#the metaphorical straw that broke the camel's back...

[nichtimhandelerhaeltlich]

sometimes you think you are okay and then you start full on sobbing over a pair of ruined pants

I need a break and several days of consecutive sleep

[minasweep]

actually girl win bc the food will still be hot and it won't be a case of me making 3hr enchiladas and crying bc my plate was cold

[racerchix21]

SalTommy

I fucked us up

I might add to this later y’all but for now I’m gonna go hang out with family 🖤🖤

Tagging: @ohlookitsthearkhamknight, @eddiestommy, @betterkeepmewetterthanabayou, @waywaychuck, @obsessivebisexual4tevan, @i-am-married-to-my-fandom, @geniusjester, @evnnkinard @v88sy, @firehose118, @rdng1230, @crankypotionsmaster, @comeon-intothemadhouse, @bisexualdisasterbuckley, @starryeyedjanai @evansboyfriend

At the 118 Sal knew that running his mouth to the captain was gonna get him fired but he’d foolishly thought that his relationship with Tommy would last. It did for a couple more months but their conflicting schedules became too much and that lack of time together they both started getting snappy with each other. The straw that broke the metaphorical camels back was the night he’d shown up after a rare 24 hour shift where their schedules finally matched 5 hours late black out drunk and beaten straight to hell.

***

Should he be driving to Tommy’s place? “Fuck no,” he thinks but after the clusterfuck of a day I’ve been having who fucking cares if I die. Some little voice in his head is screaming “Tommy” but he ignores it. By the time he pulls in his normal spot in the front yard he can feel the exhaustion and the headache from his shift and the alcohol making their presence felt and he figures he’ll just lay his head down for a minute.

He doesn’t mean to doze off and he startles awake when his phone starts blaring out Tommy’s ringtone and before he can even think to grab it to answer his door gets pulled open. Turning his head he’s met with Tommy’s bloodshot eyes and clenched jaw.

“Where have you been, Deluca? I know you for a fact you got off the same time I did so what gives since you’re very clearly still in your uniform it’s obvious it wasn’t home,” Tommy demanded sounding a mix of terrified and angry before Sal saw his nose wrinkle up in disgust. “You went out drinking and then drove here,” his voice devoid of emotion. “I can’t believe you drove drunk. How many calls have we on where someone decided to drive drunk and killed themselves or others? Huh Sal how many?”

“Too many,” he dutifully answers before getting drug out of his truck and walked straight to the couch. He’s expecting his boyfriend to lay down with him but he’s left alone as Tommy disappears back into his bedroom. When he wakes again it’s to Tommy standing at the kitchen counter and their keys to each other’s places laying in front of him.

“Just leave please,” Tommy says before picking up his coffee cup and walking past to go outside. “Just…just be safe Deluca.”

***

Now here he is 3 houses later arguing with another captain because instead of being a man and apologizing or at the very least explaining to Tommy why he’d done what he had he left. It’s been a year and 3 days since Tommy asked him leave and he’s hated himself for a year and 2 days of that time.

After his twentieth call was sent to voicemail he’d given up. He’d called Chimney and Hen to make sure Tommy was okay, he’d gone to all their favorite haunts and that was precisely why he was currently standing in the middle of the locker room at the 136 arguing with Captain Cooper. He was 20 minutes late because he’d seen Tommy and some new guy sitting at their table in the little coffee shop by the 118 when he’d stopped to grab a cup before shift.

He’d stood there for what felt like forever watching the love of his life being cozy with someone new and every single regret he’d had had come roaring back. He’d screwed them up and now he had to watch someone else being the center of Tommy’s world. When he’d finally broken out of his stupor it was because the barista was calling his name loud enough that everyone was looking at him. Sal’d glanced back at her before looking at Tommy just in time to see the flash of hurt before Tommy pulled his new guy into an absolutely indecent kiss.

He fucked up and now his captain was reprimanding him…again.

I’m gonna fix this even if I have to show at his place and force him to listen to me…..

[ex-vengeancedemon]

I am having thoughts I feel compelled to write down against my will. Anyway. Regarding spike and cecily: Spike's reaction to Cecily's rejection had nothing to do with Cecily! Not really. Cecily was just the metaphorical straw that broke the camels back, yeah? Cecily was the culmination of rejection from society, peers, etc. It's the knowledge that no matter what you do, you'll always we on the outside looking in, it will never be enough. Now, Cecily, of course, is not responsible for spikes feelings. She is under no obligation to be favorable to his attention or even to be nice. Spike does not feel entitled to her affection either, in fact he very much seems like he doesn't expect it. But it's not about her and it's not about Spike getting his heart broken. She essentially tells him he doesn't belong, and never will, and he believes her. Yes yes boo hoo. Understandably, he leaves the party upset. When he runs into Drusilla (not knowing who or what she is), she offers him something: a chance to belong. To me this is a guy who seems like he has essentially nothing to lose, so why not? His mom's dying, he has no friends, and he's an outcast among his peers. Cecily has hammered home how he is beneath her (beneath them, never enough, never will be). But Spike didn't become a vampire out of spite, it was hopelessness, the 'what the hell?' of it all. (Not that I think he knew what he was doing or asking for because I don't think he did.) I just don't think he particularly cared. Sometimes I see the take that spike felt entitled to Cecily's attention and reciprocation, and I just. Don't see it? Like he doesn't argue with her, he just honestly answers the questions she asks. When she does reject him with telling him that he's nothing to her and beneath her, again he doesn't argue or take out any anger on her (which he shouldnt). He just removes himself from the situation to go cry alone. I mean, he's allowed to be upset by that. It wasn't like he was hurting anyone.

[writingforfishes]

Otto and Atticus Part 10: Back Inaction

HAS IT BEEN A MONTH?!

Heck.

Well, here's a little something that I've been busy over-producing from when I lifted something wrong a few weeks ago and had to baby myself back to well.

Just imagine if I'd had a dorky tall dude to push away the affections of due to my inadequacies, instead of doing it all by myself anyway.

I'm just letting this story go so I don't obsess over the words anymore. It may be clunky and wordy, but if I stare at it any longer, I'll probably keep making it worse.

Atticus is in an arousal haitus during this. (I also just got done with one of those.)

CW

Fast hiccups.

Otto getting annoyed by his hiccups.

Adjacent talk of Otto's recovery struggles.

Back pain.

Rejecting comfort.

Procrastination and issues with time management.

Massage (non kinky)

Detailed body talk (not related to genitalia)

Otto being a grumpy sleepy boy.

Atticus being a grumpy sore potato.

Being serious for a second.

Inadequacies with being taken care of.

Frustrations at growing old and being seen as old (so mild agism and something that could possibly be seen as ablism, though not intentionally).

Lots of teasing to cope.

Otto being a nerd.

Atticus being a dork.

Author trying reeeal haaard to let this go without another edit session!

Atticus hissed as pain shot from their buttox to the base of their spine. All they had done was pick up a can from a grocery bag on the floor and put it in the pantry. Seemed bad posture had caught up with them. The can was a metaphorical straw that broke the camel’s back. Atticus, in the role of the camel, was not amused.

Otto paused in putting away groceries to shoot them a questioning look.

“You good?” he asked, blindly putting the last frozen item in before closing the top door of the fridge and coming over to his partner’s hunched form, their hand latched onto the door jamb of the pantry and taking shallow, then deep, breaths.

“Mm...not so much…” Atticus replied. They hobbled away toward the couch and sat down on the cushions gingerly.

Though initially Atty had allowed Otto to help them that day, all of Otto’s attempted administrations of care had been brushed off every day after. (Though not in an unfriendly way. More in a “nah, I’m good, don’t worry about me, I got this, ooh look a bird!” way.)

Atty had taken copious amounts of Ibuprofen throughout the week. They applied heat and ice and did stretches and exercises, but the muscle strain was taking forever to heal on its own. They had even started adopting some of Otto’s Pilate’s exercises after seeing the similarities of them to the physical therapy recommendations online.

Still, the pain persisted.

What Atticus really needed was rest. But with an upcoming deadline and having to write furiously to get it done on time, rest was in short commodity. Otto realized this and respected the reason Atty was denying his offers of care. Though, admittedly, he felt a bit helpless for it. Watching his partner in pain while writing at his desk in a chair he was well aware was not exactly ergonomic was mildly distressing.

But, with teeth gritted, the writer charged through the story using the pain to inspire and empathize with their characters. Finally, after 5 days, the writing piece was complete. And, with a heavy-handed tap on the send button, Atticus collapsed back in the ill-fitted office chair they’d occupied during the spree. They’d only taken breaks in their furiously charged writing spree to attempt to use the bathroom, ice, heat, and stretch their back. (And, at Otto’s insistence, they also took breaks to eat. Though they frequently brought food with them to the desk.)

“Really loving this procrastination for my personal growth journey, but I could do without the stress it causes!” they exclaimed.

Otto, from the direction of his work bench, chuckled.

“You done?” he asked, hopefully. Perhaps now he would be allowed to care for them more than making food and giving monologues on various topics he’d distracted them with while they’d attempted to ease their pain.

Atticus gave a whimper and a nod in response.

The writer’s eyes were closed. Their hands clutched their lower back while still sitting in Otto’s office chair. Their fingers gripped the soreness that had only abated enough to withstand during the week they’d tried to ease it amid their furious attempts to make up for lost time in writing a manuscript they should’ve had done a week ago.

Atticus startled at Otto’s voice that had somehow gotten so close that it was right behind them as he spoke.

“How’s your back?” Otto asked. He didn’t miss the wince that came from the jump of their body and felt a bit guilty for causing it.

Atty opened their eyes to look back and up at Otto, his kind face giving a warm smile down at them.

“‘Sokay,” they lied.

“Mm,” Otto said a bit curtly. “So...if I asked you right now to walk to the kitchen, bring me something from the bottom cabinet, and walk back here you’d be perfectly fine and pain free?”

Atticus considered it before lying again, “Yup!”

“Go ahead, then,” he said, crossing his arms.

A beat passed between them, a bit of a stare down.

“Pssh! Dude! You have two legs and are up. You go get it!” Atty said, attempting to diffuse with humor.

Instead of laughing, though, Otto circled to face them and bent down to lock eyes with his partner in front of them. It was a stare that almost made Atty squirm. There was a deep honesty in those eyes, an intense interest and even more intense emotion.

There was also seriousness in those eyes that Atticus usually tried to avoid at all costs until they could no longer ignore it. It wasn’t for lack of wanting to be genuine or truthful that they avoided the seriousness, but for lack of wanting to reveal themselves out of instinctual protection.

Atticus did trust their partner. They didn’t trust themselves.

“Atty...” Otto started.

Atticus could’ve lost themselves with just that nickname and how it was said. Otto had an alarming ability to coat the simplest of words in an emotional subtext that could drown a sane person. For a person like Atticus, who considered themselves by no means, sane, it just made it a little harder to breathe. Otto had their attention.

“You have cared for me more than once when I was at my worst. It’s obvious you’re in pain. Why-why won’t you let me care for you now? Is it pride? Do you...not trust me?” Otto asked. The ‘why’ was a stutter, not a hiccup.

The clock maker took the tips of his fingers and ran them along Atticus’ hairline. He shifted an errant curl up into its usual place. A soft breath was drawn from the writer as he found the buzzed part of their undercut and pulled the pads of his fingers over it softly.

“Noooo…” they said like a whine when he asked about trust, “I do.”

Atty countered those dark brown eyes with pinched brows and narrowed eyelids. They held their lips tightly against each other and sighed.

“I’m just...embarrassed,” Atticus finally admitted under his scrutiny.

Otto, still on his knees in front of them, scrunched his eyes up and shook his head, incredulous.

“Why?” he asked genuinely. His eyes widened as he asked, and his brows edged up his prominent forehead in confusion.

Atticus had seen the clock maker in ways so much worse than a strained back, so Otto was truly befuddled at the reason for the embarrassment.

Atticus sighed, perhaps a bit dramatically.

“I-I don’t like needing to be cared for. I...feel like a burden, y’know? I don’t know how to act like someone who...who needs to be helped! My mom never...I loved her, and she loved me but...my mom didn’t really know how to treat me when I was sick. I’d feel...guilty for it happening. I don’t know why, so don’t ask me!

“And...I threw my back out while picking up a can! Less than a pound! It’s just...all so demoralizing and insulting and stupid and...I’m ooold and I don’t want to-to need anyone and...I—ugh!” Atticus exclaimed and buried their head in their hands.

Otto slowly coerced Atticus’ hands from their face and cupped their cheek in his hand in replacement. He was smiling again, soft and sweet. He was annoyingly understanding. Atty was always prepared to be a terrible person, but Otto never let them. His patience was very frustrating in that way.

“I get all of that. Trust me. But...I guess there have been too many instances in my life where I literally didn’t have a choice but to let people take care of me,” he said. “The number of times I’ve been at my worst have been more than I would ever want to admit. And, I guess, through that I learned some humility? Which is annoying. It doesn’t really help the guilt and shame go away but at least I know what it feels like to think you’re a burden on someone, and then find out that you’re not. A lot of people have convinced me of that. Margie. Mark. You,” he said, with a nod to Atticus. “And...it doesn’t always stick. I still have moments where I have a really hard time letting people take care of me. But I guess I’ve sort of had to be taken care of more so...I have more practice? Kind of?”

Otto shook his head with a sardonic chuckle and a shrug.

“But, throwing back one of your very apt observations from your birthday on which, remember, you were right because it was your birthday,” Otto continued, “allowing me to take care of you is a gift to me. It isn’t a burden, but something I look forward to providing, okay? And...so...I want to provide it!”

“Dammit,” Atticus ground out through their teeth. “I hate how good your memory is.”

Otto did laugh in amusement this time.

“Yeaaaah,” he drawled, “it’s a real drag, huh? It’s your fault for being so damn poignant.”

“Ugh, I really wish I was less insightful!” Atty agreed, grateful that they were back to lighter dialogue.

Otto smiled and held each of Atticus’ hands in his own.

“So, can you please let me care for you now? Cause, man, watching you suffer through this week has been a special kind of torture. Not to mention that chair hurts my back, let alone what it must feel like for you!” Otto said.

“Yeah, what the fuck is up with this chair? We need to get you a new chair…” Atticus mumbled before turning back to Otto’s waiting face. “Okay, fine. Take care of me. Or whatever.”

“Ooh, reign that enthusiasm in, Atty!” Otto said, smiling.

Atticus rolled their eyes in response.

Otto had obviously been planning to be Atticus’ knight in shining khaki ever since they’d hurt their back. He had a plan. The first part of that plan was a long bath soaking in Epson salts. The clock maker had even gotten a small bath pillow for Atticus to lay their head on while they luxuriated in the tub. He lit a candle, of all things, that smelled of lavender and vanilla. The writer didn’t even know that Otto had allowed a candle in the house; his nose was so sensitive to perfumes and powerful scents. As such, the candle was successfully mild in its odor, just enough to flavor the air.

Otto left Atticus to soak while he went downstairs and fixed dinner. Just as the water started to cool and Atty was about to get up Otto arrived with a towel and helped them from the tub. And, as their back gave a spasm from the change in position, Atticus was extremely grateful he was there.

“You okay?” Otto asked as he supported them.

“Yeah. Just one fucking back spasm away from chopping the whole spine out,” Atty grunted. They huffed at the edge of the tub until the pain ebbed.

“Mmm, don’t recommend it,” Otto said with humor.

“I dunno,” Atty continued bitterly, “politicians seem to do fine without one for the most part.”

“Wow. Okay! Pain makes you even more cynical than normal. Good to know. Afraid you’re stuck being a writer, though. Suffering for the art and all,” Otto said watching Atticus gingerly towel off as he handed them underwear, a white shirt, and their favorite pair of grey sweatpants.

“Yeah, choosing honesty over deception has been a real drag,” the writer said.

“Tell me about it,” Otto had agreed before walking his spouse downstairs.

To their credit, Atticus only faltered once, having to let Otto support them. However, every step triggered shoots of pain up their lower back and in one butt cheek. Being a pain in the ass and having a pain in the ass were two very different experiences, they were realizing. They quickly decided they preferred the former.

The writer took a moment to muse how on earth they’d scaled the steps without Otto behind them as support before now. Was that a testament to tenacity or idiocy? Both, at this point, seemed likely.

Dinner had been prepared. Tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. As much as Atticus and Otto’s childhood had differed, they both had memories of their parents preparing tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich. It’s why Otto had ordered the same meal at the food market in the Antique’s Mall a month ago. Happy memories were spare for him and marrying them with moments he wanted to find joy in was very therapeutic.

Comfort food was also essential when someone didn’t feel well; Atticus more than appreciated the gesture. They spooned the warm liquid into their mouth noting the spices floating on top that their mom’s Campbell’s brand fare never contained.

“Ooh, it’s a little spicy,” Atty had said after taking a few spoonfuls.

“Too much?” Otto asked with some worry.

“Nuh-uh, nope. Just unexpected. Mm, do we have crackers?” they asked.

Atticus allowed Otto to retrieve the Ritz crackers. They allowed Otto to do the dishes. They allowed Otto to put a Tiger Balm brand menthol patch on their back to ease their pain. They allowed Otto to give them a massage on the couch. Or, more accurately, Attics allowed themself grace from doing things that would cause pain, and Otto was more than willing to support that decision.

This last one, allowing Otto to give them massage, Atticus saw as extremely self-indulgent. Otto was more than happy to oblige, though. And Otto was, innuendo jokes aside, extremely skilled with his hands. He had actually hoped Atticus would request a massage. The writer had massaged him quite often after more intense or longer hiccup attacks. Disregarding even that, both of them were very familiar with when the other would benefit from the easing of muscles by proffered massages, kink moments aside.

For his part, Otto enjoyed Atticus’ body. He enjoyed the freckles that powdered along their shoulders and down their arms. He loved feeling the soft sides of their waist and lingered admiringly at the dimples above their butt. There was nothing sexual about this kind of touch. No arousal happened from either one of them during the massage. (In fact, Atticus was in a bit of a hiatus from their arousal reaction from hiccups, so not even the regular forms of excitement would be happening this night.)

When Otto had first given Atticus a massage at the time they had started to explore each other’s bodies, he was terrified he would hurt them. Atty was slight beneath his hands which seemed so large compared to their body. But when the writer scoffed as he tentatively ghosted his fingers along their skin, that he didn’t need to treat them like some porcelain doll and that they were tougher than they looked, Otto took note. What he discovered, quite surprisingly, was that they were right.

Their body may have been small, but it was made of denser muscle than it seemed. The softness of their curves gave way to cords of knotted muscle that actually took some effort to break through. Atty was also communicative if he’d pushed too far. This gave him confidence and he treated his partner less like a breakable commodity and more like a person with autonomy who was simply a different shape and size. The novelty of them being such wildly different sized bodies faded quite quickly after this realization. (Barring when they attempted to kiss each other while standing, Atticus needing something on a high shelf, or cheap shot jokes about height during banter.)

The couple ended up one on top of the other on the couch. Otto had reclined against the couch’s arm with a pillow underneath him and offered Atticus to lay with their back top of his belly and torso, their legs between his, and a pillow at their lower back. The writer sighed, sinking into the softness of his midsection and relishing the feeling of menthol on their back from the patch. Otto offered a small pillow to put at their neck so it would have support. Atty melted in even further at the comfort. When Otto kissed their head, his spouse made a very contented noise in the back of their throat that encouraged a chuckle from him.

“You feeling okay?” he asked. Otto had brought out a book to read above them and raised his glasses at the small face leaning back to look at him.

The soft sounds of an orchestral record took the space of sound between their words.

“Mmhm. Yep,” Atty said.

“How’s your back?” Otto asked.

“Feels tight but it doesn’t hurt as much. I smell like an old man, now. The Tiger Balm. But it feels really good,” Atticus admitted.

“Good,” Otto replied, smiling.

“What’re you reading?” they almost cut themselves off with a sizable and audible yawn. They felt Otto stroking their hair affectionately.

Atticus had not been getting the best sleep. They had been tossing and turning in the loft bed instead of their shared bed because they didn’t want to disturb Otto with their movements. None of it had made for consistent or fulfilling rest.

“‘T’snot Melville again, is it?” Atty followed up with before Otto could answer.

“No…” Otto said in faux offense, “Hawthorne.”

“Nerd,” Atty teased.

Otto snorted with a laugh jostling Atticus’ body.

“Oh crap, did that hurt?” Otto thought to ask after watching Atty readjust themselves after his laughter.

“Nah,” Atticus responded, but caught the doubtful eye of their husband above them. “Seriously, this time. Just kinda bouncy and soft. I promise you didn’t hurt me. Go back to reading your fancy novel. I’m gonna...not fall asleep.”

Otto watched the writer pull the blanket from off of the back of the couch and shrug it onto their shoulders, adjusting again against his body with a small grunt.

“Are you comfortable?” they suddenly asked him. Otto smiled.

“I’m good,” Otto responded, easily. He’d propped himself up on the pillow, it supporting his neck and back. Holding the book aloft wasn’t much of a challenge as he’d rest it on the back of the couch while reading. Though he might get a little warm having Atticus laying on him, it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience if Atty was able to get some good sleep out of it.

“Kay,” they said lazily and turned their head again to get more comfortable.

A long while after Atticus had fallen asleep Otto marveled at how incredibly still they had been. Usually, they’d have turned at least once by this mark. This was probably an indication of how tired the writer was. They’d been asleep for a little over an hour without so much as a twitch.

Atticus had even fallen asleep with their glasses on. But as their head never turned enough to knock them askew, Otto decided not to remove them for fear of rousing them.

Otto was happy, also, that the heat from Atticus’ body wasn’t too overwhelming. It’d helped that he’d laid down in his boxer shorts and white t-shirt. He was only a little warm, but he hadn’t even started sweating. It was a relief not to have to deal with the heat, though he would’ve stayed regardless.

He suddenly felt gas rising up his chest and worked hard on letting it out as softly as possible to not disturb his spouse who slowly rose and fell with the movement of his body’s breath. He’d had the hiccups once today. It wasn’t anything special. Atticus teased him a bit on some of the sounds, able to be more natural with the occurrence during their break from feeling arousal from them.

The hiccups had been a little forceful, but sometimes they were like that. And, as usual, they’d lasted around ten minutes after his first sip of coffee before trailing off. That had been hours ago now.

But feeling his body jerk with a shock he started second guessing his culinary decision to spice the tomato soup he’d made as much as he had. He wasn’t lucky enough to have that be a single and, as many of his cases went, it started rapidly.

He tried to muffle the sounds by closing his mouth and putting a hand over his mouth but realized by doing so he was increasing the movements of his body which was visibly, at this point, jostling his partner. Otto tried letting the sounds out, then, but:

“Hup!-hu’up!-hulp!-huck!...hulp’m!-mk!-mmp!-MMP!” Otto groaned. It was a no-win situation. As expected, Atty shifted on his stomach.

Atticus became conscious to the feeling of a soft insistence of attention at the base of their spine. Fluttering thumps hit their body rapidly as their head seemed to jostle backwards. They blinked their eyes open and took a deep breath trying to make sense of the stimulus.

“S-sorry,” Otto’s voice vibrated on Atticus’ head through his chest as he spoke through the volley of hiccups that attacked him. “They-hup!-they jus-huck’m!-just started. Mk! I guess I-hick’m!-guess I should’ve b—been lighter hup!-lighter on the spice. Hip!”

“Aww,” Atticus cooed sleepily. “You have them again.”

Atty remembered the case from the morning. It was a pretty forceful attack from what they recalled. It shouldn’t have been a surprise that he’d gotten them again, especially after the spiciness in the soup. But it’d been a few weeks since he’d had anything more than his morning cases, and even those had been sparse.

However, the day after they’d gotten back from the Antique’s Store had been littered with short cases. His diaphragm had apparently been quite offended with Otto’s antics in inducing and worsening the case and it wasn’t done grumbling from the first day of events. It had been a somewhat exhausting day for both of them. Atty’s new vibrator had gotten a pretty good workout, to be brief.

But now, in a hiatus of arousal, Atty simply rubbed Otto’s thigh in sympathy of the hiccups he had now.

“Y-you okay? Hmp!-I’m not—not rocking h’uck!-rocking you too much? Hm’k!hmk!hup!-uh,” Otto asked placing his hand softly on Atticus’ chest. The writer put their hand on top of his and rubbed it affectionately.

“No, I’m fine. It’s kinda like a...massage chair. Like a soft pillow hitting my back randomly. Not unpleasant,” they mused.

Otto laughed, shaking his belly with it and increasing the speed of his hiccups. He waited a few seconds before talking, but the hiccups had only slowed down a little.

“Glad I can h’mp!-b-hup!-be of huck’m!-of se—service.MMK!-uh!” Otto said and felt Atticus’ hand stroking his again and sighed as much as he could.

Atticus then breathed in a yawn and stretched, joints popping a little as they reached their arms up past Otto’s head and back down as the clock maker dodged the wayward hands with a smile Atty couldn’t see.

As the writer woke up a little more, they squirmed against Otto’s body, satisfied that their back was not near as sore as it had been previously. Still feeling the enthusiastic hiccups from behind them, they started to be more aware of where their body was and how that might affect their partner.

“Hey, are you okay with me here? On your belly, I mean? I’m not making it worse, am I? Or painful?” Atticus worried.

“I don’t-himp!-I don’t think s—so. Hmk!huck’l! Th-mk!-they aren’t pul-hup!hup!-ling thei-hnk!-their punches but hmp!-but you—re not m-making it wo-hurp!hup!mk!hmp!-worse! Shit. Sorry,” he said, covering his mouth.

“You need to get up and cure them?” Atty asked. They pulled their head back to look at the vision of the upside-down head of their husband as it jolted with more hiccups with a look of concentration. The head shook ‘no’ in response and gave Atticus’ forehead and little peck before being jolted back again with another spasm.

“L—let’s see if hmk!hmk!-if they go hup!-go away on—on their own first. HU’UP!” he said and covered his mouth again at the loudness of the last hiccup.

Atty couldn’t help but laugh a little followed by a sympathetic face.

“Welp,” they said with a huff after a moment of riding the spasms of Otto’s diaphragm, “I need to pee.” Their back was fine, but their bladder was definitely being tested by the movements.

“You hup!-you n-need me to huck!-to help get hyup!-to the restroom?” Otto asked as he provided assistance to them sitting up, noticing the strain on their face.

“Nah,” they said with a grunt when they were finally upright. They gave his stomach a little pat and rub. “Poor guy. Um-no, I’m gonna use the guest one down here.”

Again, with some effort and help from Otto, Atticus finally found themselves standing, more or less. It was more of a near standing position as they leaned forward a little before slowly straightening their spine with a breath.

“You-huck!-you in hlmp!-in any p-huck-pain?” he asked.

“No,” Atty grumbled back. “Just stiffness more than anything.” They hissed. “And, okay, a little pain. I’ll grab an Ibuprofen after going to the bathroom.”

“I’ll ge-HUP!-get another pa-hilp!-patch,” Otto said, getting himself up with a hiccuping grunt from being in one position for so long.

“Sounds good,” Atticus said with a nod and an awkward hug to their husband who was now standing beside them.

“Calm down,” Atty whispered through Otto’s stomach to his diaphragm. They felt the motions of Otto chuckling in response and his hiccups quickening in response to that. “Stop that. I’m not that funny.”

At this, Atticus proceeded to scoot along to the guest bathroom as Otto desperately tried to hold in more snickering at their slow progress. The amusement tickled him unexpectedly. The way Atty held their back as they tried to stand up straight by activating their core was too reminiscent of the quintessential elder and, though Otto was hardly amused by the struggles of the elderly, the glare Atticus gave him served only to increase his mirth.

His hiccups, obviously, increased because of this and Atticus pronounced their lips with a harrumph.

“Forget what I said, diaphragm! Do your worst!” they said, entering the bathroom with a flair of attitude that sent Otto into more giggles and sacrificing him to the shortness of breath that came from rapid-fire hiccups.

When Atticus exited the bathroom, they could hear Otto’s hiccups from the kitchen and made their way, albeit slowly, to see their husband with a large white patch, destined for their lower back, on the surface of the kitchen island. He was bent over to his phone, which was also sitting on the island, reading something off the screen. One hand scrolled as the other pressed against his chest buffering against the barrage of hiccups he was still experiencing.

It was only at this point did the writer notice it was dark outside the windows. It made sense that it had gotten late, but it threw them off a little to suddenly notice it was nighttime.

“Hey-hmph!” Otto said, finally noticing them. “S-sorry, was just hup!hup’k!-just ch-checking some hmk!-some appointments.” He jolted with another cluster of two, silently.

Despite their chagrin at his teasing earlier, Atticus gave him a look of sympathy. It might not have been the worst case of hiccups Otto ever had, but they still looked pretty powerful.

“C’mon,” he continued, gulping another hiccup down and holding the patch by its edges. “Let’s hup’k!-g—get this on. Hmk!”

Atty was silently grateful that they weren’t aroused enough to physically react to the attack. The kind of hiccups Otto was letting out were the exact kind that got them the hottest. They couldn’t imagine the pain if their back had felt like clinching or arching in arousal.

“Then I can hum’k!-I can hel-mk!-help you do-hup!-do some light stretches, hmk-hmk!-uh, if you want HUP’K!” Otto said, blowing some air out of his mouth with mild frustration amid a few more hiccups.

Having a kink made it impossible not to be completely unaffected by the subject of the kink no matter the libido level at the time. But Atticus’ arousal stayed at a low buzz instead of spiking and, as that was the case, Otto’s arousal never blossomed to either increase or interact with his hiccups.

As such, Otto seemed to react to his hiccups in a way that seemed more likely how he interacted with them before. He was mildly annoyed when they interrupted his speech, and he got a little frustrated as he had to navigate his words and breath around him. He was still mostly unbothered by his hiccups regardless his arousal level, or Atticus’, but it getting near bedtime was making them seem a bit more of a nuisance than normal.

“Doing light stretches might help, if you’re up for helping me,” Atty responded. They gave a soft smile as they watched him carefully peel the paper from the side of the patch protecting the adhesive.

The writer then stood with their shirt hiked up as Otto lowered to his knees to have a better angle at placing the patch where it needed to be.

Amid sounds of hiccups, Atticus heard Otto fussing behind them. They felt his fingertips ghost their lower back, then leave. Atticus felt the plap of the menthol infused patch against their skin and then it was removed again.

“Shit,” Otto whispered as he stifled another cluster. Four hiccups hit him and quick succession as he once again had almost lined up the patch to his partners back before “hmk!huck’m!hilp!mlk!” caused the patch to go askew again as his hands lost their steadiness.

If he hadn’t been on his knees he might’ve had a little more control over the situation. Or perhaps not. For the most part, his hiccups were pretty par for the course, but those deep ones seemed to come out of nowhere and jerk his body more than he expected.

Thank goodness he hadn’t had these when working earlier today. He might’ve had to abandon any repairs until he could cure them.

The more frustrated he got the more disruptive the hiccups seemed. Though he always got a little grumpy come bedtime, the hiccups were exacerbating it.

“Cra-hu’uck!-crap,” he muttered as his hands jolted again and folded the patch in on itself. “C’mon...HUP!-uh...”

“You good back there, bud?” Atty said over their shoulder. They couldn’t turn too far to look behind them due to pain and stiffness, but Otto saw their profile and a glimpse of their eye from the corner of their glasses.

“Yeah j—just can’t get hu’up!-get this th-hip’m-thing on str-hmp!hmp!-straight-HMPK!-ugh!” Otto groused.

Atty wasn’t sure if he’d groaned because of the hiccups or because of the issues he was having with the patch.

“You know, as long as it’s in the right vicinity I don’t really mind how it looks. Also...we don’t really straight in this house so slap that baby on however it goes, huh?” Atty said, hoping to lighten the mood.

The writer got a scoffed laugh as a reply and, they thought, that might have to be enough. Regardless, Atticus finally felt the soothing coolness of the patch cover their lower back and heaved a sigh as they felt Otto’s fingers smooth it out and reveled in the delicate touch. They turned around to face him as he stayed knelt on the ground in front.

“You tired?” Atty asked softly as their arms propped on his shoulder and their hands encircled his neck.

“A little,” he admitted as his head was thrown back in a “hrmk’l!hrk!” and he rubbed his eyes. “Sorry hrmk! I know I g—get grouchy. HUCK’M!hmk!hlp!mmk!-huck!”

“Those things aren’t helping, I guess,” Atty noted to his hiccups. “They starting to bother you?”

“Uh-HUP’K! Heh! Sorta. They’re j-hulpk!-just annoying. HMMK!-Mm, not painful, th—though,” he said a little sheepishly.

Atticus pulled him closer with that admission and hugged his head to their chest as they rested their head on his.

“My poor guy,” they cooed. Then their voice got a little deeper and sharper. “That’s what you get for laughing at your poor partner at how they walk when they’re in pain!”

“Ah!” Otto exclaimed, laughter muffled into their body, “Tou-hup!hup!-t—touch-hip!hmp!-touché! Dammit!”

Atticus was back to rubbing his back in their embrace, him on his knees making the writer feel more than adequate to envelop him in their arms.

“Okay, I’m gonna take some Ibuprofen and maybe you should try and get rid of those? They sound like they’re getting worse.” Atty suggested.

“Yeah g—good idea HUP-uh,” Otto said and grabbed onto the kitchen island to pull himself up with a wince. “Oh! Hoop!” He grabbed his knees, the tissue around his patellae offended by the pressure put on them.

“Nuh-uh!” Atticus announced as they watched him struggle from their place in front of the cabinet the couple kept medicine in. “None of that! Only one of us can be down for the count at a time with old people pain! I already called lower back. You can have knees next week.”

“Heh hup!” Otto said with a small smile. “I’d hurmp!-I’d rather n—not. Hmk!-uh. I think I’m-hmp!hmp!-I think I’m good.”

Atticus watched him as he put the back of his hand over his mouth to cover a small burp followed by another cluster and finally lower that hand with a sigh onto his chest as he reached for the apple cider vinegar.

Ever since Rose and Bill had introduced them to the potential magic of a gulp of apple cider vinegar, as opposed to the three-step solution they’d used before, it was always a first line in curing Otto’s hiccups. If that didn’t work, then sugar, salt, and lemon resumed their position to be one of the more reliable cures. And if that didn’t work, which it usually did, waiting it out was the only other option. It was rare that they had to wait, but it had happened.

Atticus leaned against the counter as they watched Otto take a swig of the vinegar and wince, shaking his head, before swallowing it.

“Good?” Atty said, trying to keep the humor out of their voice. They smiled in amusement, though.

“I can still...sort of f—feel them. Yeah,” he sniffed, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand and sighed, jolting a little with another silent hiccup. “But I don’t think they’re go—O—nna last for much longer.”

“You sure?”

Otto nodded assuredly, the curls that had started to frizz on top of his head bobbing a little with the enthusiasm.

“Yeah,” he said, stifling a yawn that ended in another silent spasm. They had certainly calmed down, so Atticus nodded. “Hey, you want me to—to help you stretch before bed, n—now?”

“Yeah, let’s try that,” the writer agreed.

Otto unfolded the bench from his Pilate’s machine and helped Atticus on it.

“I wanna try some pa—assive stretches with me assisting. You game?” Otto asked.

“Yeah, sure.”

“J—just don’t let me push past the point of—of pain, okay?”

Otto handled one of Atticus’ legs and folded it up, their foot on his abdomen, as he leaned closer and pushed it toward their torso gently.

Atty chuckled. At Otto’s questioning look and pause in movement they shook their head.

“I’m fine, it’s just I can feel your tummy flutter on my foot when you, um, hiccup. It’s funny,” they said.

“Guess my diaphragm i—is giving you a food massage, too!”

“It’s working overtime,” Atty noted.

“Tell me ab—about it!” Otto groused with a shake of his head.

By the time the stretches were over, though, Otto’s hiccups had finally given up and Atticus’ back felt better than it had all week.

“Hey, what do you want to do for your birthday next month?” Atticus asked as Otto led them back up the stairs so they could sleep with Otto for the first time in days.

“I dunno. Haven’t really given it much thought…” he admitted.

Otto helped Atticus into the bed as he turned off the lights and settled in, himself.

“Hm. Well I’ll have to think of something amazing on my own, then,” Atticus said.

They snuggled into their husband as he laid down next to them. Then they hissed in discomfort at being on their side and relented to sleep on their back, instead, Otto’s arm moving to embrace them.

“I trust you will,” Otto said. “But...you know...it’s definitely not going to be as good as a banjo clock.” It was obvious he was teasing.

“I knooow. You really fucked up the precedent with that one, you know? Damn your kind heart,” they said.

“It really is a heavy burden to bear,” he said, dramatically.

“You’re so brave,” Atticus agreed.

“I know,” he said with a smile and kissed his partner on the forehead as they cuddled as far into his body as their back allowed them to squirm.

[anony-man]

Chubformers drabble #29!

Character: Soundwave (G1)

Word count: 460

Both physically and metaphorically, Soundwave had reached his limits.

The telepath sighed as he rolled onto his back, his furious and overstuffed belly protesting every little movement. Tentative servos rested against the swell and slowly began to knead, his desperation far outweighing his desire to keep his composure. It wasn’t like he was hiding his pathetic state from anyone anytime soon, after all.

Indulgence simply wasn’t a word in Soundwave’s vocabulary, first and foremost. While he underwent near constant days of crippling stress responsibilities, Soundwave had learned that throwing himself into his work usually soothed the unpleasant side effects. Today, however, he just couldn’t shake his awful mood.

He hadn’t meant to get himself drunk on the stash of engex stored in his quarters. That day had been the straw that broke the camel’s back, so to speak, and despite Soundwave’s best efforts, what was supposed to have been a quick reprieve turned into a long-winded binge session spent drinking himself into temporary oblivion.

At the time, letting go had felt really, really good. He needed it after having kept his composure in check for so long. Primus, he was long overdue for a break from being the only responsible mech on their team. Megatron’s intentions were true, and the Decepticon cause was Soundwave’s life devotion, but it was absolutely exhausting sometimes. All inhibitions had been thrown out the window that night, though, and it felt great… until it didn’t.

Soundwave’s optics were shut tight behind his visor, the swirling of the room only helping to make the ache in his helm worse. He was definitely intoxicated, but there was something more to be said for the way his engex sat in his tanks like heavy stones. He felt massive, ready to burst. He’d never been this full before, not once in his life—which is probably why he felt as bad as he did now.

To preserve his peace of mind, Soundwave had banished the two twin cassettes early on. Ravage, he realized, had remained. Her presence was made known by the soft pressure of pedes gently stepping across Soundwave’s bloated belly before she settled in, her engines rumbling low in her frame. It felt nice, he thought. Soothing, in a way.

“Nhgk—“ Soundwave tried to speak, but his voice was a mess of muddled words and slurred sounds. Instead, he lifted a servo and gently pat her helm. His belly gave a grumble in response, angry tanks begrudgingly beginning to acknowledge the heavy weight of fuel that had been pumped inside them as they started to digest.

It wasn’t often that Soundwave’s self-control faltered, and it would be long before it happened again. Right now, though, he was left to suffer the consequences, and consequential they were.

[landonsmuse]

hello! love you page sm!

I wanted to ask if you also see the eerie similarity + juxtaposition between nanami and geto?? starting with haibara?

hello honey, thank you<3

coming to your question, I think I might have some idea of where you're trying to get at

so we know when haibara died, so did a part of nanami

and this scene especially

has so much potential?

he didn't take the cloth off because he didn't want to see haibara's body in that state, he couldn't, to him, it was unbearable to come to terms with, he seemed defeated and by god do we need to talk about nanami going through all that more BUT

what did he do in canon? he left

who else left again? that's right, our dear old suguru

in ways more than one, suguru and nanami had similar plights, and looking back it gives meaning to nanami saying he respects geto more than gojo because he realises firsthand where geto's thought process stems from

metaphorically, haibara was their last straw, the one that broke the camel's back and made them flash the jujutsu society a figurative middle finger in their own ways

both lost a loved one, one metaphorically and one literally, moreover, both were propelled to leave following what happened with haibara albeit not necessarily due to similar feelings

while to geto, haibara was the embodiment of why people were worth saving (might post more on this later), to nanami, he was his counterpart, his person and if staying back in the jujutsu society meant that he could and would lose people he cared about, then why bother saving others when you can't save your own?

we know that geto was already spiraling down a self-destructive hole of moral decay, and i'm not saying that haibara was only a motif, they'd been closer than that, but with the state he was in, haibara's death acted as a catalyst

for nanami, someone with a firm sense of protection towards all he cared about, his death seemed like a foreign concept until it materialised, forcing kento to rethink where his priorities lied

[enbycrip]

Just left an “autistic researchers researching autism” group after repeated disableist microaggressions which I kept calling out and calling out to no avail.

The straw that broke the metaphorical camel’s back was “people with Down’s Syndrome looking ‘dumb’” and “I think ADHD is Big Pharma selling Diet Meth” in the same fucking post 🤬.

The acceptability of disableism against intellectually/learning disabled people fucking *everywhere*, including amongst other disabled people, makes me want to fucking yeet everything into the Sun on a regular basis.

The growth of “anti-medication” and conspiracy rhetoric in a way that harms marginalised people as opposed to uniting people against fucking exploitative corporations makes me literally scream in rage daily.

It makes it harder to discuss the *very fucking real* issues with pharmaceutical corporations, eg raising the price of vital medications year on year to prices that are killing people, and failing to research vital shit like new antibiotics because it’s not likely to make them the vast profits they demand.

[what-its-rio]

TW VENT POST: HEAVY TW/CW

howdy tumblr! i hope youre having an amazing art fight!

all the while me, a disabled teenager, my 12 year old sister, my 18 year old disabled sibling, 72 year old grandmother, my single aunt who is parenting a 2 year old, and my single mother have busted our asses for 2 weeks straight shoving everything we own into a box, or just straight up throwing it out! all because our privileged, white, rich landlords could sell our dream home to whoever comes knocking, because they know that piece of shit house is coming down in a matter of weeks.

dear ellie last-name-here, if this finds you, which dreadfully hoping against tomskas law that you dont, i really hope you know what youve just put me and everyone i loved through. but not just for these past two weeks, but for the past 3 years we stayed in your lovely, shitty home. sincerely, fuck you. i want to punch your face in so bad, its not even funny.

from hiring shitty repairmen to fix the problems we lived with, to your amateur skills at repurposing a house, you have made the last 3 years hell for me, my siblings, and especially my mother. your ridiculous expectation of money per month plus no leniency with dates has made everyone so stressed, so many times.

in that house, i experienced the worst bouts of depression i ever had, and yet i still loved it. with all of its issues, flaws, and things in need of fixing, i still loved it very much.

and then you took it away. we made rent each month, only being late by a matter of DAYS, TWICE, and you still ripped it away at a months notice. you took 2,000 hard-earned dollars, made with my and my mothers blood, sweat and tears, and then you looked her dead in the eyes and told her that the home she had fought so hard for, the home she loved and she truly believed was her perfect match, and you told her that our lease was up, and you wouldnt renew it.

i retract that, actually, because you, or your spineless husband couldnt even look her in the eye when you ripped out her dream home from her hands and left her with nothing.

and thus began the most depressing weeks of my life thus far. worse than when i lost an entire summer to living with my narcissistic father, alienated from society, worse than when i moved to an entirely new state from where i had spent my whole life up until that point, worse than when i left my childhood home of 10 years, leaving all of my family and friends behind for good.

i have spent the entirety of the month of june, which should be a month of pride and celebration, especially as a bisexual individual myself, grappling with large, daunting mountains of anxiety for the future. one domino fell, after another, and another, until i was crushed under the weight of my boulder which i was rolling up the hill. and when i crashed, coincidentally, so did everyone else in that home.

we told you this, and you still wouldn’t bat an eye. you basically said “shut up, and get out of my house.”

and we spent 2 weeks. two nonstop weeks. two physically demanding—no—draining weeks packing everything we’ve ever known into whatever boxes we can afford. precious childhood memories, rendered to nothing but a black trashbag for the goodwill.

and it still wasnt enough.

by the official last day of our lease, you hired contractors to come and pretty up the house, so itll be pretty for your privileged eyes to look at. of course it got in the way of our moving, with the cramped hallways leading to each bedroom barely fitting one person while we frantically moved every speck of dust we owned out into a moving pod for fear of litigation. and then the straw hit the camels back, and it broke, sending it aileron-rolling down the large dune of metaphorical sand.

all that my sibling asked was that the contractors moved a container of paint to a higher shelf so that our cousin, who was already covered in it, wouldnt get into it again. in any situation, normally youd blame the parent. toddlers are curious, and they dont know everything, much less what is dangerous and what is not, but you cannot, will not, and should not. because anyone capable of watching her was busy getting everything weve ever owned into a moving pod on your whim. i bet you felt powerful because of that. regardless, you mustve felt angry at that simply worded, polite and easy request, because you chased her into the main room and yelled at her for even daring to ask something of you. and then my aunt, who was struggling not to clasp your neck in an ironclad grip from what i could gather, dared to retort at you yelling at a teenager like you were one yourself. very simple things were said, such as “we cant watch her, were busy packing so we can leave today” and “sorry we couldnt leave immediately, not everyone has unlimited money”, and your bitch ass still called the fucking police. on an elderly woman, a single mother entering her 50’s, another single mother entering her 40’s, two disabled teenagers, a 12 year old girl, and a toddler. and they came, and they were perfect leverage so you could finally get your shack to yourself.

and now i am currently homeless. the lease is up, the house isnt even legally ours anymore. me and everyone else mentioned is currently homeless. thank god my mother has connections, otherwise we’d be out on the streets. so now i am in a different state, moving across the country to help my aunt move in, with no knowledge of where ill be in the next two months.

earlier, when i said i WAS grappling with bouts of depression and mountains of anxiety, it shouldnt have been past tense. it is all very, very present. my therapists only contribution that helped was “dont worry about things out of your control”, which, how do i not when my life is potentially on the line. this has been the only depression ive experienced where ive considered ending it, just so i dont have to deal with the uncertainty, but i couldnt, ever. it would be too hard on everyone i know, and it would definitely hurt.

all that to say i didnt even get to appreciate my last moments at home, as they were spent in a panic that id be hunted by the cops again. i didnt get to say goodbye to the cat i had to leave behind, or the memories id leave behind. the christmases, the halloweens, the game nights, the “epic sleepovers” with my friends and i, all that is gone now.

dear ellie and max, if this finds you, fuck you. and now i hope you can realize what you are putting me through, all so you can save a bit of cash.

sincerely, what-its-rio

[aj-agreste]

How LMK handles Wukong is perhaps one of the things that doesn't feel fluid. Wukong's journey is supposed to be that one must become the best version of themselves. Book!Wukong is angry at first, arrogant, has flaws and the trip made him improve. But the show makes it seem like no, it's all misunderstandings, it's Azure Lion who planned everything. But then he shows him as someone who is lazy, who keeps too many secrets, or that everything is his fault with his current personal relationships.

How they handle the character is contradictory for those who read the book.

Yeah, Wukong's character in LMK is kinda a mess. It's almost as if the JTTW moreso mellowed Wukong out as opposed to actually developing him as a person. The way I see it, the writers kinda want Wukong to go on this 2nd metaphorical JTTW with MK and co. where they get to explore flaws and have him grow within the context of the show. But a big problem with their approach is that we never see things from Wukong's perspective, and the Monkey never has the proper room to grow and learn from his mistakes and flaws because the show is so short.

So, any resolutions we do get seem shallow, and unfortunately, Wukong comes off as a worse person than the writers intended. Remember the whole "deadbeat dad Wukong" debacle that was so bad that even the writer had to step in? I saw that as the straw that broke the camel's back in terms of people seeing Wukong as a "good" person.

So what we end up with is a Wukong that seemed to have regressed from his JTTW self and all his numerous, destructive, and overbearing flaws makes you question what he even learned on the Journey in the first place.

[taxicabinmemphis]

tell me why that when i was a kid i always visualized the phrase "the straw that broke the camel's back" as a singular plastic straw placed onto a big pile of plastic straws on a camel's back that breaks it as opposed to, straw straw. which is obviously what the metaphor is referencing. which i only got just now. as an adult.

[girl-next-door-writes]

For Better, For Worse: Surface Pressure

Characters: Mycroft Holmes x reader

Summary: After another long day at the office, Mycroft contemplates reassessing his priorities.

Word Count: 1225 words

PART 1

Standing at his desk there was no denying that Mycroft Holmes was an imposing man. His fingers flexed as his palms rested flat against the smooth wood, his usual expression of icy indifference on his features, as he glanced over the papers that littered his workspace. He was the most powerful man in the country, one of the most influential in the world and he knew it. He brought down governments, moved metaphorical mountains on a daily basis, and each task was done in a calm and measured way. Mycroft took the information given and moulded it to whatever he desired it to be. It was not easy by any means, but he did what was necessary within the constraints of what he could ‘lawfully’ get away with. It had always been this way, so why was he feeling a growing tightness in his chest as he made his way into his office each day?

At first, he had thought it was just his work office, but soon that feeling began to loom when he neared his study at home, or his office at Diogenes. He felt a sense of impending doom which he couldn’t attribute to anything in particular, which only had his anxiety building. On the surface, he maintained a cool exterior and nobody would have guessed at the pressure building up within him each day.

Today had been the first day he had actually thought to himself, ‘I don’t want to be here’, as he entered his office, a thought which haunted him all day, poked holes in each and every decision he made, until he was left standing at his desk in the late hours of the evening, staring blankly at the papers detailing the latest issues he needed to solve. This was his job. This was the one thing he was good at. If he couldn’t do this anymore, then what did he have? What was the point of him? He was hardly the favourite son, or a good brother, not even a decent husband. He needed to get a grip, to get back on top.

His phone vibrated, the sound almost deafening in the silence of the room. Glancing at it, he saw another message from his mother. A pang of anger shot through him. It would be about Sherlock, it always was. For someone who thought his baby brother was the ‘grown up’ in the sibling dynamic, his parents certainly expected Mycroft to keep close tabs on him. He had accepted long ago that he was responsible for his little brother’s sobriety, had hidden a lot of the problems from their parents, but that didn’t make it any easier to handle. It was just another thing for him to fail, to come up short, to prove he was useless. He gripped the edge of the desk so tight that his knuckles turned white, that pressure in his chest growing. Closing his eyes, Mycroft took a few deep breaths, steadying himself. He was just tired, that was all. He had been working all hours of the day, barely stopping to eat. This feeling was most likely a drop in his sugar levels, easily remedied. All he had to do was hang on a little longer, he could handle this, whatever it was.

Each situation that came his way could be dealt with logically. If Sherlock was in trouble, then John would let him know if it got serious. If the ex PM was trying to make a come back then all he needed to do was ensure he didn’t have enough support within the party. If his mother texted him at 11:03 on a Wednesday evening then… then that might actually be important.

His fingers trembled as he reached for his phone, praying this wasn’t the straw that broke the camels back, the one domino that would send the others cascading. Opening the message, he felt a wave of nausea wash over him. It was a simple enquiry as to whether there was a specific gift request for your wedding anniversary. His eyes flitted to his calendar; how could he have forgotten this was coming up? Was he really that terrible a husband? His mind wandered back to your last argument. Perhaps he was.

Slipping his phone into his trouser pocket, he grabbed his jacket and briefcase, heading to the door as if on autopilot. The PM could wait until tomorrow. His mother could wait until tomorrow. Right now, Mycroft just wanted to be at home, climbing into bed beside you, wrapping you up in his arms and apologising for everything, begging your forgiveness for being a complete fool.

The closer the car got to home the more the grip in his chest loosened, the weight lifting from his shoulders little by little. By the time he entered the front door he almost had a smile on his lips. A smile that quickly turned to a frown as he realised there was not a single light on in the house. Usually, you left the kitchen light on for him, signalling there was something to eat before he joined you upstairs, but all that met him was a rich darkness.

His stomach grumbled, and he ignored it, instead heading through the hallway to find that there was no indication of the fire being lit this evening. That told him you hadn’t sat in the lounge to read, nor the library. The cinema room and the kitchen were undisturbed. With each room, Mycroft felt that crushing weight pressing down on him again, panic taking a tight hold as he began to fear you had left him. His feet were heavy, his body felt like it was wading through treacle, as he made his way to your bedroom. There was no hint of light peeking from underneath the door and he paused with his hand on the handle. Closing his eyes, he tried to fool himself into believing he would find you curled up asleep in bed, softly snoring in that sweet, reassuring way you did as the weather grew colder.

Darkness was all that met him there. Darkness and an untouched bed. The curtains hadn’t even been drawn. With blind panic, he stumbled into your walk-in closet, letting out a deep breath of relief as he saw your things hanging there just as they had that morning. You hadn’t taken your things. That meant wherever you were, you planned on returning to him. His relief was short-lived however, because if you hadn’t left him, and you weren’t home at almost midnight, where were you? And how long had you been missing?

His knees gave way, and he sank to the floor, fighting to catch his breath. The pressure once again building, one drip at a time. He couldn’t show weakness, not now, it was too important. The blood was pumping in his ears so loud that he didn’t hear the front door open and close, was unaware of the small clinks of someone making a drink in the kitchen, did not realise that you were home and safe and ignorant to the fact your husband was currently sat in the closet having a panic attack. After all, why should you for one moment think he was home when you believed this was the last place on Earth he ever wanted to be.

[nerdy-talks]

Obey Me! Theory :

Satan's ongoing wardrobe malfunction

It is a popular opinion shared amongst members within the Obey Me! fandom that Satan is severely lacking when it comes to his fashion sense.

But here’s some food for thought :

What if Satan is forced to dress in such an unflattering manner?

What if long before MC arrived in the Devildom, Satan’s choice of attire was so flawless that it made him utterly irresistible, causing hardship and chaos for his brothers and the Devildom itself?

Imagine Satan stealing all of Mammon’s modeling gigs because of how unbelievably seductive he looks clad in his pristine outfits. Satan’s pockets overflowing with Grimm while Mammon stands there seething, his wallet emptier than ever.

Imagine all of Asmo’s fans ignoring him and instead throwing themselves at Satan. Thousands of likes and hundreds of comments being posted on Satan’s newest Devilgram photo that was just uploaded an hour ago, showering Satan with compliments on how sexy he looks in the latest Wersace suit. All while Asmo sits there sulking as he acquires less than a dozen likes on what he believed to be his most glamorous selfie yet.

Imagine that rather than people comparing Satan to Lucifer…. They were comparing Lucifer to Satan instead. No matter where Lucifer went, he would overhear conversations discussing everything he supposedly lacked that his younger brother possessed, whispered comments such as :

- “Lucifer may have been the most beautiful angel, but Satan is the most handsome demon!”

- “How did Lucifer ever get the number one spot amongst his brothers? Satan is clearly better than him in every way!”

- “I guess when Satan was born, Lucifer transferred his wrath AND good looks to him. Because Satan is soooo much more attractive than Lucifer will ever be~ ”

The metaphorical straw that broke the camel’s back was when Satan even began stealing the limelight from Lord Diavolo himself.

Whenever public gatherings or parties were being held at the Demon Lord’s Castle, everyone in the room always had their full attention laser focused on Satan, effectively ignoring Diavolo in the process.

This caused the brothers, Barbatos, and Lord Diavolo to officially ban Satan from dressing in anything other than tasteless, unsightly, and ill-suited clothing (complete with a set of spells - or curses, depending on how you look at it - casted by Lucifer and Diavolo to ensure Satan would comply with their orders).

Imagine that MC has been deprived of witnessing Satan dress in any sort of stunning or appealing outfit since arriving in the Devildom because if they did… they would involuntarily drop their pants, bend over instantly, and beg Satan to ravish them right there on the spot.

So imagine that maybe, just maybe... the ugly, disappointing outfits that we are forced to accept are all for our own good.

[willmike-what]

(Characters: William Afton, Michael Afton, Elizabeth Afton)

(Pairing: Michael Afton x William Afton)

(TW: Incest, Underage)

(Word Count: 639)

“Daddy?” Elizabeth put down her dolls as she looked behind, revealing William sitting on their sofa, with Michael sitting right next to him, fumbling with his Foxy mask he was gifted by his father.

“What is it dear?” He tried to sound enthusiastic, but instead sounded tired due to stress eating at him. “Do you ever miss mommy?” Those words innocently left her mouth as William got choked up. “Excuse me?”

He accidentally came across as offended, he always did whenever someone brought his wife up. Michael however was more confused on why she would ever ask the question in the first place, knowing that she didn’t even remember their mother.

William was genuinely speechless, but he knew that he had to answer her before she would get into a tantrum, “Let’s say that I’m happy right now, with my family.” She wasn’t satisfied with that.

“You know thats not what I mean!” She stood up, “Do you miss mommy?” She repeated, a lot louder and angrier than before. Both Michael and William sighed at it. “Its a hard topic to discuss Elizabeth, but I-“ Elizabeth interrupts, following with a question that would leave William and Michael flabbergasted

“Could I be mommy instead?”

Obviously the idea of a kid asking their parent to marry them wasn’t new, they don’t understand the implications or even what it truly means to be in love with anyone yet.

To them its just so they can show their parent that they care about them, not anything romantic or akin to it- But to Michael, who knew that was the case, couldn’t help but to be somewhat mad,

It went further than being mad, he couldn’t help but to glance at William, who was understandably quiet at all of this.

“Elizabeth, you can’t marry father…” He tried to contain his composure, but his facade was quickly cracking. “Why?” Michael predicted that she would repeat that question over and over again, regardless if he gave her an actual answer or not.

“Because, you just can’t, you’ll understand it when you’re older.” He felt like he was his own father there, with how many times he’s heard it, “Oh.” Elizabeth came to a realization of something, whatever is it, Michael knew it wasn’t anything good, but he was hopeful.

“Is it because you want to marry daddy?”

That was the straw that broke the camels back, though the metaphorical camel in this situation was his brain, to put it bluntly

Those words made Michael stop thinking for a bit. He couldn’t answer that question, he could hardly move his body, it sent him straight into a shock.

Though one thing that when he finally could think properly again was how hot the house was, it wasn’t like it a few minutes ago. But he knew that it wasn’t the house, it was a problem that was deeply rooted into him.

Even William noticed his delay in response to Elizabeths question, “Michael.?” He definitely didn’t say his name in any tone, but it sounded rather…

…Seductive.

William also took note of the obvious blush that was forming on his sons face, putting two and two together, well it was clear as could be, Michael had feelings about his father…Well feelings would be undermining it, its more or less, Michael is in love with his father.

To Michael it was disgusting, having any romantic or sexual feelings is repulsive to say the least, of course it is, but he had to bear with those feelings, that was his problem.

It was a good five minutes before any of them had said a word, Elizabeth had gotten bored, so she decided to leave and go back to her room, leaving her father and her brother alone together.

William smiled as he now knew that Michael was finally easy prey.

[saintmeghanmarkle]

Endgame: for whom that bell tolls by u/Mickleborough

Endgame: for whom that bell tolls British PR agent and author Mark Borkowski spoke to the Daily Mail about the Sussexes’ (well, probably Meghan’s) prospects in Hollywood after Endgame (archived / unarchived).Borkowski states that their (cough) comeback is in jeopardy as executives have ‘had enough of them’, plus the Royal Family ‘has played a blinder‘ by ignoring their ‘negative attacks’. [‘Play a blinder‘ is English colloquialism for ‘an amazing display of skill, usually in sports, but also in other areas of life’.]Omidcron’s latest opus might be the straw that breaks the camel’s back (NB metaphorical use, not saying that Meghan is a camel):Borkowski has written 2 books on publicity stunts in relation to PR, so could be considered to have a valid opinion.Brand and culture expert Nick Ede:So was it all Omidcron or all Meghan? Either way, it seems to have gang a-gley, mouses.Ede says that ‘Meghan in the right hands is a superpower’ [which is possibly true, except she’d also need a personality transplant - not being snide, just expressing an honest view]. However:Self-preservation: always a valid motivation.Meanwhile, Dutch admirers of Omidcron will be thrilled to learn that the (cough) corrected Dutch translation has now been issued. As the Telegraph headline succinctly states (archived / unarchived (possible paywall)):The article is worth a read.The Dutch journalist Rick Evers, who broke the story about the naming of the alleged royal racists in the Dutch version, says that the changes range from the minor (changing ‘Queen Camilla’ to ‘Camilla, Queen Consort’) to a softer rewriting (’lazy Wills’ replaced by William having a ‘workshy image’).Evers makes a comment which I can’t work out the reasoning - but am sure is an honest view:Could he mean that sources close to Harry and Meghan say only nice things about them?The drama continues… post link: https://ift.tt/TRlC9Gt author: Mickleborough submitted: December 11, 2023 at 09:52AM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit

[barbieb0y]

forged in a bonfire.

day 4 of scrunkly week already woah

the theme is autumn! i went with both sitting by a cosy fire + cold hands, warm drinks for the prompts! i dont celebrate halloween so i feel detached from prompts related to that haha

as usual, i wrote a scenario for my selfship, uppercut (my oc, paper cut x joe reverse 1999) BUT i did add mercuria reverse 1999 into the mix bc idk i just like the (potential) dynamic between her and joe, although idk her that well (the wiki doesnt have her info either so...) and this isnt explicitly romantic but there is so-called tension. so

Paper Cut has grown accustomed to the sound of foreign yet warm laughter. The flames that occupy the bonfire in front of him could only hope to rival such warmth. But the best thing about this kind of laughter is that sometimes, it would include his own. It’d make for a great journal entry and an even greater bandage.

“Leave it to J to get Dr. Cut of all people to leave his lil’ man cave.”

Another wave of laughter ensues, this time he joins in. He can’t deny the person’s claim - J’s siren call was the straw that broke the camel’s back. But he has no regrets; even with all the unfamiliar faces and voices, he feels like he’s finally home.

“Not that hard really. The dude just needed a little push.”

J  frequently shrugs off any mention of his effort to bring Paper Cut out of his shell easily. He’s a strong believer in the efforts Paper Cut himself made to get out there. It’s just a coincidence that the biker was there for him and his journey.

“A ‘little push’ is an understatement of the century.”

Mercuria’s comment prompts another round of unashamed laughter. At this point, Paper Cut has chosen to watch this little drama about him silently, metaphorical popcorn in hand. The next scene starts with J rolling his eyes and folding his arms.

“Okay, maybe I didn’t need to visit him every single day but–”

“And the fact that you’d pretend to be hurt specifically on Thursdays.”

“Thursdays are unlucky days for me! It’s not even pretend sometimes!”

“Pfft, sometimes.”

The laughter never seems to die down. That observation can be attributed to the fact that J being the center of attention – but he almost always is the center of attention, just how he likes his social interactions to be. But the best part is that he doesn’t even have to try. Paper Cut supposes that’s just how it is when everyone in the neighborhood knows your name and your game. But in a way, Paper Cut himself also garnered such a reputation.

Paper Cut’s job is to heal paper cuts and beyond. Even if he doesn’t believe it, his fame has been the consequence of his own choices. Not charging patients cash for medical services was and will always be what makes him infamous. It’d be abnormal if it was simply free but the strange charging fee of a piece of paper for every session would’ve been enough for people to call him crazy.

You can call him a quack all you want but at the end of the day, he gets the job done – this is what Joe thinks of his work ethics. Joe was more concerned that he wasn’t taking care of his own health. After all, the doctor can’t heal if he himself is sick, right?

“We got some hot cocoa, folks! J, help me pass it around.”

One of the unfamiliar faces announces and with his best service smile (which is his usual, ‘I-love-my-friends’ smile), J gives out warm mugs full of comfort.

Paper Cut mumbles a thank you and manages a small smile for J, which is reciprocated almost immediately. Just as quickly, Mercuria has to stifle the voice of the person sitting beside her before they could make things awkward for the two. That moment was enough to make her feel like she’s thirdwheeling so there’s certainly no need to add fuel to that fire.

Everyone there knows that there’s some kind of tension between the two (or at least, almost everyone - one guy insists that they’re simply “very close friends”). They’d rather not assume but they’ve grown somewhat impatient waiting for their friendship to eventually transform into a romance. And they have to admit, the two men make good in-group gossip material.

As soon as J is done with his arduous task, he plops down next to Paper Cut with a mug of his own, which he extends towards his seatmate. Paper Cut chuckles and clinks his mug with J’s to humor him. It works, as J lets out a satisfied laugh. But J is pleasantly surprised when Paper Cut moves to imitate him but with his own other seatmate, Mercuria, instead. And she also humors him.

Before long, the air is filled with that warm, foreign laughter again as people clink their mugs affectionately. Paper Cut closes his eyes, submerging himself in an orchestra of delight.

On that night, eternal bonds were forged.