#are that you're grounded

[bafflement]

Deaged Oz AU - You're Grounded, Tip!

Tip woke in a cold sweat, staring around at his surroundings, briefly unsure as to where he was. He’d been trapped somewhere cold and dark, alone, with no hope of rescue. But the room he found himself in didn’t match, it felt safe, familiar. It wasn’t that terrifyingly small place he’d been. The walls weren’t closing in. What was going on? As the nightmare faded slightly, he felt himself relaxing. He was safe, while that tiny cramped space had existed once, he hadn’t been trapped there in centuries. It wasn’t him who’d been trapped, not really. He wasn’t going to risk going back to sleep, though… he really didn’t like small dark spaces and he had a sudden feeling that that dream might have been a large part of why, but he was safe here. He was in the room he shared with Oscar, his brother still fast asleep in the bed opposite. Oh, but in so many ways, that was a blessing. Oscar could sleep through just about anything, so when James had stated that he would feel safer if Oz was in a room with someone else, just in case, Oscar had volunteered pretty quickly. He would have felt so horrible, had it been one of the others. They needed their sleep too, after all! He was aware that was slightly hypocritical, but everybody kept telling him just how safe Atlas was as opposed to the other kingdoms, surely him sleeping alone wouldn’t have been that bad? The others all did, after all, it had even been one of the perks that had convinced them to stay in Academy dorms.

Huh. Maybe he could convince someone to let him sit in on a few classes one day? Just so he knew how Atlas Academy worked, the place he might have even attended had things gone differently all those years ago. But then, if the stories he’d been told of his frail, sickly self before he was snatched were true, would he have done? Would anyone ever have allowed it? He knew, of course, that the main reason he was no longer that sickly child was because of his Aura, but for most people Aura... helped, but did not cure. He was different, there, too. Maybe because of that second presence, maybe not. He’d been far too young when all this started to ever really know the difference and the pre-merge memories of his predecessors were… hazy, at best. Sometimes, that was probably a blessing though.

He sent a fond look over at the still sleeping Oscar, but made no move to wake him. Let him sleep, at least one of them should be able to. Ah well, he was awake now, he might as well take advantage of that fact and get some work done. There were several things he needed to look up and the library wasn’t that far away. He loved that it was open all night, though that made sense with the amount of students Atlas Academy had. You never knew when someone would forget their homework until the last minute and need to pull an all night study session, or worse, have to cram for a test. He thought back to similar situations at Beacon and couldn’t help but smile, albeit slightly sadly. For so long, that place had been his home, but there was no going back now. He just hoped the students were alright, though he’d only heard of one death at the time, there was no guarantee the others were still safe now.

Oh, Pyrrha. She’d never been meant to die as his school fell, she should have lived a nice long life, been happy even if she wouldn’t have been safe. He tried to think about just why his adult self had decided that she was the best suited to be the Fall Maiden, but no matter how hard he tried, the memories wouldn’t come. It was probably the trauma from the fall, from almost dying and waking up as a ten year old, but that didn’t excuse it. She was just one more mistake, one more decision that should never have been made.

He needed to stop thinking like that. What was done was done, all he could do was try to ensure that it couldn’t happen again, that everybody else was kept safe. He wasn’t sure quite what he’d do if he lost his friends, his brother… Qrow. He wasn’t going to think about it, it hadn’t happened and it wasn’t going to.

Research would distract him. He scrawled a quick note and left it on the desk, better for the others not to think he was missing, but he really didn’t want to wake anyone this early. They’d see the note when they woke up, everything would be just fine.

The corridors were deserted as he made the familiar trek to the library, though he wasn’t expecting anyone to be around at this time of night. The lights flickered on and off again as he passed, one of the things he quite admired about Atlas. There was such a thing as too much technology of course, but in this case they’d got the balance just right. He just hoped the books he needed tonight wouldn’t be on too high a shelf. Oh, there were always a few librarians there on the night shift but he really hated having to ask for help reaching things. He couldn’t wait to be tall again, to be able to do all these things himself.

He knew that would take some time, but the part of him that was eleven was impatient and he had to admit to himself that everything was easier in a larger form. He thought he might be faster and more flexible like this, though, which helped in fights if nothing else. But sometimes people didn’t want to fight him, didn’t want to hurt the child he appeared to be and he hated that. He wasn’t actually a child, not really. He was more experienced at fighting than any of them, yet they couldn’t bring themselves to try.

There were a few people scattered throughout the library as he entered. Nodding to the receptionist, he moved towards the shelves purposefully. He tried to ignore the soft smile they always gave when they saw him, since he knew that was mostly down to his age. At least, he’d never seen them react that way to anyone else and he was pretty sure he wasn’t really that abnormal a person to find amongst books by now.

Oh good, the geography texts he was after were located on lower shelves, he wouldn’t need to make a nuisance of himself by asking for help. Carrying them to a desk one by one, he settled in to read, pulling out a notebook to make notes. He liked it like this, when he could relax and just read, take notes and forget to worry for a few hours.

Oscar was panicking. When he’d woken, it was to find Tip’s bed empty, though it did look slept in, there was no sign of his brother. He hadn’t been in the common room either, nor anywhere else he could think of to look. Oh no, what if he’d been snatched in the night? It might not even be Salem, there were quite a few other people who didn’t seem to like Tip very much, though thankfully his friends had mostly gotten over that. By the time General Ironwood entered, Oscar was far from the only one worried. Nora was pacing up and down the carpet, looking terrified for him and even Ren telling her that he was probably okay wasn’t seeming to help. Ruby was muttering to herself and Weiss was busy taking the common room apart, looking for her uncle. The note had slipped off the desk in the confusion, nobody had noticed its presence.

They’d tried scrolling him, of course, but there hadn’t been an answer, Sometimes Tip would forget to reply if he was busy enough, but it was a rare occurrence and usually, if he was that busy then the others would know. Tip was small, yes, but why would he disappear?

Technically he could and had pulled that trick in the past with his semblance, but that was mostly just to get out of playing games or, once, to win a fight. Vanishing like this, causing everybody as much worry as he had was something they all knew he’d never deliberately put them through. But there wasn’t anything to suggest that he’d been snatched, either. The tracker the General had woven into his hair was pinging as within Academy grounds, though he couldn’t really narrow it down beyond that. Ironwood’s eyes narrowed, he might need to correct that particular oversight. Tip knew he was being tracked, surely he couldn’t complain if the tracking got more efficient? The better they could get it, the more they could help others who became targets later on, or at least was the excuse he was planning to use.

They started to fan out, checking places they thought Tip might be. Wherever he was, though, he’d be in so much trouble when they caught up to him. He needed to realise that doing this worried them. They all knew he had a hard time believing that people cared, but that didn’t mean that they didn’t.

Tip, in the library, was too deeply engrossed in a book to realise he was being scrolled. He’d moved on to sciences, looking for ways to disrupt Watts while they still could. He was pretty certain that most of them would have been looked into, but it was always possible that they’d overlooked something simple by dint of assuming it needed to be complicated. That had happened far more times than he liked to think, over the millennia. It wasn’t even like this was a problem that hadn’t happened before, though he couldn’t fully recall how it had ended last time. They’d find a way, they had to.

He flinched, feeling a sudden hand on his shoulder and blinked up at James’ angry face. He swallowed, what on Remnant could he have done, to make his friend that furious with him? He couldn’t think of anything, but obviously something had to have happened.

“… James?” He ventured softly, looking up at him, eyes wide and confused.

James snarled. “Wintertip Pine, where were you. You went missing, do you know how worried we’ve been?”

“I left a note.” Even to his own mind, it didn’t sound like the best excuse. But he had!

“What note and where?” James didn’t sound amused, but there was a note of doubt to his tone. Oz wasn’t likely to lie to him, but if he’d been informed then he would have remembered.

“On the desk? I didn’t want to have to wake anyone, and it’s just the library.”

“You know damn well you’re a priority target, Oz. You don’t get to just disappear like that. Wake us next time if you need to be somewhere else!” The frustration in James’ voice was almost touching, though Tip really hadn’t meant to cause it.

“I’m sorry, I’ll try harder next time.” He admitted, trying to ignore just how scary James was like this. He might have been intimidated as an adult, but as a child?

“You’d better. Now get back to the common room. Oh, and you’re grounded by the way.”

Tip’s mouth opened to argue, but he thought better of it. Oh no, if his friends were that worried about him, what must they be feeling right now? What had he done?

On returning, the others made something of a fuss of him. Tip wanted to complain, but under the circumstances, discretion was likely the better part of valour. He resolved to wake James, specifically, next time. After all, if he was going to be grounded for leaving a note, then James could bear the consequences. He never had liked being woken up too early, but then this time he’d even asked for it.

The note lay undiscovered for almost two days. Tip felt rather vindicated when they found it, not that that got him out of being grounded. He had to admit, rather sourly, that James might have a point. Like this, he was rather vulnerable. He could look after himself just fine, under normal circumstances, but the possibility had existed that Salem might have had him snatched.

That would have been a very bad thing indeed.

[dredsina]

Ive said this before but swear the biggest skill to learn as an adult is how to resist high-pressure sales tactics. You do NOT have to answer questions with anything other than "Sorry I'm not interested." No matter how nice they are or no matter how many follow up questions they ask or even how agitated they get when you stand your ground. Just keep saying I'm not interested. Don't answer their questions. Don't give them an opening to try to push back on your reasons. Be a fucking brick wall of I'm not interested.

[sleepymccoy]

This is also a bit of a culture query, cos these are all in my house so I genuinely cook with these all (except chicken salt, that's been in my cupboard for ages)

But I'm not from the USA and most people here are, so I wonder if that's similar! Maybe your cupboard is identical to mine. Maybe we use the same stuff but call it something else. Maybe USA has a different relationship with pre mix spices and you use none of it. Maybe you've never heard of pre mix spices. I dunno. That's why I'm asking!

I use plain herbs and spices as well. Especially when making a complex meal I'll do it myself. But I use pre mixes other times, so I'm voting. Voting for a pre mix doesn't mean you don't also use paprika! If you genuinely have no pre mixes in the kitchen tho, then hell yeah, tell me!

Also, I know I haven't listed everything in the world. One, that's impossible. Two, this is a bit of a culture thing so I just checked my kitchen and used those. This selection is representative of me only

(you don't have to be from the USA to vote, obvs, we just all know that's how the results will end up. Please tell me about your spice mixes in other countries!!)

Morrison spice blend: Pepper, tumeric, ginger, cardamom, parsley, salt

Chinese five spice: Star anise, cinnamon, clove, fennel, Sichuan pepper

Chicken salt: Salt, chicken stock, garlic, paprika, pepper, onion, celery

Gluhwein gewurz: Orange peel, cinnamon, lemon peel, star anise, hibiscus, clove

Chimichurri: parsley, garlic, oregano, vinegar, chilli, salt, pepper

Za'atar: thyme, cumin, coriander, sesame seeds, sumac, salt, chilli

Garam masala: coriander, cumin, cardamom, cloves, pepper, cinnamon, nutmeg

[demaparbat-hp]

She will (and he'll let her)

[inkpotsprite]

Jason (buried underground): *panic, clawing, digging, catatonia*

Dick: *sings the beatles*

[vaguely-concerned]

sometimes I think of all the on-the-surface warm, well-meaning but deeply ineffectual advice and attention john gives harrow through harrow the ninth (make some soup and get some sleep! get a hobby! don't be so hard on yourself! self care harrow! as long as I need take no actual responsibility in this relationship whatsoever I would have loved to be your dad!) set up against the stark truth that with his other hand he has been staging her attempted horrific murder again and again and again like a living nightmare on the logic that it will 'put her down or fix her'. and then I find that I wish there is a hell. a special hell where twitch streamers turned necromantic death emperors go

[modmad]

oh no i gtg afk and so many trick or treaters showed up in my inbox!!! uh okay kids

stand back im just gonna *throws a brick through the window*

GO GO GO GRAB ALL YOU CAN GRAB ALL YOU CAN CARRY

oh SHIT!!!!!

LEAVE THE DONUTS I REPEAT LEAVE THE D

[casualavocados]

Learn from who? Learn from you?

Chen Bowen as CHEN YI & Chiang Tien as AI DI KISEKI: DEAR TO ME (2023)

[stainedglassthreads]

Saw someone mention something about 'of course Gabriel would get along with a demon, he's an awful person--' and no no no you're missing the point. Like yeah, he does suck and has been awful to Aziraphale, but he's not Uniquely Awful, nor is that the reason he gets along with Beelzebub. He gets along with Beelzebub because they are fundamentally the same, because there is no difference between angels and demons in Good Omens.

One of the things reiterated again and again in the book Good Omens is how Heaven and Hell is fundamentally the same. It's noted that demon wings are not black, but white, and during what while the showdown between Adam and Satan in the series, all the angels and demons actually appear on earth and square off against each other--and the narration specifically says that you couldn't tell the angels apart from the demons. That's why Gabriel and Beelzebub get the same complaints from both Heaven and Hell about how hard it is to get the angels and demons to back down from a war, that's why Crowley says at the end of season 1 that the real Armageddon will be the combined hosts of Heaven and Hell versus humanity. It's why it was mentioned, when talking about season 1, that Heaven and Hell were envisioned as being the upper floors and basement of the same basement--is why the methods to get to both places are always in the same location! The escalators and the elevator!

And that's why Gabriel and Beelzebub got along. Because they were in the exact same position experiencing the exact same difficulties and complaints, and because they the exact same amount of actual care for Heaven and Hell--precisely zero. They fell in love because they're similar, but at the end of the day, all the angels and demons are 'similar', because the demons used to be angels too! Which we are reminded, when Crowley correctly analyzes angels like Muriel, Heaven as a structure, and guesses that they STILL haven't changed the passwords. Crowley recognizes that Heaven and Hell are the same, and are plagued by effectively the same problems, and so he rejects both. He rejects Beelzebub's offer to become a Duke of Hell, even if it would protect Aziraphale. He rejects Aziraphale's offer to become an angel again. Crowley knows that both sides are rife with systematic problems, and so he goes all-in on our side. And on humanity's side.

[tunastime]

do androids dream of electric sheep?

I am nothing if not a vessel for self-indulgent docsuma, especially @shepscapades's dbhc self-indulgent docsuma. sometimes you fall asleep in the lab, and sometimes your friend feels compelled to make sure you're okay <3

(3964 words)

Doc sometimes slips into daydream.

It’s not unlike him. He’d been doing it for some time now, some fix halfway between awake and Sleep Mode. Not quite his mind palace, but still wedged into predictive processes, still trying to work to replay memories. In quiet moments, more often than not, he finds that it’s easier to slip away, to tuck himself into his work, drafting, or building, or walking thoughtful circles and let the mechanical parts of his mind slip away into calculation.

In those same dreams, he tries to calculate the probability of events with what he has, blocking out the movements of who he knows best, who he may be able to pinpoint. He works in quiet as his mind runs in the background, wondering how conversations may go, how actions could be perceived. He maps what might happen if someone got hurt, or if someone needed help, or if someone fell asleep in the lab. Someone. Just anyone. He tells himself it could be anyone, but he would be lying if he didn’t know who.

It was hard, right—it felt wrong if he didn’t. Something he was designed to do, put to waste because it felt silly to imagine waking his lab partner, his friend, making sure he was alright, helping him. Was it wrong to want to be helpful? Was it wrong to want anything? It feels—it’s silly. Want was such a human word. He’s not sure he can really want at all. The paper in front of him is getting fuzzy around the edges, though, as he forces himself back into his true waking mode, and focuses on the task in front of him, now a line of text in his eyesight.

Doc leans hard on his hand, cupped around the side of his jaw as he studies the plans in front of him. He’s long since set them to memory, easily recalled with the summon of command, but he works out the fine details of the draft in front of him, still unsatisfied with his new creation. He works quietly, mentally mapping the lists of supplies he might need, the time it may take. If he were to concentrate the slightest bit more on the display in the corner of his vision, he might note how late it had gotten. Without any windows down here, the night sky can’t leak in, which means Doc doesn’t know it’s gotten dark until Xisuma starts to yawn or he manages to peek outside. 

He sets his pad down, eyes skimming the surface. Right, and where was X, anyway? The space, ever growing, up, down, sideways, that he used as his lab had gone still and quiet some time ago. Enough for Doc to take note of. Enough to be a little odd, he would assume, even for him, and the behaviors he knows well from Xisuma. Xisuma didn’t just wander off without a word—he was much too narrative for that. Doc sits up, hand falling to the table. 

“X?” he asks, furrowing his eyebrows. The room stays quiet, aside from the hum of recirculating air and electronics. Doc taps his hand against the table—it was some sort of tic he’d picked up from Ren, a sign of his impatience. He couldn’t shake the habit of mimicking it while he was thinking.

Okay, right. Last time he saw X. He gathers up the recall of the path Xisuma would’ve taken from his side, checking over his work at Doc’s request, and around the lab itself, looping back to a series of benches to work on. Leaning from his spot, he tries to pinpoint the peek of green helmet or shoulder piece. He finds neither in the direct line of sight, though, and slowly, bracing his prosthetic arm on the table, Doc stands. 

It’s a gentle quiet that fills the room, nice and easy and soft to step through as Doc makes his way around the space. Despite having another work bench quite close, Xisuma had a habit of leaving his stuff about, flitting between projects as he saw fit. It was interesting, sometimes, to watch him move around the room—not that Doc had done any of that. He seemed to bounce from point to point, sometimes staying still for hours, unmoving, lost in work. It was in those hours that Doc found himself watching, just for a moment, studying the shallow curve of his nose and the way his hair fell into his face from behind his helmet. 

His office is here, too. Though it’s no different than any other working space in terms of equipment, the space itself is fully outfitted, lined with tools and a large work table, his computer, a desk with a chair. Through the glass, he can see the shape of Xisuma at his desk, likely too caught up in whatever he had been working on to notice Doc’s concern. Doc pauses as he slides open the door, standing in the doorway, announcing himself to the cluttered room.

“Xisuma,” Doc starts. “I know it’s late, if you want to head home, I’m sure I can finish…”

Xisuma is slumped over on  his desk as Doc enters. There’s a brief moment, no more than a second, where Doc’s mind spins a scenario hard and fast, the crumpled shape of Xisuma over his desk. But he can see the slow rise and fall of his shoulders. He registers the slow, steady heartbeat in Xisuma’s chest, and his shoulders sag with relief. He stands in the doorway for a moment. Xisuma looks small, head pillowed on his arms. He’s still running a series of code on the console next to him, which illuminates the back of his head in pale lines of data. His hair falls half loose across his shoulder, like he’d forgotten to finish tying it away from his face, and the slow, deep breaths make it seem like he’d been sleeping here a lot longer than Doc realized. He’s without his helmet, too, which sits beside him on the desk, discarded.

Long enough to get a sore neck and complain about his upper back hurting. Long enough to worry that he might not be getting enough oxygen. Doc sets his shoulders. There’s something in his chest that feels like it skips—regulator, pump, or otherwise. They work in tandem to produce whatever fluttery feeling invades the space where his ribs should be. He presses the heel of his synthetic hand against the depression of his chest, rolling his wrist. The feeling fades for a moment, shuddering through his wrists like it might rest there. He was never going to get used to it, was he?

He steps into the lab proper, sticking his hands into his pockets. He picks his way around the room, trying to walk quietly around it. Xisuma stays asleep, shoulders rising and falling in that even tempo. Doc crouches beside him—Xisuma is properly slumped, back curved forward as he rests. What little Doc can see of his face is soft with sleep, eyelids fluttering just so. When X doesn’t move, he rests his palm over the curve of his shoulder, gentle and slow. He tries not to focus on the fact that so much of his face is exposed to him, aside from just his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He’s seen him before, briefly, every so often, but it was so different watching him now, calm and comfortable. Doc forces himself to focus.

“Xisuma,” he says, voice dipping low and quiet. He runs his hand over the part of his shoulderblade he can reach. He pats the high of his back. “Xisuma, hey…”

X takes a long breath in, making a squeaky sort of sound high in his chest. Doc feels him hum out from under his hand.

“Doc,” he says, voice rumbling in his chest. It was a tired sort of rumble, just on the edge of being rough with sleep, just enough to bring that feeling back to Doc’s internal components, like thirium was sludging too quick too warm through him. He huffs a little breath, a sound caught in his throat.

“You fell asleep at your desk, X,” Doc says, not able to weasel the amusement out of his voice. He runs his hand over his back again, just to see Xisuma’s eyes open tiredly, and shut again. It was so unlike the version of him that he knew in his mind, seeing him savor the brief contact, even from Doc. Especially from Doc. Xisuma was always the one reaching out for him, repairing or correcting or studying. All with purpose. There was no lingering touch between them. And though this had its purpose too, Doc lingered, feeling Xisuma breathe under his hand. 

“Sorry,” X mumbles, finally moving to lift his head, to open his eyes. Doc’s hand slides away as X sits up, over his back and back to Doc’s side. Xisuma blinks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hands. A frown comes between his eyes as he tries to focus the world around him a little clearer. Like it were mimicking the score across his cheek and nose, there’s a fine indent pressed into his cheek. Doc smiles at him, scrunching his nose in a way he’s seen X do a hundred times. 

Xisuma jolts, half reaching for the helmet beside him. If Doc were to really look, he might see the pink-red flush over his cheeks and ears.

“Sorry—I didn’t…”

There he lingers, halfway to reaching. Doc looks away from him, purposefully averting his eyes.

“I don’t mind,” he says. “You have to be comfortable too.”

Xisuma hums, smiling a little, hanging his head as he leaves his hand on the table.

“Hah,” he says, ears still pink. “Right. Sorry, sorry, Doc. Didn’t mean to worry you.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “I didn’t know where you had gone off to, so I figured I would come make sure you were okay.”

X nods. Doc watches him twist around, hearing the faint give and pop as his spine adjusts to sitting upright. 

“‘M alright,” he says. Then he laughs a bit—the sound is airy and half in his chest, enough to shake his shoulders but more of a wheeze than anything else. Everything fit so well to the timbre of Xisuma’s voice, it seemed, be it the way he moved about, or the way he laughed, or the way his shoulder sloped or face was shaped. Not that Doc had been looking. Regardless, Xisuma sighs, and smiles back at him.

“Just embarrassed is all,” he manages. “Thanks, Doc. I appreciate you.”

X leans back in his chair. Doc watches him resettle and hum to himself as he gets comfortable against the plush backing. Doc makes a clipped sound, reaches out and moves away again, halfway between shaking him awake and letting him sleep.

“X,” he says. “Would it not be more comfortable if you were sleeping in your spare room?”

Xisuma frowns. 

“Would be,” he says, eyes still closed, mumbling. “It just gets awfully cold in there. ‘N if I’m perfectly comfortable in here, why not stay tha’way?”

It’s almost amusing, the trickle of stubbornness that leaks into the tired slur of Xisuma’s voice. It’s almost endearing. He watches X fold his arms over his chest, armor only partly discarded, watches his face wrinkle as he notices and tries to rearrange himself. Doc smiles, something that he simply can’t help—it feels so right, considering how ridiculous this is. He considers his options and weighs the success rates, the action taking a fraction of a second in time, though the scene plays out in his head in full.

“Because you’ll hurt your back,” Doc says plainly. X frowns, clearly mulling it over. There—that’s one that Doc knows, that face, where X slips into thought and worries the inside of his cheek and works his jaw. Doc raises his eyebrows, as if to question him without saying anything, without Xisuma even looking at him.

“Mhh,” Xisuma huffs. He pulls his knees up. Somehow, he manages to fit himself into his desk chair, curling his tall body over his knees and leaning sideways into the back. Doc hums, makes the approximation of the sound he knows.

“Xisuma,” he says. “I’m not going to let you sleep in that chair, you know. You are being stubborn.”

“M‘kay, okay…” Xisuma wheezes, finally uncurling himself.

It takes him a second. Watching Xisuma stretch and blink awake is like watching him come to life. He stretches up and around, face pulling as he likely unsuccessfully shakes the tension from the line of his spine. As he twists, he freezes, face scrunching all at once as he winces, hand shooting up to cup his neck.

“Ow. Jeez.”

He can see it tight in his shoulders and neck, even as X deflates, looking up at him blearily, still slightly slumped in his chair. His eyes shut again. 

“Xisuma…” Doc says, mouth twisting.

X sighs.

“‘M fine, Doc,” he manages to murmur out. “Just’a sore neck. Mm’exhausted.”

“Sounds like you need a real bed, mm?” Doc replies, setting his hands on his hips. Xisuma peeks at him, one eye opening, and shutting again.

He sees the fraction of a smile lift the corners of X’s mouth.

“Sure, sure…”

Doc looks over Xisuma’s face. With his eyes shut, face softening, hair tumbling over one shoulder, he looks comfortable. It’s as if someone took a brush to his features and smoothed out any hard edge—either that, or the static has leaked back into Doc’s vision. He feels a chug in his chest and his joints as he locks up.

X hasn’t moved. Doc reaches out, tapping his knee. Xisuma huffs, clearly startled from the half-sleep he’d drifted back into.

“Too tired t’stand,” he manages. Doc makes a questioning noise.

“I think you can make it,”

There’s a beat of silence. Xisuma cracks an eye open again, shuts it, furrowing his eyebrows. Doc watches him curiously, mind running through the list of possible scenarios. He’s made it part way when Xisuma says:

“‘M using you t’stand, then.”

And he makes a little, amused heh, before he says:

“That’s fine.”

There’s something he means to say alongside that, but as soon as X’s very warm, very human hand makes contact with the fabric of his lab coat and the cool synthetic of his arm, he loses focus. He should be used to this—the amount of times X has performed his routine maintenance, sweeping his hands over the replaced shoulder joint to check for seams, or made sure the regulator functioned, or backed up personal data, fingers skimming the shallow port at the back of his neck. He should be, but that contact alone sends a prickling-warm jolt up his arm. It feels foreign to let the touch linger. But Xisuma lingers regardless, hand flat against the space where Doc’s left ribs should be. He’s gone from holding, to simply sitting there, arm bent at the elbow, held weakly up. 

“Mrghh…” he complains. Doc taps his elbow, trying to jolt him back awake.

“C’mon, X, you can get up.”

X shakes his head slowly, his hand finding the inner curve of his prosthetic arm, squeezing just once, like he’s remembering it’s there. Then, X leans into him, all at once, slumping into his chest. Doc lets out a wouf in surprise. He holds still, aside from the simulated breath in his chest. After a moment, Xisuma makes a small, tired sound, almost like a laugh.

“Houfh,” he mumbles. “I, mm, don’t…don’t think ‘m gonna make it, Doc.”

“Mhm…” Doc chides. 

Xisuma laughs again, lying still for a moment, voice still heavy with sleep. There’s a moment where he shifts, and there’s a small, painful noise that he makes.

“Ow, mrrgh—ow, okay—” he gripes. Doc’s synthetic hand finds the curve of his shoulder, patting gently.

“Oh, X—just…stay still, mhm?”

“Mm,” Xisuma says tiredly, “Alright.”

As much as he wants to move him, X is still wearing that damn armor.

Doc lets him lean into his chest as he tries to weasel off the bits of armor left over. It’s a struggle, keeping X comfortable and trying not to pull him around awkwardly, while trying to remove his chestplate with one hand. Once the armor pulls away, he resettles him, slowly scoops one hand under his legs. Something about this, about the way Xisuma leaned heavy into him, felt so painfully human he feels it curl up between the wires connecting his regulator to his side fans.

“Ready?” he says, mostly to the top of Xisuma’s head.

“Mmh…” X murmurs.

He hefts him into his arms, settling him against his chest. When Xisuma sighs, it’s profound and heavy and he tucks his face into Doc’s coat. Doc can feel the remnant of heartbeat from where his arm rests behind his back, thudding away behind his ribs. His breathing stays even, though shallow. One of Xisuma’s hands clasps over the back of his neck, keeping him still.

It’s a careful walk to Xisuma’s spare room. Doc is careful not to bump anything, measuring the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he walks. He drifts back to sleep, though, through the lab, through Doc shutting the lights off. He’ll have to come back through to power down their various computers, but for now, the dull white-blue glow illuminates the room. He carries him into the halls and through and to his room. It’s smaller than the room in his base by a sizable margin—just enough for the essentials. X stirs as Doc pauses to flip on the lamp, the light warm and yellow briefly illuminating the room. This can’t be a daydream, now, with the way X sighs and wriggles himself free as Doc pulls back the quilts and lets him down. He sits down with him, and the warm shape that Xisuma makes curls toward him, just a fraction, as he pulls the blankets over him. 

Part of Doc knows that Xisuma won’t remember him carrying him to bed, or making sure he was warm, or keeping the light on so he wasn’t disoriented when he woke. Xisuma sighs, sinking into the pillows, expression relaxed and content. Doc hums.

“That’s better, yeah?” Doc says. He reaches out, instinct, want, desire, something, hammering away in his chest, as he brushes hair from X’s face, tucking it behind his ear. He brushes through the hair close to the base of his neck, across his cheek with his synthetic thumb. His dark hair is fine and soft and it must be a daydream—or it isn’t and he was right, because there have been moments like this in his head. Wondering if Xisuma would let himself succumb to soft comforts. He’s spent his own share of time lying next to him, ignoring the way Xisuma curls up next to him, pretending he himself didn’t move closer when Xisuma lies still. It was this dance that Doc didn’t understand, that he wasn’t sure if he was overthinking. Or overstepping. But Xisuma shifts, pressing his cheek to Doc’s synthetic palm, and Doc suppresses a shudder. It sparks something that could’ve been painful right up his arm and through his chest, bright and warm and staticky. 

Doc hums, smiling to himself. Something like a dull thrum knocks in that space of his pump, pushing itself a little further, a little harder. It was sweet. X trusts him, not only to see him without his armor, but to help him to bed, to help him sleep. But Doc lifts his hand away, feeling that ache, the nervous shudder through his system.

X makes a sound, then, something small, eyes fluttering as Doc pulls away. Doc pauses.

“Mhh,” X manages. Doc swallows—he shouldn’t have to. That’s not something he should have to do, or be able to do, but the action just feels appropriate. It goes right along with sighing and laughing, and as he does it, Xisuma says:

“Thanks,” in a small, soft voice, and, muffled, and slightly slurred with sleep: “Didn’t have’ta stop.”

“You’re supposed to be sleeping, Xisuma,” Doc says. He can feel his temperature tick up several notches, no doubt a blue flush coming to the high of his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. He laughs, just a bit. “Did I wake you up?”

X sighs, stretching as he does.

“No,” he manages. “No, y’didn’t…”

“Oh,” Doc says. “Were you awake this whole time?”

Xisuma nods slowly. Ah. Ah. Doc dismisses a temperature notification.

“A little.”

“Mm,” Doc hums. “Silly Xisuma.”

Xisuma laughs. The sound is high and a little fuzzy and a bit caught in his throat. His bright eyes blink up at him and shut again as a smile settles on his face. 

“Doc?” he asks. 

“Mhm?”

Xisuma yawns, smothering it with the back of his hand, just barely. He tucks that hand close to his chest, curling up further still under his thick comforter. 

“Could you…could’you do tha’again? The…” Xisuma lifts his hand, miming a brushing motion as he does. Another temperature warning, higher than the last, blips into Doc’s field of vision. It’s immediately dismissed, but he pulls in a breath, quiet, trying to turn it into a soft laugh.

“I can do that,” Doc says gently. Gingerly, he brushes his fingers through X’s hair, sliding back against his head. He combs through, lifting his hand to go back to his forehead, back to cradle his skull. X’s eyes fall closed again.

Doc can tell the moment that Xisuma truly slips into sleep. He lingers in his space, tracing out the base of his skull with his thumb, taking in the sensation of warmth and contact and stimulation, fingers flickering white up to his wrist. He wishes biting down on his tongue would do anything. He wishes that the hollow of his chest didn’t hold a weight that no diagnostic could fix. He felt too awkward and stilted and not nearly gentle enough. But as Xisuma stays asleep, he draws his hand away. He mumbles his good nights as he stands slowly, shutting out the light and wandering from the room. 

He makes his way back into the lab. He replays the memory of Xisuma’s small smile, the fine line of his scar as he’d pressed his face into the pillow, the way he’d relaxed against Doc’s touch. He replays the memory, again, and again. It has to be a daydream. Has to be. There’s no other logical explanation to all of that.

Maybe that would explain the ache in his chest, far too human to be his own.

Doc goes back to work. He sits down at the lab table, spreading his arms as he braces against the white tabletop. He furrows his eyebrows. Something doesn’t feel right, too warm or out of place. He feels gross. Not gross bad, maybe, gross different? Broken? Not broken, maybe. Weird. Wrong. Out of place. It doesn’t make any sense. Or it has, and he’s refusing the obvious answer. Xisuma didn’t ask for any reason. Xisuma asked because he was tired, and tired people do silly things, and silly people are a handful, and Xisuma is a handful—a lovely one. Doc shuts his eyes. His chest hurts. It’s an awful hurt, actually, less painful than it is just weird. He thinks for a moment he might be better off if he left, maybe the weight of whatever lingered in his memory would be better off if he were to take a break from standing in the same spaces. 

He sends Xisuma a message. From his office, he hears his com ping.

Docm77 whispered to you… Xisuma I’m stepping out, sleep well :-)

[leia-leek]

EA is a triple A gaming company worth billions. But BioWare? It's a subsidiary that is smaller than you think. (EA has about 13k employees, but BW has about 500).

Not pre-ordering or buying on the day of release isn't going to send a message to EA to improve its practices. It's only going to hurt BioWare and their remaining employees. (This isn't aimed at people who can't afford it, or don't like the game(s), or don't like what they've seen so far, or are very skeptical and want to hold off. I'm talking to people who are excited about the game and have the $60 to spare.)

Yes, there are things to criticize about BioWare and EA, I get it, I really do. What happened to Mary Kirby and those like her is awful. Fuck them for that, truly. The merchandise packages that don't include the game, kinda scummy. But if you don't take that as a sign that EA is pushing down, hard, on BioWare, then I don't know what to tell you. Do you think BioWare is somehow immune from EA's scrutiny? BioWare has two big misses in their recent history, after MEA and Anthem, they are on thin ice.

Will the game be buggy on release? Maybe. They do have a history of it. Hell, DAO is still buggy af, but we love it anyway. Will the game be bad? Possibly. There are story elements in each game that still piss me off to this day. It is a gamble, but if you like what you see and are excited, there is no reason not to support the franchise you love. Do you want more Dragon Age games? Do you want more Mass Effect games? If yes, then the best way to get more games is to buy this game.

The only thing that will happen if DATV sales suck, will be for EA to believe that Dragon Age games no longer sell and to nix or hold off on all future projects for it. By waiting for it to be on sale or pirating it, you could very well damn the future of BioWare and the DA franchise. You're not fucking up EA when you choose not to buy DATV, you are screwing BioWare, which is not the same as EA. BioWare can be dissolved, but EA won't. They won't care, EA will happily get rid of something that isn't making them money. EA is not gonna be hurt by DATV doing poorly in sales, they have their sports franchises that will always make them money. It will only hurt BioWare and the remaining developers. Do you like Weekes? Epler? Busche? Support them!

So if you are excited about Dragon Age: The Veilguard and want to see more Dragon Age games, don't let anyone convince you not to buy it, or pre-order it. Don't let anyone make you feel bad for doing so. If you have the money and like what you see, I encourage you to buy it and show support for your favorite franchise.

(Those worried about the SAG-AFTRA strike, don't be, DATV isn't included in the strike. More here.)

[walison-abigobaldo-iii]

So, this is the so called Slut Behaviour? Whore era?

[onyourowndaisymae]

lucifer is a very particular man.

he wakes up early to enjoy the peace and quiet of the morning, the way the house of lamentation creaks wearily in the silence while his brothers sleep sounds in the their respective rooms. it's sobering. for a moment, he gets to be alone with his thoughts before the day begins.

he'll walk to the bathroom and clean himself up for the day in silence, before dressing and making his way to the kitchen. he appreciates the little things. the silence, the warm light illuminating his room as he unhurriedly prepares for the day, the way the permanent darkness of the devildom retreats ever so slightly as morning breaks. it's nice.

but when he enters the kitchen, lucifer realizes something is wrong. it takes him a minute to realize it, but when he does, his lips curl downwards into a disappointed frown. the kitchen is completely dormant. it doesn't seem like an issue, but it's a stark difference from his usual routine. because this morning, the smell of coffee is absent from the air.

that's right. you spent the night at purgatory hall last night, didn't you?

your relationship is a cycle of small, considerate gestures back and forth. notes on mirrors, doodles on post-it notes, and his favorite-- coffee prepped and scheduled to brew for him in the mornings before he wakes. it's a gesture that has always made him feel loved. he didn't realize how much a missed day would sour his mood.

lucifer starts to brew his own coffee, but his fingers hang suspended over the grounds a few moments before he abandons the idea altogether. he pulls his D.D.D. out of his packet and drafts a short text to you, only satisfied when he hears the whoosh of the message sent.

i missed your coffee this morning. it's never as good when i have to make it myself. message me once you wake up-- we're going to that cafe we like down the street to make up for it.

[eighthdoctor]

the proper response to reading a history book is to go "huh" and immediately put 3-5 other books on the same topic on hold in the hopes of finding different opinions

[willowser]

on the topic of princely bakugou—

i love the idea of his hand in marriage being the peace offering between your kingdom and his clan, as in he comes to live with you and rule in your castle. and he genuinely wants to do a good job; he's not coming in and tearing down the walls or defiling shrines or anything like that, because that would be the easiest way to lose good graces with his new realm.

the thing that i love the most about this is him being so barbaric, raised in a completely different way from you, taught to value different things and rule a different way—and yet he's sitting with his council (half of which are appointed men that swear loyalty to the realm regardless of who rules, and the other half being men he specifically chose and trusts) dressed in his furs and boots, scars out for all to see, and he's carefully trying to read letters and documents and negotiations, like a civil man would.

and it's not that he's changing anything about himself; he is firmly, to the core, always going to be a wild little barbarian pup—but he's grown enough to know the difference between respect and surrender. to know that he will be nothing without the support of the people, and to lose that after fighting so hard for it would be foolish.

he's very different than you expected, than you were ever taught to expect; your shared bed is too soft for him and he tosses and turns all night and gets up before the sun rises; he cooks, and you've found him fiddling around in the kitchen on more than one occasion; he values your opinion on a multitude of matters, and speaks to you more about politics than your father ever did.

you were told that he'd ravage you in the dirt, dripping sweat and the blood of your people, but—he hasn't laid a hand on you, hardly speaks to you unless it's absolutely necessary. you can almost feel it, though, sitting in his throat when you're across from him at the dinner table, or when he sits at the edge of the bed and looks back at you over his shoulder.

everything he does is so careful, thought out, and you think he might be doing the same with you, too. not barging in or breaking down doors, but waiting, patiently, for you to open up your heart to him.

[dollfat]

"i waited for her to come back and force me into the ground" is so bittersweet. fearing change and hoping someone will make the decision for you.