hear what she was thinking, he could tell her thoughts were running a mile a minute. And he didn’t like her tone.

“I’m not going.” he stood firm, and though he didn’t show it on his face, Yn had started to be able to tell when he was growing anxious. And right now, he stunk of nerves. The girl sighed, slowing her movements, and faced Heimdall. 

“Fine then. We don’t have to go,” she reassured him and felt the tension ease slightly. She smiled, “We’ll stop for today.”

He hated her ability to ease him. And that no matter how much he tried to control his emotions, he couldn’t resist the calm she gave him. He knew it was from her powers, and it terrified him. He should not be able to be so easily influenced. He reasoned to himself, that he was building a tolerance to her powers, and soon it wouldn’t work on him. She was just a stepping stone. That’s all this was.

With a wave of her hand, she was out of the room, spouting about how he could knock when he couldn’t sleep before shutting the door. Like he would ever in a million years, go crawling-

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

There Heimdall stood. Ridged in front of Yn’s door. Cold sweat beaded at his temple, and he held in sobs, biting his lip till it threatened to bleed. His hands gripped at the bottom of his shirt and he trembled in front of the girl’s door. He hated it. Hated waking up to the sound of phantoms in his head, endless mumblings rattling through his mind like an echoing hall. He hated not being able to quiet them, the power they had over him. He hated the fear that seeped into his bones from the sounds in his head, and the consequences of being caught for being unable to deal with them on his own.

But most of all, he hated that what he had found was finally able to quiet his mind was snoring softly on the other side of the door in front of him, without a care in the world. That he was supposed to be learning information on this girl, and nothing more. He was the god of foresight. A gift bestowed on him. And he was using this girl, a stranger, a possible enemy, to calm himself. And she let him. It all made his stomach twist in ways he didn’t know were possible. 

Still, despite how he wanted to run back to his room. Simply will the sounds to stop. To be able to understand the girl’s intentions and report them to the All-Father so she could finally be out of his hair. Despite all of it:

There he stood, trembling, willing his voice to whimper just a bit quieter. She left the door unlocked. She had started doing so so he wouldn’t have to knock and make extra noise. Her kindness frustrated him. He had never experienced anything like it before. He thought it must have meant she wanted something from him, and he would die before he gave it to her. 

Heimdall’s fist wrapped around the door handle, and he swallowed as he twisted, pushing the door open. Yn stirred, waking to the sound of her door opening. She rubbed her eyes and watched as the boy slowly walked in, shutting the door as quietly as possible behind him before collapsing to the floor, letting his sobs rasp out of him, biting his arm to stay quiet. Without a second thought, Yn’s voice filled the room with soft music, and she quickly got out of bed, her little feet padding over with a blanket in tow, falling to her knees in front of him and pulling his head to rest against hers. 

He hated how his chest already felt lighter. How warm she felt against his cold sweaty head. How she paid no mind to his heaving and trembling, ignoring what he knew she thought was a pathetic display. No matter how many times she would reassure him, he told himself he knew she looked down on him. It felt disgusting. And over everything else, he hated that she made him feel at peace. 

They stayed like that, a crumpled mess on the floor, as Yn’s voice thrummed through Heimdall’s chest and calmed his heartbeat, quieted his sobs, and ceased his trembling. Her hands rested on his shoulders, and when she felt them start to still, she pulled away, the song still chiming from her mind into his. She took the boy's hands, easing him to stand, and brought him to her bed.

“Here, sit down, okay?” She sat on the bed, her back against the wall, and pulled him to the spot next to her. He was too weak to protest, leaning his head back against the wall once he was sat, and just took in the song and silence. No matter how many times he came to the girl’s room, the relief he felt was still overwhelming in its own way. They stayed like that for a while, just like they do every night he came to her room. Sometimes she would read, her voice soothing him back to sleep. Sometimes she talked about what she learned with Mimir, not expecting any answer as Heimdall let her silly little thoughts be the only mumbling he could hear. But for some reason, tonight, as she spoke just above a whisper for him, trailing off about her home and how she would crawl up into the trees to sleep there when she had a nightmare, he responded.

“Why did you crawl into the trees?” He asked, his voice raspy for strangling down his tears. He felt Yn stiffen for a moment, then shift to look at him. He didn’t look back, leaving her to sit in his question for a moment before she smiled, looking away from him again.

“Because I was afraid of getting eaten. Do you know what a drekki is?” Heimdall barely nodded, peering to look at her. 

“Big lizard… lots of teeth…”

 “Well,” she started, “I had this nightmare all the time, of a drekki swallowing me up while I slept, and staying alive in its belly.” 

“That’s disgusting” Heimdall’s nose crinkled, feeling a shiver go down his spine. The girl giggled and nodded in agreement.

“I know. So I would sleep in the trees and tell myself an aching back was better than living in a drekki. Even here, I still get nightmares sometimes, and I want to sleep on the roof!” she smiled sheepishly, and Heimdall felt a small lopsided smirk pull at the side of his cheek despite his best efforts. Perhaps worst of all, he found himself caring less and less. Letting himself continue to ask questions, and even started to answer some of hers.

“Why do you not tell anyone about this?” She spoke softly, turning to look at him.

“Because I’m a god,” He didn’t hesitate at the question, answering as though it were simply a fact of life. “I am the Scion of the Aesir, given the gift of foresight by the All-Father.” a look of pride shined in his pink eyes, but it soon left as he looked at the clock ticking on Yn’s bedside table. “... If I cannot handle this gift,... I am unworthy. I am a failure.” he turned to look at the girl desperately. “ no one can know. You especially. You make me weak.”

“Resting is not weakness.” Heimdall frowned, shaking his head at her.

“I’m meant to be a soldier.”

“You’re a kid, Heimdall. We both are.”

He snorted, turning away from her.

“You don’t get it.” he mumbled, “you don’t have a home to protect, or a family to make proud.” 

There was silence, the music had stopped, and Heimdall heard the rising speed and weight of the girl’s heart pounding against her ribs. He turned to her again, seeing her face contort, her breathing got uneven and she curled a bit into herself. Despite this, however, she turned at Heimdall, a sad smile tugging at her cheeks. 

“That was pretty messed up, Weasel.” her voice cracked slightly, and she turned to look away, stifling a sniffle and whipping a tear from under her eye. Heimdall felt an ache twist in his chest. He felt guilty, without her powers to influence her. 

“I’m sorry,” he spoke without thinking. She scoffed.

“No, it’s fine. But so were are both clear, I did have a home, and a family” Her voice grew cold and it made the boy want to shiver like she breathed ice in his face. “I watched it all burn to the ground.” her voice didn’t waver, but her hands shook. “And then I picked up the pieces and made myself something I could live with. Now I’m here. Away from everything I know and no one in Vanaheim will even mourn me. Because everyone who knew me is dead.” her voice rattled like dice at the end, and she stifled a sob, turning away from him. 

 “ I didn’t-” his voice was faster than his thoughts, “I didn’t mean to make you upset. I was just-” he tripped over his tongue, “ I didn’t mean to hurt you, I am sorry.” his own voice was weak and he was unsure why, “ I just-” he breathed out, “I hate it.”

She turned to look at him, tears silently trickling down her face. It was only fair he comforted her in return. That’s what he told himself as he dabbed them away with his sleeve.

“You hate what?” she asked in a cracked whisper, not pulling away from him. He swallowed before admitting for the first time both aloud and to himself:

“I hate the weight of it…I wish I was alone…I wish,” his voice trailed off. And though he didn’t finish his thought, Yn somehow knew what he meant, and sighed, sniffling quietly. He swallowed, looking down at his knees, “I didn’t know that’s what happened…”

“ No, you don’t…” she mumbled, shaking her head. “ because being alone for years is not worth the peace of solitude. I promise it’s not.” she glared at him weakly, “and maybe you should have read a little deeper before trying to use my past as ammunition.” Heimdall frowned, placing a careful hand on the girl’s shoulder. 

“I really am sorry…” He spoke, fully aware of his words this time. Yn sniffled and looked at him for a moment before she smiled, weakly.

“I’ll think about accepting it. You sound honest enough.” she teased and he couldn’t stop his smile. “Hey,” she nudged him, “you’re being nice. Without me.” she shrugged, “Sort of.” he chuckled slightly and nodded.

“ I guess I want to be a little bit nicer to you…” he shrugged back, “sort of.”

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

[sweetloleepop]

Synopsis: What happens when a lonely husband is left with an obsessive maid?

Pairing: Erwin Smith x Reader

Tags: 1960's AU, explicit sexual content, maid reader, making out, unprotected sex, masturbation, oral (m receiving), creampie, angry sex, swearing, slight degredation, infidelity

a/n: ⁱ ᵃˡᵐᵒˢᵗ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵃᵐᵉ ᵗᵃᵍˢ ᵃˢ ᵗʰᵉ ˡᵃˢᵗ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ ᵇᵘᵗ ᵗʰⁱˢ ᵒⁿᵉ'ˢ ᵈⁱᶠᶠᵉʳᵉⁿᵗ ⁱ ˢʷᵉᵃᵃᵃʳ

Wordcount: 1.9k

“Ugh, ahh, Mr. Smith”, moans, grunts, and mumbles are all that I can utter as the guvnor, Erwin Smith, pounded onto me. The speed of his thrusts and the depth of his cock had me seeing stars. “You can’t shy away from calling my name now, can you?” Mr. Smith asked. I was too lost in pleasure to even answer coherently, and Mr. Smith – No – Erwin was quick to bring me back down. He suddenly slowed his pace and once again spoke, “Do you not know how to answer when someone’s talking to you?” , “I-I’m sorry, mister- ah, Erwin”

||

I’m (Y/N) (L/N), I have been working for the Smith household for 5 years now. I’ve watched as my two employers, Mister and Missis Smith, fall deeply in love and fall out of it. Both became too busy with personal businesses, but still, it led the woman feeling neglected. I can’t really blame her though, hours of waiting for him at night just for him to not even remember that today is their wedding anniversary. She felt like she deserved better and so she looked for someone else. As bad as it is, its none other than her husband’s friend, Nile Dok. Erwin knew, he’s not an idiot. He knew the reason as to why his wife is out more than usual, why she goes home later than he does, and as to why she became colder to him yet more friendly with others. But Erwin can’t stop now, he’s worked hard for his company and he is not giving up now.

Yes, his wife probably needs him, but she now has someone else and she still comes back to him so its not that big of a deal. That’s before he knew who she was cheating on him with. They argued for almost an eternity that night, I could hear as vases were broken, as things were thrown, and cusses and names were exchanged. It became really toxic, but somehow, I don’t feel poisoned instead, I felt empowered.

After that night, the Smith residence has become deafeningly quiet. Some times the couple would meet at other parts of the house, they would either not acknowledge each other’s presence or argue a bit then have some wordless sex. I could sometimes hear Mr. Smith confront the missus and after that comes the sounds of moans.

The sounds were loud, loud enough for me to hear the degrading words that Mr. Smith throws at his wife. I wonder what that feels like, to be touched by him, to be held by him… The thoughts of Mr. Smith plagues me at night, I can’t help but creep my hands down and touch myself.

||

Today, Mr. Smith looks more stressed than usual. He hadn’t the time to even exit his home office to get something to eat. Being the responsible maid that I am, I took it upon myself to give him dinner. I knocked gently on his door and I felt excited as I heard his rumbling voice. I entered his room, it was dark, the only source of light was a little lamp placed on his desk. Mr. Smith looked tired, his eyes are heavy and a stubble was evident on his chin. He looks hot. I made my way to his desk and served him his dinner, our hands slightly touched, ah, his hands are a little rough. He thanked me and I’ve exited the room.

A little later, I was called to take his dishes. He was deep within the pile of his paperwork. “Have you enjoyed your dinner, sir?”. “I can’t say I didn’t, the steak was cooked exquisitely”, he replied with his deep voice, how attractive.

||

It was nearing midnight, 11:55pm to be exact. I was lying on my bed, sleep is yet to envelop me. I wonder if he's asleep. I didn’t heard the front door open earlier indicating that Mrs. Smith isn’t home yet. I decided to check on the guvnor, I exited my room and made my way to the master bedroom. I knocked on the door and received no answer. “Mr. Smith?” after a few minutes without his reply, I slowly opened the door. He’s not here.

Its not unusual for the guvnor to stay up late doing his papers, but its almost midnight. I reached his office and once again, I knocked. “Mr. Smith, are you there?” I gently spoke. There’s also no answer, it was getting suspicious and I was getting worried so I opened the door and looked around. There he is, sleeping on his desk, face down on a small pile of paper. He must’ve worked very hard to finish a lot. I walked up to him, I bent myself a little to get closer. I looked into his hair-covered eyes, his eyes are closed and his hair looks soft. He looks peaceful just like this, so alluring.

He shifted a little and finally opened his eyes. I moved backwards, alarmed. “I’m sorry mister Smith, did I wake you up?”, “No, its aright. What time is it?” he asked, his voice gruff. “It’s almost midnight sir, 11:57”.

He stood up and walked around the desk, near where I am standing. The sleepiness probably hasn’t left his system yet and he stumbled. I caught him right before he fell. Mr. Smith is a tall and muscular man, I should’ve known trying to catch him halfway through a fall would’ve brought both of us to the ground. Or did I just ignored that? We both fell, with him below me. I stared right into his eyes, they were wonderful. I could get lost in his eyes forever. I’ve never been this close to him, I’m slowly drowning in desire. I want you, Mister Smith…

I placed my face closer to his and-

“W-what are you doing, (Y/N)?” Erwin asked. “I… I want you mister Smith, please…” I pleaded with desperation. I’ve waited for this to happen for so long – way too long.

He didn’t replied, he just stared. The clock seemed to tick slowly as I waited for him to do something. If he won’t, then I will. Even if it takes force, even if it takes my life, I will.

Mr. Smith stayed still, he looks like he’s contemplating. I took the opportunity to lightly roam my fingers through his chest. He looked into my eyes whilst mine followed my finger. He let out a groan and I looked back at his face. Before I knew it, his lips are on mine. I kissed him back with vigor.

It didn’t take long for our kiss to become so heated, he asked for entrance and I gladly let him in. Our tongues danced together in a lovely tango. Erwin’s lips were so soft, it was so, so sweet. I was busy following his lead that I failed to notice his hands snaking around my waist. In a swift motion, I was beneath him.

Mr. Smith started trailing kisses down my neck. He started sucking near my clavicle which made me shiver. His lips suddenly stopped and mister Smith sat up, removing his dress shirt. I sat up right in front of him and traced my hands through his chiseled jaw. I once again kissed his lips whilst his hands found their way onto my dress’ strap. The soft, cotton fabric slid off of my body so smoothly, leaving me bare, wearing only the lacy pair of panties that I originally bought for this type of scenario.

I slowly made mister Smith lie down and then I straddled his stomach. It’s my turn to trail kisses all over his face, neck, and torso. Upon reaching his muscular but soft pectorals, I gave his right nipple a lick and placed the other one between my thumb and index finger. I took my time ravishing in the salty taste of his body before my kisses went lower. I looked him in the eye, asking for permission. He sat up and helped me remove his pants. I gulped when I saw his cock, he’s huge…

Pushing my intimidated thoughts away, I started giving his tip little licks and sucks. I tried putting the whole thing in but I can’t really help but gag. Mister Smith guided me in enveloping him, making my head bob up and down. Not soon after, he started thrusting into me. I can feel his cock deep in my throat and tears started falling from my eyes, not that I hate what he’s doing.

Not long after, he shot his load inside my mouth which I gladly swallowed, not missing a single drop. I was still catching my breath when Erwin carried me and made his way to his desk, he pushed everything to the side causing some of his papers and quills to fall onto the ground. He placed me on his desk and hurriedly removed my panties.

He rubbed my clit for a few seconds before lining himself in between my thighs. Erwin looked me in the eyes and rubbed himself near my entrance, making me whimper by the lack of a much anticipated friction.

“Mr. Smith, please,” I pleaded with glossy eyes.

“If you insist,”

With all the force he could gather, he slammed his cock into my cunt. The stretch hurt a little but it cannot be compared to the amount of pleasure that it brought. We both released a pleasured sound, a loud moan from me and a groan from him. It feels so good, to finally have this feeling of being full, the feeling of overflowing pleasure, the feeling of him inside me.

“Ugh, ahh, Mr. Smith”, moans, grunts, and mumbles are all that I can utter as the guvnor, Erwin Smith, pounded onto me. The speed of his thrusts and the depth of his cock had me seeing stars. “You can’t shy away from calling my name now, can you?” Mr. Smith asked. I was too lost in pleasure to even answer coherently, and Mr. Smith – No – Erwin was quick to bring me back down. He suddenly slowed his pace and once again spoke, “Do you not know how to answer when someone’s talking to you?” , “I-I’m sorry, mister- ah, Erwin”.

“Are you really?” Erwin asked, still thrusting in an agonizingly slow pace.

I nodded as a response.

“Use your words, slut”

“I am, I’m sorry, Erwin. Please,” I begged for him with teary eyes.

“If you asked so nicely, why wouldn’t I?” Erwin said before picking up a faster pace.

It felt so, so good. Erwin’s thick cock made me feel so full. I was nearing my orgasm when he, once again, stopped.

“Stand up”

I obliged and Erwin spun me around, making me bend over his desk. Fuck. He once again entered me and fucked me hard. I mean, HARD. It was fast, it was deep, it was mind-blowing. I can’t help but moan louder. I’m cumming…

“Erwin- Erwin- fuck I’m close,”

Erwin mumbled a string of curses before rubbing my clit vigorously which made me cum so hard my eyes rolled to the back of my head. Loud moans escaped my lips as Erwin continued to fuck me. Not long after, he came too, shooting hot loads of cum inside me.

I fell limp on his desk and so did he. But after some time, he walked towards his office bathroom to get a towel and clean us up. It was very warm. I was so light headed. After cleaning me for a bit, Erwin carried me to his office couch where we both fell asleep. This I know, would be the very start of many more nights to come…

[toyybox]

Spiderwebs #8: Tape IV (Killswitch)

Masterlist

content: lab whump, captivity, immortal whumpee, vivisection, blood/gore, organ stuff, mention of body weight/starvation

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Another benefit of the freezer would be its numbing properties. Ether wasn’t cheap to come by, and neither was chloroform. Giving him another concussion was risky. Heather didn’t know the long-term effects of all these injuries. She would rather not put Jackie in a coma, even if he was a petulant little prick. 

Besides, she was curious. How long before his body gave way? Would it ever? How much could she remove before it proved fatal? Was there a limit to his pain? Was there any mechanism hidden in that biology to numb him, something like a killswitch in his nerves? Or would he feel it all indefinitely? Like a perpetual motion machine, sustained by his own kinetic energy. An automaton of infinite force, a system that would never stop. 

And, all these reasons aside, there was one glaring benefit. If nothing else, the pain would teach him a lesson. Teach him to think before he acted.

She wondered what he thought about all this. If Heather was immortal, she’d be thrilled. Then again, Heather was not being held captive as someone else’s guinea pig. Perhaps he didn’t find any of this as fascinating as she did. Not that she was going to ask him, of course. That information was irrelevant. Nothing but a distraction.

 “Rise and shine, sleepyhead.” She tore the blanket off him and let it fall to the ground. “It’s a new day and we don’t have any time to waste. Get up.”

He suppressed a yawn. “Hello.” His eyelashes were coated in frost, she noticed. So were his lips, and the joints of his hands. The curls and coils in his hair had gone stiff.

“Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“Fine.” The corners of his mouth tilted in what could almost be called a smile. “How are you?”

“We have no time for such pleasantries.” The recorder clicked to life. “Tape four, I think. Jackie over here has been in a deep freezer for well over seven hours. How do you feel, Jackie?”

“Oh, I’m okay. Cold, I guess. Thanks for the blanket, by the way.” 

She ignored that last comment. “Subject has not gone unconscious, evidently. Meaning he is immune to asphyxiation and hypothermia. How many fingers am I holding up, Jackie?” 

He studied her hands. “Five?”

“Great. And how would you rate your pain, on a scale of one to ten? One being nothing at all, ten being unbearable agony.”

“Like, a four? Everything sort of hurts.” He laughed softly. “Sleeping helped.” 

“Yes, rest is important. I expect you to take care of your basic needs. I won’t have a test subject who’s too tired to be coherent. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He sat up in the freezer, letting one hand rest on the ledge. “Can I get out of here, then?”

“Not yet. Just wait a few minutes.”

Keeping him calm would be crucial. Keeping him from moving, or lashing out. Or panicking. Something like this would be distressing, for sure. Heather had considered giving up, but she was not a coward. She wasn’t afraid of a little blood. Jackie would be fine. If he was upset, he’d get over it. If he was angry, he could wallow in his own rage. That was fine with her. It would be fine. Better to rip the bandage off now.

“Jackie.” She leaned in a little. “I need you to do something for me.”

“What is it?” His brows furrowed slightly. The corners of his mouth went tense, less of a smile and more the start of a frown.

“Relax. Don’t look so worried.” She cupped his face in her hands. His eyes went wide at the sudden motion. “Jackie, I need you to look at me. Can you do that? No,” she said as his gaze flicked behind her. “Look at me. Don’t look down.”

“Okay? Why?” He held her gaze, though there was a degree of uneasiness in the depth of his pupils, the way they seemed to tremble. 

“That doesn’t matter.” She let go of his face. “Lay down."

He shifted, though she could tell he was reluctant. Ice crackled beneath his weight. Though his legs did not fit comfortably in the freezer, his torso lay flat. One hand was placed on the freezer ledge, and the other was curved up against the polystyrene wall.

"Thank you," Heather said. "Take off your shirt, please."

“Shirt? What?” 

“Well, I suppose you can keep it on. I’ll clean it off later.” She retrieved two zip-ties from her pocket. Heavy-duty zip-ties, the hardware employee had assured. Thick, made of rigid plastic, difficult to break. 

A couple hours earlier, she had secured two hooks on the outside rims of the freezer. Restraints were necessary for certain procedures—even under anesthetics, the sudden reflexes of an injured body could interfere with a surgeon’s work. Restraints were necessary for a patient’s safety. And the hooks were low enough to be comfortable. They stuck out only a few inches above his shoulders. That would, at the very least, be a comfort.

“This is just to ensure you won’t move,” she said. “It’s distracting, you know, if you start moving around. That’s all.” She began securing his wrists as she spoke, pulling the plastic straps up, ensuring that nothing could slip out. Jackie regarded these motions with an expression that was decidedly not calm, but he remained silent. 

“There you go.” She finished the second zip-tie up and brushed her hands off. “How are your wrists? Is the plastic too rough?”

He shook his head.

“Good.” Heather began pulling on her rubber gloves. She had brought in another table earlier, longer and made of plastic, where she’d arranged her tools. The scalpel, the pair of scissors, the bone saw, the many jars, her pistol—one never knew when things would go sideways—and a variety of forceps and clamps. “Close your eyes if you need to. Oh, and try not to make too much noise. I’ll be done in a moment.”

“What are you—” He attempted to look over her shoulder. 

Heather tilted his head back towards her, clasping his jaw gently in her hand. “Stop asking questions.”

He asked nothing else, if only because she refused to answer. With the scalpel held behind her back, she lifted his shirt. The fabric bunched just above his collarbones. His chest was now visible. The scars above his heart had completely disappeared after the fire, like nothing more than a line drawn in the sand. She observed the steady movements of his lungs beneath the skin and bones, with as much clinical detachment as she could muster. He really needed to eat more. Another week of hunger and his ribs would be visible through the skin. 

She brought the scalpel to his chest. He tensed beneath the blade. As she dragged it through his skin, he gasped. She opened him up all the way from the start of the collarbone to the section of skin above the hips, in a double-sided Y pattern. 

It wasn’t all too different from dissecting a frog or cat. She had also worked on human cadavers before, in her university years. It never failed to amaze her how similar all bodies were. Those organic structures were an endless source of fascination. All people, whatever their worth or power or beauty, could be reduced to nothing more than blood and bones with only a blade and a couple of well-placed cuts.

Jackie’s insides were normal. A few pulls of the scalpel later, she could see all the central organs laid out before her. Blood glittered between the tissues, glazing every surface. Stomach, lungs, liver, intestines… nothing out of the ordinary. His heart was beating abnormally fast, however. Wrought with spasms, possessed by a waterfalling panic. His lungs, too, worked quickly. A beautiful system of muscles and tissues and blood. Nothing was damaged or mutated. Nothing indicated the source of his immortality.

“Subject is biologically typical,” Heather informed the recorder. “No abnormalities, as far as I can see. I’ll start dissecting the organs and go from there, I think.”

His head tilted to one side, so that it rested on the ice. “Heather.”

“Shh.” She placed a hand on his cheek, without looking up, before realizing that her gloves were smudged with blood. A line of red painted his face. “Oh. Sorry about that. Everything is okay. Calm down.”

“Heather,” he repeated, a little more insistently. His voice was low, barely louder than a whisper, and heavy with emotion. “Stop.”

His nails were digging into his palms. An anchor to keep him steady. His knuckles were going pale from holding on. His eyes had glassed over. His pupils went out of focus. His lips were trembling, with all the delicate subtlety of a butterfly crawling out of its chrysalis. His arm shifted, as if to fight the restraints, but he could only shudder and sink further into the ice.

“Don’t move,” she warned. “Don’t even try. Not while I’m working. Your insides will fall out, and that won’t be pleasant for either of us. And stay quiet. I'll gag you if I have to.”

His gaze was fixed on her, but he ventured a single glance down—this did nothing to calm him. His breathing came in short, shallow bursts. 

Heather grasped his jaw much harder this time, forcing his head up. “I told you to look at me. Don’t move again. Don't think about it.” 

She let go. With the bone saw she broke a few ribs open—he flinched hard, jerked his wrists against the zip-ties—then she dug the scalpel into an exposed artery. With a hand to stem the blood flow, she sawed it off from the body. Much to her surprise, the tissue was healing faster now. Within seconds, the artery grew back, sewing the gap shut. His body was learning, it seemed. Or it was trying to keep him conscious.

After three more attempts, she ceased her sawing and moved on to removing the liver. The organ was of regular color and size, being large and reddish-brown. It was cut out with comparative ease. 

Jackie swallowed. “Is that mine?” 

“Let me check the label.” She laughed at her own joke. “Aren’t you something special? How are you doing any of this?”

He shivered. He was no longer looking right at Heather, but in fact someplace behind her. He didn’t seem to be listening anymore.

“I’m not done yet,” she said. “Hang on. Give me five more minutes.” 

Heather moved on to his intestines. First, she had to reopen his skin—compared to the heart, it healed extremely slowly, but it still healed. Then, using the scissors, she cut the small intestines away from the ligaments holding them together. She lifted them out of the body. 

“Fascinating.” She inspected the organ in the light, tilting it this way and that. “Does this hurt?”

He nodded fervently. 

“Are you sorry?”

He waited a second too long to answer. She crushed the intestines in her fist.

He was pierced by a shuddering gasp. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, please, stop. Don’t.” The muscles in his shoulders tensed up, as she let go of the organ. “Please, don’t do that again.”

“It looks like you’ve finally learned some manners. Remember this feeling, Jackie. I want you to remember this the next time you even think of escaping.”

“I—” Another deep gasp, a longer one. Tears glistened in his eyes. He coughed. He coughed again, harder, a sound that would leave his throat sore. Blood dripped from his lips. “Ow.”

“Well, you can still speak, so it can’t hurt that much.” She wiped the blood off his mouth with a gloved finger. “I’ll finish up in a few more minutes. I’d like to take a souvenir or two, first.”

"A souvenir.”  His breath hitched. “Like this is the fucking Eiffel t—tower." 

She pressed her nails down, watched him squirm. "You're not being very polite, Jackie."

"I’m sorry. St—stop.  I'm sorry.”

Heather was fascinated by his compliance. She could do anything to him now. She had power over him. He could beg all he wanted, but she didn’t have to stop. She…

…felt a slight twinge of pity. He was obviously upset. Close to a panic attack, if he wasn’t already there. Who wouldn't be? Heather couldn't blame him for trying to escape, or for acting a little rude. She didn’t like it, of course, but it was to be expected. He’d been torn out of his old life like nothing more than a flower from the earth. It would take some time to get used to this, no matter how kind Heather was. She was a reasonable person. All things considered, she was actually a nice person. And he was so helpless, so fragile beneath the cold metal of her instruments, that she felt something close to sympathy. 

“Okay.” She put the intestines back in his body, eliciting yet another soft gasp. “Close your eyes, Jack.”

She retrieved an injection from the table, filling it with the anesthetic drug. Once she had measured the correct amount, she pressed the needle into the base of his neck. He did not struggle—he knew not to, or he had lost too much blood to care. His eyes lowered, then closed. He fell unconscious some time after. His body relaxed, and his head slumped over the edge of the freezer. Those fleeting, shallow breaths began to slow. 

“Well." Heather turned to the recorder with a slightly embarrassed smile, even though she was alone. "That was… that was definitely...”

After a moment of deliberation, she put the injection away and returned to her subject. “Subject’s pain receptors function as normal. Immortality doesn’t account for that. Good to know, I suppose.” She severed the small intestine entirely from his body, then placed it on a sheet of wax paper.

 “There’s one thing I’ve noticed,” Heather continued as she worked the scalpel. “Certain tissues heal slower than others. My hypothesis is that the vital organs, like the heart, take priority over the less essential ones. It takes a toll on the body, I assume. Making all those new parts. Skin and hair heals the slowest. That’s only an educated guess, however. I’ll need to run a few more tests before I’m certain.” 

She cut a section from his large intestine. “I’ve not the slightest clue how or why this is happening. Perhaps a biopsy will reveal something…“ She placed the section in an open jar. “I’d love to examine his skeletal structure. His muscles, as well. All of him, really.”

By the time she was done, all the jars had been filled with Jackie’s organs and tissues. Some of the smaller jars held his blood. She had managed to remove a section of his ribs as well, though it had taken a significant amount of force to saw off. In the end, she had quite the collection. The only problem would be fitting it all in her spare freezer. She could dispose of some of the parakeet hearts and dog brains, Heather supposed. This was much more important. 

This changed things.

[carmenized-onions]

reading this chapter was truly an emotional journey for me - i wrote a page of notes while reading that are completely incoherent but i will recount here anyway

firstly, of course chip is a pun girly we have known this forever, but every time she makes a joke i laugh out loud like yes you are so funny

my next focus was him forgetting to turn his location off - i hear the black dog by taylor swift playing in the background. i need this girl and this boy to realise that neither of them hate eachother because this cat and mouse game is getting on my nerves (in the best way no offence to you author)

wondering why i wasn’t invited on the richie carmen road trip - mainly because i want to hear their conversations and secondly because it would be the perfect opportunity for a tag team

as soon as i read the bit about the chance that they would interact being low i thought ,,,, ooo this will be disproved by our favourite author extraordinaire and i was right!

random request but can we have a christmas / holiday themed chapter i just want to see all the presents chip gives out i love her

also enjoying the use of kitchen as a verb when talking about richie being bad at kitchen - it’s giving ken’s job being beach in the barbie movie

thankful that you gave us some sydney/chip moments and some richie/sydney/chip moments plus some marcus later as i don’t know if i could have handled this chapter without seeing my babies having a sliver of joy for at least a couple of lines

i could be completely off base with this but was the reference to cherries when chip talks about carmen doing her prep an intentional callback to her favourite ice cream flavour? i could be majorly reading into it but if im right you are a genius and if im not you are still a genius without even knowing it

the knife tattoo being the hand she focuses on is a metaphor a mother figure english teacher should explain to me, but i am too tired to fully comprehend the meaning of this right now

sorry but who puts their wedding cake in an uber, creds to marcus for saving the day my small boy

i can’t even explain the neil fak moment but it is so fucking classic for him to misread a situation SO SEVERELY, i wish this was an actual scene because i need to physically see the facial expressions

and then we get to uncle lee. i had to put my phone down when carmen said his name, genuinely i let out a singular clap. we have never seen chip like this and i don’t know if we ever will again. this interaction consolidated the chip being a sponsor theory for me as it is so clear that she cannot stand the way people talk about drugs and addiction - especially regarding mikey

a callback to the italians loving their unions, you love to see it

i wrote very minimal notes on the carmy chip interaction at the end of the scene as there is really nothing for me to comment on except for how beautifully you wrote it. it is so peaceful but so angry i don’t know how you manage to do this every time. such a great reveal (despite the theories) as it did feel like a suprise to me still!!!

amazing work once again, i am sorry if this is completely incoherent i dont know how else to say this hahha

I DID GET THIS ASK!! I just took ten years to get to it, THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE LOVE!! It's all coherent dw let's fuckin LOCK IN!!!

list format let's fucking go

I remember when I first read this (the pun thing) it really had me kicking my feet because it just sounds like-- Like when a girl will laugh at fucking anything someone she has a crush on says. everyone be honest do you have a crush on tony? I'm moving the keep reading down so everyone legally has to answer.

AND THE LIST RESETS BUT IF I SIMPLY JUST PRESS ENTER ITS LIKE IT NEVER HAPPENED

I'm not a huge taylor girl but I will put it on in the background as I write the rest of this answer lets fuckin goo. These two really needed the under the counter talk we were TIRED

LMAO So many people wanted to come to that road trip-- You all dodged a bullet. Also so did I. because i didn't want to have to figure out how it would've gone. that sounds like so much work and i just wanted to have cute wedding time. sometimes we do time skips because we just want to have cute wedding time and no one admits this

of course it'd be disproved!! and

SHHHHHH you babies always be making requests, I DONT PUT GUNS IN THE FIRST ACT FOR NOTHING YOU KNOW ME!! but SHHHH!!!

he SUCKS at kitchen! Sometimes I use terms as verbs because it seems like how kitchens do things and i want everyone to think i know what it's like to work in service and i'm NOT just googling it and asking my bartending/server/linecook friends how it is. that's definitely NOT what's happening

ive said it a million times, who really cares about this carmen guy in this carmen fic. it's all about literally everyone else.

100% it's a call back! I reference cherries honestly more than i could ever expect. it's the flavour of the series now.

The knife tattoo thing though that was just me and my thing with hands. i have a thing with hands. so canonically tony also has a thing with hands. she just thought he was hot. but also about referencing it twice i did think-- or i guess wrote it-- i just think it's interesting how Carmen put his hand on her mouth and then ran that same hand through his scalp. just think thats interesting. just. thats something huh? or this could mean nothing

YOU'D BE SURPRISED I'VE HEARD HORROR STORIES OF PEOPLE HAVING THEIR CAKES DELIVERED BY UBER THINKING IT'LL BE SAFER THAN GETTING IT THEMSELVES AND THEY EAT SHIT ON THE WAY OVER

I wish so deeply I was a writer or director on the bear and could film this man. MATTY!! MATTY ARE YOU OUT THERE!!? HIRE ME BABY PLEASE?!?!?! I WENT TO SCHOOL FOR IT AND EVERYTHING COME ON!

Putting the phone down I think I've heard is one of the highest honours one can achieve? I've been told. AND A CLAP!? Let's fucking go. I won. I won boys! I can't think of a moment in which we will ever see Chip get this particularly hyphy-- Not to say she won't get mad in the future, but this was a very specific type of mad. genuinely if this wedding wasn't a lovely wedding it would've been so over.

The Union Italians scene was so much longer in the original version in my brain-- But I condensed it upon writing because it didn't really add much. But it was essentially gonna be Tony tired and then while ordering they look at her and go "wait,,, have you taken a break?" :( "no" "WHAT??? KNOW YOUR FUCKING RIGHTS!!!!"

This makes me so happy that I nailed that feeling, I was worried honestly that it was too peaceful? But that peaceful sort of like tempered anger is exactly what I was trying to go for. Like we're trying to problem solve and it's all kind of funny but I am still so mad.

AND ONCE AGAIN I THANK YOU FOR YOUR THOUGHTS I EAT EM FOR BREAKFAST LUNCH AND DINNER LOVE YOU!! I hope you love the next chapter it's a fucking DOOZY that I honestly think is going to throw everyone for a fucking loop. I'm so excited to see immediate reactions as they come through.

[noxhawthorne]

Punctuation

Note: this was written as a college assignment.

Punctuation is important. Punctuation is vital! Punctuation is what made the last two sentences sound completely different, whether spoken aloud or in your head. Punctuation separates things, and the thingyness of things, and the thingyness of the thingyness of things. Punctuation lets the reader know T.H.B.S., i.e. things have been shortened. Punctuation causes anticipation... sometimes. Punctuation can stand for ... the cherry-picking of a statement. Punctuation makes you question what you just read? Punctuation tells you something: a lot. Punctuation can list: a thing, a thing, and another thing. Punctuation can say there is a this:this ratio. Punctuation continues a statement; even the ones that could have ended. Punctuation brings stuff-things together, and pulls stuff — things — a part. Punctuation adds disclaimers (though they can also serve as asides, and sometimes sound like whispers, but that last part is not set in stone). It [punctuation] can makes things clearer. Punctuation can also denote that This + {This[This-This]} = That. Punctuation determines if it belongs to the Ghosts, or if it is Ghost’s. Punctuation can make you “think” that “things” are not “real”, or can tell you, “Hey, this is being spoken!”

“Several punctuations can be used at a time to make specific sentence structures,” the tired, coffee-high (and, somewhat, “depressed”) college student said.

‘But can punctuation, be used: wrong!’ the bodiless voice — who is honestly so annoying — asked... ? I guess?

“Yes,” the student answered, “but language is constantly evolving, and thus so is punctuation. Punctuation, for example, can be read as ‘hostile’ or ‘angry’ when sent in a text. A lot of gen z people prefer just end things without a period or anything and also like to just type something as one string of thought rather than structured coherent sentences because who’s got time for that “

Punctuation is “fickle” (that is obvious [I think {I am not positive}]) — though, thingy-things often fall into this rule: they don’t need every punctuation in one; that’s what English teachers think. Right? Right!

Punctuation is important, and the worst part? It is so fucking repetitive.

N. H.

[eelfuneral]

Last night, I saw several examples of ableist comments with regards to Tech from people who posture themselves as activists — a problem that I’ve been bringing attention to for months. I tried to comment on this last night, but I was too tired and angry to be coherent, so I’m going to try again.

TW: there are screenshots (with the names and avatars blocked out) that show some pretty intense ableism and sanism below the cut. Scroll away if you are not in a good place to see this today.

Transcript: trch feels specifically like hed use the term aspbergers to descrive himself bc he doesnt want to be mistaken forvthose Other autistic people

Here we see someone making a “ha ha funny” joke about Tech being an Aspie Supremacist. Lateral ableism is a huge issue in our community that causes harm to a lot of autistics with higher support needs. Making this into a fandom joke is in poor taste. Additionally, Hans Asperger was a nazi who sent many disabled children to their deaths. This is not something to joke about.

Transcript: techs vibes are like sherlock bbc fused with sheldon from the bigbang and understand i sayvthat witj asvmuch derision as possiblr

If the first thing that you think about when you see an autistic character is Sheldon Cooper, then I don’t know what to tell you.

This is the worst one, though:

Transcript: Person A: every ten seconds of this show I think people who are horny for tech should be added to the dsm more and more. Person B: When an autistic person identifies with Tech as-is I’m like… okay I guess?

Implying that people who enjoy a character that you don’t are mentally ill and that this means that they have a character flaw is so head-tiltingly sanist I don’t even know where to start. Also, shitting on autistics because we like and relate to a character that you don’t approve of is paternalistic and nasty.

This kind of thing is why I have been speaking up about the ableism in the TBB fandom, particularly among people who claim to want to protect us from “bad representation”. If you know who these people are, don’t engage. I am not posting this to start a harassment campaign against them so much as bring attention to behavior that hurts me as an autistic fan.

This is so unbelievably upsetting to so many autistic fans and I feel like our voices are being drowned out and ignored by people who want to speak for us. I am tired.

[waterdeep-weavemoss]

One hand on the wheel and the other reviewing his calculations, Gale looks steadfast and dashing in the early morning glow. His long overcoat whips about his calves in the wind, his hair buffeted to and fro. It hardly seems enough to keep him warm, given the way he keeps his shirt open to his sternum.

Gale’s startled when Doe comes bounding up the stairs to him, nearly dropping the logbook in his freehand at the sight. Tara, perched on his shoulders, flares her wings out wide, chirruping a greeting. The sailing master’s greeting, a tired half smile, falters at her words.

“You what?” His eyes go wide. “You- I-”

Gale hesitates, brown eyes darting between Doe and Astarion who trails after her. She looks positively eager at this prospect. A cambion? To help him? A literal gods-damned devil?

His mouth works, half-formed syllables caught in his throat and the back of his tongue as he tries to find any set of coherent words to explain. Gale’s mark throbs painfully, flaring with light - and this time the logbook does fall from his hand, clattering onto the deck as his hand raises to clutch at his chest.

He manages to steel himself against the surge to look up at her, his expression twisted into a panicked grimace, his eyes backlit a soft green.

“Lass,” he starts, shaking his head with trepidation, “I don’t know that a devil’s going to have any answers for my particular problem. It’s not exactly a warlock’s pact...”

Gale’s eyes flit to Astarion as he straightens with the ebb of the discomfort. His hand still rubs against the center of the mark, even as he rolls his shoulders to try and loosen the tension further. There’s a deeper sort of pain in his expression - more than just the physical. That, at least, softens when he turns his gaze back to Doe.

“I trust you to gather information - believe me, I do,” Gale starts hesitantly. “But you don’t need to put yourself in so much danger for me. Especially...especially not for me.”

-G.D.

'Too late.' Her tone is nonchalant, but her anxious fingers are braiding and coiling sections of her hair into buns on the top of her head. She whistles for the jackdaw, feeling his weight land softly on her shoulder. 'I'll be in a whole heap of trouble if we don't show up. I know it's not a warlock pact, but it's got to be close enough, right? Who else am I going to ask? We should use everything at our disposal- and that's what I mean, Gale. He likes me right now, and while that's the case I'm going to leverage that weakness. We have Faust because he wanted to spy on us. Call it payback.'

Her eyes are steely. She wants revenge, to claw back something from her and Raphael's last encounter. He's not going to use me up like he does every other poor bastard he gets his claws into.

'I'm not doing this for you.' A lie. 'I'm doing it for me.' Her hair lifts on the strengthening wind- she can feel her anger in it. The whip of her hair into her eyes rips a growl of frustration from her. She draws her dagger and hacks at it, sending dark tresses to the deck and looking back to Gale with jagged tendrils across her forehead. 'We need to go,' she implores. 'Gale.' She grits her teeth against tears, draws at the anger to galvanise her instead. 'I was drunk and injured and angry. He took advantage. He doesn't get to do that to me twice. Do you understand me?'

[sentient-cloud]

eaugh

Hi slaps this so i feel like im. talking to someone or doing anything without actually doing that </3

I wish I was better at being alive. <- nothing statement but I mean on the topic that’s literally All im ever capable of so.

I don’t know why being alive is so hard. In general but lately even. I feel like im going through everything underwater. Does that make any sense. I feel like inside my brain all of my thoughts all of my motivations body instructions everything is underwater

I want to be a real person so badly I want to be smart so badly I want to be able to hold any kind of real conversation I want to be able to produce anything worthwhile and I want to be seen as worthy of living

It’s really hard for me to be coherent. I get so scared talking about this because I’m convinced it comes off as like. A disinterest in other people and their things because sometimes I can connect brain wires. But I want so so so so badly to be able to have intelligent conversations and meaningful things to say but it’s always just sounds or the most empty mindless statements and its driving me insane and I’m certain it drives other people insane. I’m like so averse to not being able to say anything of note I just don’t interact much anymore if I can help it because I hate I hate how little I can be of any worth I want to have meaningful conversations I want to be able to think of any meaningful questions to prompt discussions. Or any statement ever. Or even when people ask questions to be about thinks I enjoy or like my ocs ro anything my brain just can’t think ever. It feels almost comically bad at how I can’t form any meaningful or coherent thought

It’s stupid I hate how stupid I am. How I can’t form any real opinion how like I struggle with like fucking. Reading comprehension or analysis of any kind of anything I know I’m stupid and I despise it. I like make jokes or call myself stupid constantly I guess as a defense against it because if I say it first it’ll hurt less or I won’t be ridiculed for being so dumb but it makes me want to blow up. I want to be able to think. Or say anything worthwhile so bad. Like I see and I know everyone else is running laps around me and I can’t stand it but like. I feel so stupid even complaining about this like ok. Why are you admitting to this idk I feel so so so much shame about just how. Fucking stupid I am. How i can’t contribute anything

Even this is like. Eaugh trying to articulate. Im mad at myself for not even trying to make it anything more cohesive or well put together but also who fucking cares about an inherently pathetic and immature tumblr vent anyway. Like what does this even accomplish asides from being an incredibly immature cry for help that’s probably extremely pathetic coming from someone who’s supposed to be a grown adult anyway.

This is nothing I’ve just. I’ve been doing extremely bad lately and just wallowing in how much I genuinely despite myself constantly and generally being convinced everyone hates me and is disgusted and revolted and annoyed and just. Angry with me. Idk hoping putting thsi out in the void helps me feel better at all.

I’m just tired of not feeling real and being unable to do anything or provide the slightest bit of meaning or worth into the world and I’m tired of being so fucking at stupid and I’m tired of thinking of literally anything being so hard. I know I’m not helping I feel like I’m actively decomposing and rotting and dying and atrophying constantly I know I have no actual intelligence or thinking skills or emotional intelligence or social skills to fucking anything and I’m just getting worse and worse and worse and it’s so frustratingly hard to think so I just sit there feeling bad and I know it’s making it worse and why am I just. Complaining about it. Admitting I’m just sitting here in my depression and general abhorridness and by admitting this I’m making myself even more like. Deplorable to everyone but fuck I don’t know. I know I need a therapist but I’m like. So scared of it and being told how much I suck.which is so. Anyway. Stops typing throws this word salad into the world. lol

[taiey]

Melanie has this self-image that she's—not just angry but dangerous, a hairsbreadth from violence. We hear it in 131 when she talks about her past:

Anger is… Anger’s been all I’ve had for a very long time. Years. Maybe since… oh, I, I don’t know. ... Angry at being passed over, being disrespected, ignored. That sort of anger, it – it powers you. Right up until it slips out and hurts someone.

and in 190 when she talks about how she feels about the cult:

If I didn’t have Georgie, I think I might just snap and beat them all to death. ... I swear, if it’s another hymn I am going to break something!

But look at how she actually reacts to Arun:

MELANIE: [Awkward] Oh, okay, um… Right, so… Arun, I just think that the… GEORGIE: I don’t think either of us is particularly comfortable with your use of the word “redeemers”. MELANIE: That’s… that’s not how it works. Is it? John? ARCHIVIST: Oh? No. That’s not how it works.

John and Georgie are included to demonstrate what "person being distinctly less gentle with Arun than Melanie is" looks like. Actually, ‘gentle’ is a bit of an understatement—I might be better to say ‘timid’.

And it’s not like this is the product of the therapy or, idk, Georgie. This entire post is inspired by pronouncingitwang’s post pointing this out—rewind to her first appearance:

I waited for another five minutes, but when Sarah still hadn’t returned I started to get a bit worried. I should have woken the others, but if it turned out she’d just gone to the bathroom, I didn’t want to embarrass her in front of everyone. In that case she should have got one of us up to take over watching, anyway, but she’d hardly been the most professional while she was working with us, so it wouldn’t have surprised me if she hadn’t. After another five minutes, I decided to go look for her.

Like, Sarah is not fulfilling her responsibilities that she agreed to carry out. (and in a kinda dangerous way) But Melanie’s worried about embarrassing her.

In the end it was actually Toni that asked we not work with Sarah Baldwin again. Apparently she’d gotten “weird vibes” and didn’t feel comfortable around her. I agreed, though I didn’t share my reasons. 

She doesn’t even speak up first to say “let’s not work with her again”—again, this is kinda crossing the line from 'gentle' to 'timid'. Like, you can react to things that negatively affect you without over-reacting? (This is something she works on in therapy! Speaking up that she doesn't like 'Mel'; work-stoppage at her evil work: constructive responses.) (the apocalypse, uh, derails this a tad. :| )

What effect does the Slaughter have on this? Well, the next example is while she's got the bullet in her.

In episode 100, she's already tired and frustrated when Brian comes in. (let’s get this over with. I just don’t hold out a lot of hope for… coherence.) She does not get coherence. Instead she gets a panic attack. (Admittedly kinda her fault, because she said that the archives couldn't help with his spider problem. But like, that's more about the circumstances being objectively panic-inducing, she wasn’t being Mean or anything.) And... she's gentle.

I… Please, just… There’s, there’s tea there. Okay. Right. Yes. Okay, breathe. Yeah… well… Drink, drink the tea.

I’ll, I’ll get you some biscuits. I’ll get you, I’ll get you, I’ll get you… something… Just breathe! Breathe for me… [BRIAN TAKES SOME CALMING DEEP BREATHS] Okay, yes. Good. Good.

She's not confident or practiced or comfortable at it. She's out of her depth and kinda at the end of her rope and... gentle. Trying.

I think the through-thread is—people she has power over. She feels that anger and chokes it down because she could hurt them.

It’s difficult to strike the right balance, when you’re doing that.

(There’s another bucket of just—equals. Basira’s always there; John is for the rest of season 4 after 125; Helen :| ; Martin at least in season 5; etc. She has casual, unguarded conversations, too; and ones that are mostly focused on some goal, and ones where she’s getting what she wants, and all sorts of things.)

Towards people with power over her (the guy with the steady office job and authority over whether her experience counts as genuine; apparent boys’ club; evil mindreading murder boss; etc) she bites back. The difference is it's safe to do that because—one part she can't hurt them, and one part it'd be deserved. (Melanie as a comedian who always punches up.)

Except, you know... there's this bit in where 106 Basira and Melanie discuss how she 'literally' made Tim and Martin cry, and... while you can construct reasons they could 'have power over her'—seniority, gender—Basira's only been around since 092. Since that point, it's obvious that those aren't real power here. That's what the Slaughter is doing to her with her; validating seeing the world as more and more against her, handing her power and encouraging her to see herself as a put-upon victim, free to fight back guiltlessly.

And then she wakes up to a numb, wounded leg and stabs John. I wonder—what if "Right up until it slips out and hurts someone. I hurt someone." & "It didn’t stay in my leg because of some ghostly master plan. It stayed because I wanted it." in 131 are saying that - like - it wasn't taking out the bullet that de-Slaughtered her? That it was the wake-up call that she hurt John, someone who was trying to help her, and she didn't want to do that.

Didn’t want to be that.

@melaniemonth I don’t know if this is Platonic, or Health: therapy&recovery, or simply Self, but it is very, very Melanie.

[emptymasks]

The Fluidphobia in the Loki Series and it’s Fandom

These are posts I made for my Instagram but I was asked if I could share them properly on here. As much as I’ve talked about these issues on here, I’ve not shared these more coherent posts out of fear from the backlash I got from a couple of non-binary people. But I need to make one thing clear: if you are LGBT+ but not specifically genderfluid, you do not get to say what is and what is not fluidphobic. Sadly, gays, bisexuals, transgender and non-binary people can be fluidphobic.

Am I trying to cancel the show? No, I’m still watching it and enjoying a lot of it. Do I think they were fluidphobic on purpose and malicious? No, I think it’s out of the ignorance and privilege of an all-cis creative team who didn’t consult real genderfluid people. If they hadn’t boasted about how they were making MCU Loki genderfluid and MCU Loki had remained a cis man then I wouldn’t be making this post and I wouldn’t be complaining. But they made him genderfluid, they bragged about him being genderfluid, and then did this. Genderfluid people deserve better.

And before I get any comments that I’ve been getting everyone else saying “it’s fiction, it’s not real”, bad LGBT+ representation does affect real life. Bad and offensive and inaccurate LGBT+ representation actively affects how real LGBT+ people are treated. Already the fluidphobia in this fandom has surged and I’ve had a lot of firsthand experience of it as a genderfluid person. Don’t tell me that it doesn’t matter when I know people who have gotten death threats, hate, abuse, harassment, who have been told ‘genderfluidity isn’t real’ ‘only fictional character’s can be genderfluid because you need to be able to shapeshift to be genderfluid’ ‘Loki isn’t genderfluid, he’s sexfluid’ ‘Loki is only ever male because everyone calls him he/him and brother and god’ ‘Loki is bi/pan because he fucked a horse’. Just stop. And stop conflating the myths with the Marvel character, they’re not the same things and there are many differences between them.

Real people matter more than fictional characters. Real people getting hurt is more important than whether you think something makes a good story or feels in character for Loki.

I’m so tired guys, I just want a few simple things:

Stop misgendering Loki. The cast and crew, Marvel and Disney, have all confirmed he is genderfluid now in the MCU. not a cis man, and not ‘sexfluid’. Stop calling ships with him in m/f or het or mslash or mlm.

Stop saying “it’s not real, it’s just fiction” when a queer person complains about bad queer rep. It’s horrible and naive. If representation didn’t affect reality then why would we want more and better representation? Bad and homophobic/transphobic scenes and characters in the media actively affect and increase the homophobia and transphobia in real life.

If you’re not genderfluid stop assuming you understand genderfluidity better than genderfluid people do and stop telling them to shut up and that they don’t understand or are reading too much into things when they say something upset them. If you’re genderfluid you’re welcome to think I’ve said wrong things, I do not and have never claimed to speak on behalf of all genderfluid people. I always put a preface on my posts stating that as I get people angry at me when I haven’t.

And dear god please, please stop using the horse fucking in the myths to justify anything. I’ve seen biphobes using it to say why Loki is digusting and why bi people are bad, and I’ve seen allies and LGBT+ people using it to say why “Loki’s amazing, he can do and be anything, of course he’s bi, he’s always been bi, he fucked a horse!”. That is not empowering, that is not supportive of bi and pan and genderfluid people. Bestiality is something that has been used for a long time to harass bisexual and pansexual (omnisexual, polysexual) people. It is a panphobic belief that pansexuals will fuck anything including animals. Comparing bis and pans to the horse fucking is not the support you think it is. And Marvel comics and MCU Loki have never done that. Slephnir is not Loki’s child in Marvel. The myths are different from Marvel and the MCU. Hela is Loki’s daughter in the comics but not in the MCU.

[aizawaskittenwhore]

𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘦.

𝘧𝘵. 𝘪𝘻𝘶𝘬𝘶, 𝘣𝘢𝘬𝘶𝘨𝘰, 𝘥𝘢𝘣𝘪 (+𝘩𝘢𝘸𝘬𝘴), 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘪𝘻𝘢𝘸𝘢.

𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘳𝘦: 18+ 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵. 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵.

𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴: 1.5𝘬

𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴: 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘵𝘰𝘺𝘴/𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨/𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘶𝘯𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘹, 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺, 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦, 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘥𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢, 𝘤𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺/𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘦𝘹𝘩𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 18. 𝘯𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵, 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬. 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺, 𝘪 𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘴. 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺. 𝘮𝘸𝘢𝘩.

“man, fuck you, the horse you rode in on, and your weak ass dick! just leave me the fuck alone.” you spit, arms crossed as you shoot the man in front of you a glare hot like jet fuel.

𝘪𝘻𝘶𝘬𝘶:

izuku midoriya is one of the sweetest people to grace the earth

there’s no doubt about it.

but know he is not afraid to put yo ass in a fucking headlock and pound his way into you, voice thick and raspy as he asks you just who the fuck you think you’re talking to.

he’s grown up quite a bit since high school

and refuses to get bitched by anyone, especially his own girlfriend.

a saccharine smile inches across peony pink lips, spreading over porcelain teeth

“you uh... you wanna repeat that, honey?”

you know you’ve made a mistake

he’s got that look in his eye, ravenous and wicked

“look...izuku, baby, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to snap like that—“

“that’s not what i asked. i asked you...if you wanna repeat that.”

would definitely strap your ankles to a spreader bar, reveling in the way you continue to writhe against it

only to cry out in desperation once you realize that the more you struggle, the wider your legs go

or he’ll make you cry as you struggle to form a coherent apology, words choppy from the the remote controlled vibe is sending shockwaves through your heavily sensitive clit

he’d kneel above you, smile wide and innocent as he turns it up to the second most powerful setting, hard-on growing at the sight of your head lolling back while you try to appease him with sorry after sorry

“i-izuku—fuck, fuck! mmh— it’s too much....please, please, ‘m sorry! i didn’t mean it, ’m too sensitive—please just let me make it up to you baby—“

“all you gotta do is say the magic words sweetheart, and i’ll give you what you need.”

yeah, he’s one of those motherfuckers.

“remind me who’s pussy this is, and this’ll all be over with.”

“god, fine!! it’s yours okay! nobody else’s..now please, please fuck me izuku, i need you—“

doesn’t hold back for a second when he’s staking his claim all over your body, a calloused thumb roving over your clit gently, mindful of your sensitivity but edging you closer and closer to a fifth orgasm

happily smears strings of thick, sticky cum all over your stomach to mark you as his

and doesn’t hesitate to lick it off the supple, soft skin of your torso, the milky white substance congealing with transparent slippery saliva

he grasps your face firmly, fingers pushing your cheeks inwards and causing your spit slicked lips to jut out in a pretty little pout

“open.” he mutters before dripping the salty concoction onto your awaiting tongue, a throaty groan rumbling in his chest as he watches you happily swallow every last drop

“good girl.”

the aftercare is immaculate, izuku taking his time to wipe you clean so tenderly, lips pressing against each and every bruise, your body pliant as he whispers sweet reassurances into your sweat soaked skin

“much better now, right?”

you nod, eyes heavy as you sink into the warmth of his chest, hands clinging to him like he could disappear at any moment

“happy i could help you relieve some of that tension honey.”

“but talk to me like that again, and i promise you that’ll be the last time you call anything about me weak, especially how i fuck you. got it?”

prepare to be not only throughly sore the next day, but to have to conceal fingerprint shaped bruises on your hips and thighs

takes pictures of your fucked out face to have for future incidents where you decide you wanna talk like you have zero home training

and isn’t afraid to flash katsuki one or two whenever he gets to talking about how he could take you from him.

𝘣𝘢𝘬𝘶𝘨𝘰:

“so that’s how you wanna act, hm? if you needed some dick you should’ve just fuckin’ said so instead of always runnin’ your damn mouth.”

he whirls you around, pelvis pressing into the small of your back, rivulets of sweat beading at the base of your neck from his close proximity

he’s such a glutton for putting little bitches like you in their place.

blade sharp canines dragging against the curve of your neck, pathetic attempts to maintain your resolve falling from unsteady lips

“the hell’s wrong with you—you already know i’m with izuku...i’m not doing this shit to him again—”

but you were already gone when his lips slotted against yours, body throbbing at the contact

now izuku was a good lover, a giver, a pleaser at heart

always putting your enjoyment above his

but eventually one grows tired of slick tongues and curved fingers, pretty whines and gentle kisses

you wanted “fuck you”s, spit flying along sick expletives hurled at your bowed, desperate figure, sweet sticky semen coating your throat after it was abused and stroked as though you were a piece of plastic.

and as luck may have it, katsuki was more than willing to provide.

yet today you’d had enough, his subtle touches when you passed one another had garnered izuku’s attention; you’d reassured the male that it was nothing to bother with, that the two of you were just coworkers.

at least when his balls aren’t in your slutty fucking mouth, thick bubbled spit dripping onto your home screen as you text izuku that you’ll be home late for “stir-friday” once again.

the best sex was on days like today, when you got just a little too reckless at the mouth

when you needed a not so gentle reminder of who’s leaving you breathless all hours of the night

takes his time with you, fingers teeming with a slight brine as they’re sloppily thrust into your mouth with a “shut the fuck up talking to me like you don’t know who the fuck i am.”

degradation? baby, you’ve met the man.

“wanna act like a bitch, that’s fine. just don’t complain when i leave you limping like one, got it?”

you’re shoved atop a desk, it’s contents forgotten as katsuki latches onto a tit and proceeds to leave mark after mark, striving to rid any trace of your lover

panties tugged to the side, fingerpads waltzing up the length of your—no, his pussy

kisses down your sternum and the plush skin of your stomach, flipping you opposite him before snaking his tongue between your southernmost lips, devouring you like a man starved

but doesn’t let you cum, not yet anyway

“katsuki—please, i need it, don’t fucking tease..”

hates when you whine because it chips at his hard exterior, he’d give anything to pull another cry from you

“beg for it then. you had so much to say earlier, eh? go ahead and put your mouth to better use, fuckin’ slut.”

spanks you while he eats it from the back cause he can

and don’t even get me started on his size kink

lives for making you feel small against his large stature and even larger ego

“damn, you’re tight...thought deku would’ve broken you in a bit more for me by now—”

his pace is angry and unforgiving like his mouth, leaving you no mercy when he finally takes his place between your thighs

“that’s it...take that shit. don’t run...come on, tell me who’s dick you go dumb for, say it—“

“yours! j-just yours, never ‘zuku. fuck! m’ so fucking close please, please—“

cant fill you up like he wants, but settles for painting your body with splotches of white, watching them mix with your now-purpling bruises

and when izuku calls your phone on the hour to ask when you’ll be home, that cocky fuck answers

“relax. your little girlfriend and i are at the office with some reports, she’s so damn uptight...been on my dick this entire time. “

“should probably loosen her up more, maybe she’d be less annoying.”

𝘥𝘢𝘣𝘪:

he secretly loves it when you get like this

while dabi loves the rush of tossing around some brainless slut with a thing for fucking mass murderers

pussy was much better when it came with a little resistance, a little push back before he got what he wanted

“dabi come on..let her be. i’m sorry sweetness, this guy botherin’ you?”

his counterpart, keigo, was a top tier scumbag with grade-A looks, words mingling with a dulcet voice that could turn water into wine if he pleased

sienna wings bristled against his shoulder blades as he leaned down, an arm coming across your chest casually, bent over the back of the couch

“don’t call me that shit. actually, both of you are bothering me.” you grit, a hand swatting away tanned nimble fingers that were slowly making their way towards a breast

“see what i mean kei? she’s being a fucking brat. can’t stand bitches like her, always thinking they’re too good for guys like us.”

dabi takes a seat to your left, cyan eyes raking over the curve of your hips ravenously, staples gleaming in the bar’s gentle yellow glow

he was going to have so much fun breaking you in.

“ i think i know what her problem is....somebody just wants a little attention, right? hell, look at how she’s dressed...”

keigo’s eyes have taken on a darker energy, a hand winding around the width of your neck and squeezing lightly

“i don’t want anything from either of you assholes—wait, the hell are you trying to—ah!”

taking advantage of your pliant state, dabi’s hands begin to roam over exposed skin, a scarred set of hands slithering up your top

his abrasive fingers tweak your nipples roughly, rolling them between a forefinger and thumb with a lustful glare

“come on...don’t you want us to make you feel good? tell us you don’t want us to cream you like a fuckin’ twinkie, and we’ll leave your bitchy ass high and fucking dry, just like this.”

you hate them, the last thing you want is for either of these douchebags to be what gets you off

but god do keigo’s lips feel like heaven on earth when they’re against your pulse point like that, and dabi’s profuse experience shows in the way he manipulates your body to make you sigh in ecstasy, fingers slipping past drenched lace with ease to tease your sensitive clit...

“we—we shouldn’t do this out here, someone might see...s-shit, ah fuck—”

“so what? don’t want everyone to see how much you like getting double teamed?” keigo taunts, tongue darting out to soothe the harsh bruise he’d finished sucking into the skin beneath your ear

“nah, i think we’ll take you right here. besides, it’s just us and the boss man tonight. ‘should let him watch though, maybe he’d learn a thing or two about what a good fuck really looks like instead of that hentai shit.”

“so...you in or not? my hand’s starting to cramp.”

you nod, the motion serving at the catalyst for a number of debaucherous things that would soon happen to your body

marking is an absolute must

keigo’s practically feral once he knows you’re his to play with, love bites littering the expanse of your tits, neck, even the inside of your thighs

dabi marks you too, but he’s not nearly as nice as keigo, leaving handprints all over your ass, each one accompanied by a harsh yet tolerable burn

you can thank his quirk for that

they’re sloppy and they know it, dabi’s spit creating web-like strings connecting your pussy lips together, the metal barbell wedged between tongue muscle retreating from beneath your trembling thighs

meanwhile keigo’s reveling in the way your spit coats his dick in an effortless gloss, a hand keeping your head steady as he drives into your throat with reckless abandon

the saliva making its way down through the valley of your breasts while you struggle to breathe, eyes watering in both panic and pleasure as the two use you like a toy

they take turns, metal and heady sweat flood your tastebuds when dabi takes on keigo’s previous stance

dabi certainly makes sure you give his balls special attention. it doesnt enhance his pleasure, he just likes seeing you get so nasty for him.

not so high and mighty when you’re gargling the dick of one of japan’s most wanted, are you?

keigo’s dick reaches depths you didn’t think possible, tip prodding your innermost spots and making you sputter pathetically around dabi’s length, eyes burning as you try to control the heat in your lungs

“nah nah nah, don’t get all teary eyed now—thought it was “fuck us and our weak ass dick”? hm? well this weak ass dick’s makin’ you choke like a two dollar whore, and keigo’s about to pump that sloppy cunt full of cum...still think you’re better than us?”

you’re tossed between the two men like a ragdoll, until your body’s spent and you’re bred so good that you drip with their mix of fluids every time you shift a little

the men don’t hesitate to compliment your endurance, praising you for being “such a good little fucktoy”.

which in dabi’s words, is the closest you’ll ever get to a “sorry for bothering you”.

𝘢𝘪𝘻𝘢𝘸𝘢:

let me tell you a thing or two about shota.

he has no time, or tolerance, for bullshit.

between his atrocious sleep schedule, nightly patrols, and his day job as a high school teacher, he doesn’t have the capacity for mind games

so when you’d snapped on him like that, he did what he felt like was the most logical thing

he left you alone. he wasn’t about to get into some childish argument all because he didn’t give you the reaction you’d wanted over a dress

aizawa’s not a reactive man by nature

so when you’d purchased the sultry number, seams tight and neckline waivering on indecent

he’d merely hummed at the article of clothing in approval, committing the sight to memory before going back to finish reviewing his lesson plans for next week

which to you, wasn’t good enough. you wanted him to exhibit some sort of lust, something that made you feel like you still had him in the palm of your hand

it wasn’t like the two of you weren’t having sex, no not at all. but you wanted to feel like he wasn’t just attracted to you, but craved, desired, was desperate for your touch every now and again

and when he’d given his...lackluster feedback, you exploded, the two of you briefly exchanging words before you’d said that. shota was in no mood to argue, so he excused himself from the room to continue his work

“sorry if i actually want to, you know, feel desired by my own boyfriend? god, it’s like you don’t even look at me anymore.”

that comment stung, even recalling your wounded tone made his heart ache

was he really not paying attention to you?

but, unsurprisingly, the feelings of anger didn’t abate. just what made you think you could play these games with him, the two of you were grown, you knew if you wanted something all you had to do was ask—it made no sense

steel pen tip digging into the hurried scrawl of kaminari’s essay....if you could even call it that, he rose from his desk, relieved his tense neck from the presence of hair by knotting it into a high ponytail

beginning to strip as he made his way toward your shower

you wanted him to look at you? alright. he’d do exactly that, and then some. just remember, be careful what you wish for.

“shota? look... i’m sorry for how i acted earlier. i should’ve just communicated how i felt instead of blowing up on you like that, i just get frustrated with how much you work and how we never see each other, and it makes it hard for me to—mmph!”

he meets your lips with a subdued roughness, hands splayed across your hips, water trickling across stiffened knuckles while he fumbled and scoured for any piece of you he could manage to grasp

“you said you feel like i don’t look at you anymore.”

“lets fix that. i have a proposition for you. if you manage to hold eye contact with me for however long it takes for you to cum, my body’s yours to do whatever you want with.”

“however...look away for even a second, and i’ll have no problem reminding you just how much you can take before you’re begging for me to fuck you. you know how...efficient i can be. sound fair?”

now something he’d alluded to, but never said about this little agreement? there was no way for you to win.

on days where his exhaustion levels weren’t at an all time low, he’d find himself lapping at the slightly acidic, rich nectar between your thighs for hours and hours on end

so what made you think you even had the resolve to maintain eye contact the entire time?

you lose, though that was to be expected

and shota couldn’t be happier about it

now while it’s practically canon that he’s into bondage, let’s switch things up a bit

honestly, he’s the type to love proving a point.

he’ll make you ride his dick, not letting you stop for a second even though he’s practically in your stomach at this point

bad at it? he doesn’t care. your knees are giving out? not his problem.

“sho-please, i can’t, ‘s too big...fuck—“

“damn, and to think i had ‘weak ass dick’ before. now you can’t take it? pick a side sweetheart, your desperation is showing.”

he’s not incredibly vocal in the bedroom as that’s just not who he is

but makes an exception when it comes to making fun of you

“come on, you can swallow more than that, right? tch. you’ve gotten lazy.”

is another one of those “take a photo for future reference” type of people. but he’s respectful of not only your privacy but his own, and keeps it in the hidden photos folder of his camera roll like a sane adult.

he had to learn the hard way about the importance of concealing scandalous materials that one time hizashi was using screen sharing to suggest a new learning course during a staff meeting

only for the blonde to scroll and several pairs of eyes in the room to be blessed (or cursed) with the sight of a rather ecstatic looking woman bent in a position that would make a gymnast blush

also likes to give you sloppy, shallow half strokes to drive you to the point of insanity before spreading your ass cheeks and molding your body to the bed beneath you

“you wanna know what i was thinking about when you walked out with that dress on? hm? i wondered... ‘how long it would take before we used it as a cumrag after i was done with you?’ i thought about doing this.”

oh, and by the way, there’s a mirror above your bed for a reason. but we’ll get into that some other time, won’t we?

[void-galaxy-shenanigans]

Y’all. I’m so frustrated.

I know I’m autistic & it’s not actually my fault. But...

Nonverbal/non-speaking.

If there is not a severe punishment attached to force me to speak aloud, I...can’t.

(severe punishment is relative...being yelled at, being verbally degraded, being swung at even if I don’t actually get h!t, being fed any of our sensory no foods...those are all severe, not just full ab*se)

I don’t mean I’m mute all the time. I physically could speak (99% of the time, there are exceptions).

I mean I mentally can’t.

As in, (a) head empty no thoughts (brain only has capacity for very basic functions & I can barely play very easy mobile games that are pattern based), (b) can only stim via singing, cannot form coherent language aloud, (c) brain thinking in pictures, couldn’t translate it to words aloud no matter how hard I try, (d) brain thinking in a mix of every language I know but I couldn’t translate it all into any one language or make it make sense if I spoke it, (e) brain is thinking in consistent English, but I can’t make it make sense if I spoke it, (f) brain has deleted any & all information on all languages we know & I can’t retrieve it; I forgot route was a word today & got frustrated trying to play a game because it's a crossword type puzzle & I needed to know that was a real word, (g) all languages sound like gibberish or Simlish aloud & I can’t mimic that language to save my life, or (h) “thoughts go so fast, brain no perceive; head look empty...head too full”, & I can’t speak it because can’t maintain grip on any thoughts.

Sometimes I do actually go mute, from anxiety or exhaustion or shutdown. But usually I could speak somehow...but can’t make it make sense, or some other struggle.

& gods, it’s so frustrating.

I love language. I love to communicate, to be understood (or as closely understood as possible), to learn language...I love seeing the joy as people realize you speak their language & they don’t have to translate / have their kid(s) translate.

I love talking.

But if I am not at work (will get fired if I don’t at least script), around ab*sive people who will punish me, or around someone who makes me feel like I must speak....I have max an hour a day that I can speak without it draining me & steadily declining in clarity.

Yet allistics assume if you’re quiet it’s because you’re not saying something mean (‘if you don’t have something nice to say don’t say anything at all’), or because you’re tired of them or angry at them or something else negative. They don’t assume you have no words or ran out of words.

It takes so much energy to translate my brain into something verbal, let alone anything that makes sense & is even mildly grammatically correct.

I can write all day long, but never being able to speak aloud without difficulty is...frustrating, & getting old fast.

I’ve been home alone for roughly 6 days (since Friday morning last week), minus about 16 hours Sunday to Monday (parents came back from one trip, slept, then went to visit family). Our dog understands nonverbal communication so I don’t *need* to speak. & it’s very quickly getting old how draining talking is.

I forget whole names exist until I see them again. I forget words exist regularly. Real words often look fake or sound made up even if they’re real language.

I’m an author. I love to communicate. (My love for writing might be why I communicate so effectively in writing but not aloud 🤷‍♂️.) But I tend to not be able to speak.

& people like me aren’t generally represented in media. The ones who speak, but only extremely limited...yet have a wide vocabulary full of metaphors that they grew to love & are learning every language they can get their hands on (español, deutsch, français, Russian....) just for the love of language & communication.

Maybe that’s why I love stories where all the characters have a limited number of words every day, tell people they aren’t worth wasting words on, & character A may tell character C (often a cheating ex) to fuck off before spending all their words for that day to connect with character B (often a love interest). Because I do have limited words, but people don’t assume I’m out of words or “just didn’t get words today”. Because in that kind of world I wouldn’t be so alone. People wouldn’t assume I’m stupid or unintelligent/retarded, or infantilize me, or otherwise misunderstand my lack of verbal words. They wouldn’t assume me communicating via vague noises meant I was condescending them or didn’t care.

Living in a neurotypical, allistic world when you can’t speak or can barely speak is exhausting.

& I know it isn’t my fault. I’m autistic, & I’m still proud to be autistic. But...I just wish I didn’t have to struggle so much.

~Nico