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ink-beneath-her-fingernails · 1 year

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something like a hunger pang

read it on ao3 | masterlist

Fandom: Avatar: the Last Airbender

TW: major character death, mind control, brainwashing, unreliable narrator, doubting of one's own thoughts, memory loss, drowning, references to self-harm (in the form of scratching, biting, picking, etc.) please let me know if there are any other warnings that should be added.

Wordcount: 1,364

Originally Published: November 28, 2022

Summary: Your name does not matter.

You are a faceless grin, one of hundreds, of thousands.

This city makes your skin crawl because it is your home.

You know the lines that have been given to you, know what to expect without having to read the script, because it has been so handily carved into your brain for you.

(Or: Joo Dee, in the beginning, the middle, and the end.)

Notes: this started out as time loop joo dee but then it kind of took off in a different direction bc I felt bad for her but also wanted to be a lot meaner to her. title is from the quote: “It was a fairy tale, no fooling. It was unreality becoming real. This frightened her. Because people don't care for unreality becoming real. It pricks their well-fed minds, you see, with something like a hunger pang. They prefer the logical stuffiness of expectancy. It is only at certain times that they weaken, letting imagination in. That's the time to get them. (“The Disinheritors”)” ― Richard Matheson, Collected Stories, Vol. 1

Transfer Notes: n/a

i. Your name does not matter.

You are a faceless grin, one of hundreds, of thousands. This city makes your skin crawl because it is your home.

You know the lines that have been given to you, know what to expect without having to read the script, because it has been so handily carved into your brain for you.

The group of children do not look like much, you think.

You are used to a certain degree of finery from those you guide; silk and ivory, precious metals and delicately carved ornaments fashioned into buttons, hair decorations, jewelry, an air of self-importance, people who wear more on their body in one day than anyone in the entire Lower Ring makes in a month, and flaunt it carelessly.

These children are... plain.

Most of their clothes are unlike anything you've ever seen, vibrant colors so unlike the shades of green and brown and cream favored by your nation that even as bedraggled as they are, they stand out from the crowd like a sore thumb. They're dirty, too—tunics ripped and repaired with an amateur hand in more than one place, fabric frayed around the edges, covered in light stains and what seems like a permanent layer of dirt and grime that's become one with the material.

They walk with hands splayed carelessly at their sides, backs slouching with less-than-proper posture, and don't bother to so much as respond to your greeting as proper manners and tradition dictate.

Of course, it's nothing you wouldn't see anywhere you looked in the Lower Ring, and even a few places in the Middle Ring, but that's never been the sort of crowd you catered to.

You can't figure out why you're doing it now.

But then, it's not your business to do that. These children are guests, because you're guiding them, and they're important, because you've been told so, and they'll follow the rules of the city just as anyone else does, or you'll all be in trouble.

You keep all of your observations to yourself—you are not employed to think, you are employed to corral, to obey, to survive.

You introduce yourself.

Your name does not matter.

Your name is Joo Dee.

ii. Your guests wish to talk to the Earth King.

That is not a request to be taken lightly, nor is it one that will be granted quickly.

They have information they need to tell him about the war, though, and that sounds important—there is no war in Ba Sing Se, after all, and you're supposed to keep it that way, aren't you?

The request for an audience is registered. They can see the King in six months.

You frown when you hear this — or, you might, you try to, you think, but it's hard to do when you can't stop smiling. You're not supposed to be sad, either, because your life here is wonderful.

You smile a little harder when you remember this.

But your guests are not going to take kindly to this news, you can tell, and it's your job to keep them happy, keep them in line.

Besides, they say they have important information.

There is no war in Ba Sing Se, and that's the way it should be.

If anyone can make sure it stays that way, it's the Earth King.

It's a risky endeavor, but a fruitful one, you're sure.

You ask your friend in the Palace Administration to help you out.

You don't remember having a friend in Palace Administration, but you must, because you just asked them.

You don't remember meeting them, either, but that, at least, makes sense.

After all, you've known each other your whole lives, you've just remembered.

"Six months," you say. "That's an awful long time."

"Yes, well," she smiles, and like all your smiles, it does not reach her eyes. "The Earth King is a very busy man."

Her hair is so, so black, and her eyes are so, so green. You think it's a wonder that you'd never noticed before.

She tilts her head at your half-a-second too-long silence and you spend another precious, ill-advised moment staring at the way the inky curtains part, draping elegantly over her shoulders.

You wonder what it would be like to run your fingers through it.

You wonder why you never have before, if you've known her all your life.

You wonder why this is an appropriate train of thought at all, why it feels terrifying, and why it feels like it shouldn't be.

(You wonder when the last time was that you allowed yourself so long to think about something—unscripted.)

(You can't remember.)

Something about her face makes it look like she kind of wants to frown, too, but instead her lips tug up at the corners. (You swallow the sudden, inexplicable urge to wipe the not-frown from her face, to ease the sharp angle of her smile that you know from experience is too-much-not-enough.)

The slight motion is enough to remind you of yourself—to think, that you allowed such a slip. You can only hope she won't tell anyone that might take issue with it.

(You wonder why you worry so about a life-long friend betraying you. You can't remember her ever doing such a thing before. Then, you can't remember her, before.)

"Surely for his honored guests, he can make an exception? Just this once, of course. Call it a reprieve from the monotony of his usual audiences. The Avatar is eager to meet his most glorious host."

Her smile narrows, fewer teeth and more pursed lips.

"I suppose... he may be free for an audience for such esteemed guests in... seven weeks, shall we say. Just this once, you understand."

"But of course."

It's kind of funny, you think—her name is Joo Dee, too.

iii. “Joo Dee? Where have you been?”

“Not to worry. I had a lovely trip to Lake Laogi,” you smile a bit wider to emphasize your happiness.

Your face hurts. You must not have been smiling enough, at the Lake, but it’s hard to remember.

Your fingers tremble, and when you see the Beifong girl furrowing her brows, you clench your hands together tightly inside your sleeves in an effort to get them to stay still.

They sting, just a little; you can feel where they've been picked and scratched and bit at, where you can still feel nails digging into your flesh even days later.

Your hands always hurt after your trips to Lake Laogi. You’re not sure why.

iv. You see—you see.

The light is soft and green, green like plants, green like jade, green like your entire dying nation, and then there is blue, blue like your guests' clothes, blue like water from the fountains in the Upper Ring, blue like the sky you will never see again.

Blue like the ocean itself is choking the life from your lungs.

There is so much blue, so much blue it looks black, like curtains of ink you can't remember fully, and green where the light touches, and your clothes are wet, and this would be a great time for you to suddenly remember that you've known how to swim all along, but you don't, and the black keeps getting taller, coming from everywhere all at once. The ground is rumbling, the earth is splitting, you will die here.

You look at your friends, your co-workers, the only people you've ever known, the people you've never seen before in your life, and know with a certainty you have never felt before that this blueblackgreen will entomb you all, and nobody else will ever know.

The black rises above your head, and your feet grow tired of treading water, so you let it.

The water surrounds you. It's like nothing you've ever felt before, like freedom, like death, like your head is being split open from the inside out.

It's so, so blue, and the green touches so little, so little and so blue that it all looks black, and you can see nothing.

You can see nothing.

You smile, because your name is Joo Dee, and it does not matter.

#major character death #mind control tw #unreliable narrator tw #brainwashing tw #tw drowning #tw self harm #memory loss tw #doubting thoughts tw #?#ask to tag #avatar the last airbender fanfiction #joo dee #avatar the last airbender #atla #something like a hunger pang #transfer tuesday

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russenoire · 1 year

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that scene in season 1 where teruki hanazawa exorcises ekubo mid-sentence... and shigeo's eyes widen in shock?

i really want to talk about it, specifically the explosion meter accompanying it.

normally, when the teenager's emotions aren't obvious to the audience, that meter relays to us a sense of what he is actually feeling. but we cannot trust the meter here. we see it jump up a few points at teru's 'psycho wave' sending the sleazy ghost to the shadow realms, and remain steady at 50% upon shigeo's recollections of the spirit's unsavory nature. the boy outright tells teru that he isn't bothered. and it's funny!

but shigeo isn't being honest with himself here either.

his face briefly gives his feelings away before resettling into its normal flat affect. (to be fair, what he's really feeling isn't teru's business. this kid is trying to provoke a fight out of him, after all.) after he's basically tortured into exploding, shigeo spends three hours in the pouring rain, searching everywhere for ekubo.

three. hours.

these are not the actions of someone who isn't bothered. letting himself get drenched to the point of sickness,

even though he literally holds the power to shield himself from it,

reads to me like unconscious self-punishment for allowing all this to happen.

after a large chunk of his short life spent denying and fearing them for good reason, shigeo's first impulse is often not to use his psychic powers -- even after his integration at the story's end. i wish this was discussed more, because many watchers cannot fathom why this boy with world-breaking psychic abilities would ever refuse to use them.

also: the explosion meter lying to us / representing shigeo's detachment from his own emotions alexithymia may occur elsewhere in the series as well, especially when he's not close to an explosion; i'm reminded of the tiny dent ritsu's provocation of him makes in it a few episodes later.

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thefanciestborrower · 2 months

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The Devouring of Prometheus

Ohh boy this fic has been over a year in the making and by golly am I proud of it. It was mostly an attempt to imitate Mary Shelley’s writing style while adding more classic lit vore into the world cause oh boy do we need it. This fic is a little darker than my usual fluffy stuff because. You know. It’s Frankenstein. But everything is still safe despite what Victor thinks. Anyways, please enjoy and let me know what you think!

Warnings: Contains soft, safe, unwilling vore, mentions of digestion, mentions of dying, mentions of cannon character death, minor injury, and vomit

Characters: Victor Frankenstein and the Creature

Word Count: 2,830

Mankind has no greater fear than that of being devoured. It is an instinctual fear, engrained deep within our very beings from the moment we are born, as it is in every living being, and yet it is perhaps one of the most uncommon fears to experience in its true, unaltered form. We are quite familiar with the notion of being killed and eaten by a wild beast, since such a thing, while not terribly common in the more civilized parts of the world, is often talked of in books and by explorers returning from long voyages to strange, wild lands. It is a threat to be sure, but perhaps not the most fear inspiring one. A hungry lion might indeed pounce upon you with his teeth and claws bared as if to shred you to ribbons while you lay awake in agony, but in truth he is far more merciful than even most men and will end you swiftly with a bite to the neck before he ever starts to feed. The fear of being eaten in this way, then, is diluted by the promise of a swift death at the claws of a creature who bore you no more malice than you do a butchered duck.

The terror of being consumed lies not in the act of consumption, but in the method. Stories full of giants and ogres who devour men whole and alive fill the countryside and take captive the minds of all who hear them, filling their dreams with images of gnashing teeth and slavering mouths, capable of sending a grown man down, kicking and screaming, in a single swallow. I must confess I never heard much of these tales growing up, aside from a few Clerval was so fond of telling, and when they did reach my ears, I simply scoffed, laughing such frightening images away in the clear light of day when nothing could seem more ridiculous. They were children’s tales, I thought, simply meant to frighten and entertain, for nothing, man or beast, could swallow whole a living man. Oh, how I wish I had been right.

He came for me in the night. I was asleep, or nearly so, when a sudden noise at my window startled me awake. At first I assumed it to be the scratching of a branch or perhaps even some night creature making its rounds through the garden outside. After all, I was far more unfamiliar with the Oxford landscape than my dear friend Clerval, who had spent much of his afternoon exploring the grounds, so I felt there to be no need for concern. Indeed, I had nearly turned over to drift back to sleep when I saw his eyes. Those wretched, sunken, yellow eyes staring as if into my very soul through the dusty window I had neglected to lock in my naivety. I might have screamed had fear not grasped my throat and strangled my voice, and though I longed to run, terror turned my legs to lead and forced me to watch as the fiend pried open the window with a delicate ease that seemed almost laughable compared to the rest of his hulking mass. I pulled my sheet up to shield my chest like a child might, entertaining fantasies that perhaps this was simply a nightmare, and if I remained still in my bed then he would be unable to harm me, but when he began to climb through the window with the elegance of a lion stalking his prey, eyes never once leaving me, panic settled over my heart and I realized this was no mere conjuring of an overworked mind. The beast was here, looming over me in my chambers as I trembled in bed with naught but a thin sheet and even thinner night clothes to protect me.

“Devil! What do you want from me!” I cried at last, terror loosening her claws from my throat. “I have not forgotten our agreement, so why do you insist on tormenting me so!”

I received no reply, the beast more than content to simply stare at my trembling form. Perhaps he enjoyed how weak I must have appeared before him as his eyes flicked over me, almost sizing me up for reasons I could never have comprehended in that moment. Cold and yellow as they were, I could see an inkling of some mysterious emotion behind those eyes, but it’s identity I couldn’t say. Nor did I care. My thoughts were quickly preoccupied as he advanced upon me, padding forwards like some great and terrible cat, until he stopped just shy of the side of my bed, so close I could have reached out and touched him.

Again, I saw that strange emotion flicker behind his dead eyes, but before I had time to ponder it he wrapped his hands around my chest and lifted me from the safety of my bed with terrifying ease, like one might lift a small child or a doll, and while I screamed and writhed in his hideous grasp, his hold only tightened. My ribs creaked and complained under the pressure and my cries became strangled and choked. With a ghastly popping sound he opened his grotesque mouth, jaw hanging at an angle too wide for any human to achieve, and to my upmost horror he quickly stuffed my head inside with the terrifying efficiency of a ravenous beast. The slimy muscle of his tongue lapped against my face and my body convulsed in disgust as I desperately fought not to be sick. Revolting as my situation was, I did not wish to add my own vomit to the mix, even if it might have disgusted the fiend enough to free me.

I could see nothing but darkness, each desperate gasp for oxygen only supplying me with the barest sliver of foul air. Teeth ringed my neck like a terrible collar, and for a moment I entertained ideas of those teeth, the very same I had picked and sorted by hand, crashing together to sever my head from my body like some terrible executioner. Before my thoughts could spiral much more in this direction, his grip changed and I was suddenly shoved against the slick, fleshy opening of his throat. My blood curdled and, with a sudden, crushing pressure, my head was crammed downwards in the most painful manner which caused me to cry out in despair. My skull felt as though it would shatter, and I screamed a horrible, terrible shriek of agony and terror as my shoulders were crushed down after me, the tight gullet of the beast threatening to break them into splinters. My vision swam, stars of pain and lack of breath sparking and dancing before my eyes, and though no light followed me into my hellish prison, I could still see the blackest pitch wavering at the edge of my vision, threatening to drown me in its inky embrace. For a moment I wished it would, if only to keep me from the terrible suffering I knew lay before me, but fate is a cruel mistress and before I could sink into that comforting ocean of darkness a terrible pressure bloomed upon the crown of my head and forced me into an open pocket of stinking, putrid air.

Coughing and gaging I struggled to draw even a single breath. My ribs, now horribly compressed, creaked and shuttered terribly under the pressure of the creature’s throat, and though my legs still flailed outside, and my hands desperately scrambled for a hold on what I felt to be his chin, I did not dare move the length of my compressed torso for fear of inflicting more damage upon myself. Another painful swallow jolted me down, my face jamming roughly into what I presumed to be the bottom of the creature’s dreadful stomach, and the grotesque flesh not only yielded to accept my presence, but did so with an almost pleased sounding groan, if stomachs can be pleased, as if I really were simply a morsel of food to be consumed and forgotten. The sound filled my heart with a terror I’ve never known, and I cried out, though my voice was quickly silenced by the slick flesh as more of my body was squeezed through that terrifically tight ring of muscle and forced to bend and twist to fit my new prison like some sort of contortionist.

I know not how long it took the devil to consume me: the darkness of my surroundings and constant pain dulled my senses and left me disoriented to the point where I no longer could even tell up from down. I remember no longer feeling the cold air on my body after some time, my entire being now encased in sweltering heat, and searing pain as my legs were crushed down against my ribs. Finally, it was all over. My entire body had been fully compacted into the creature’s stomach, and although this new development was arguably a much worse position than my previous one, I was far too preoccupied with gulping down precious lungfuls of oxygen to care.

Then, all at once, the reality of my situation came crashing down upon me and with the fervor of a cornered beast I began to lash out and fight, twisting and turning in the confined space in hopes of causing my captor at least the slightest bit of discomfort.

“Fiend! Devil! Release me at once!” I panted, gnashing my teeth in fear and anger. “This is no way to treat any man, let alone your maker!”

I had no doubt that he could hear my cries and feel my struggles, confined as I was, and yet no answer came. Despite the nature of my location, I was completely and utterly alone, for what man pays attention to his food after he’s eaten it. Again, I tried to call out, to plead for release as I fought against the smothering flesh, and again I was ignored, save for a light pressure against my back from which I hastily jerked away. It was his hand; I knew it instinctively. The brute was no doubt relaxing after so fine a feast of human flesh, and that touch was nothing more then the satisfied gloating of a predator now sated with a filling meal that would last him far longer than any morsel of bread or wine. I was merely something to be enjoyed, digested, and forgotten.

How many more, I wondered, would be lost in the same way once I had perished. Clearly my current location indicated my captor had grown fond of the taste of human, and with a heart wrenching shudder I suddenly realized I had no way of knowing wether I was the first victim of the monster’s appetite, or if he had already glutted himself with other gentle country folk, just as he had done to me, and I was now resting in their grave. The thought was too much for my already distraught and troubled soul, and the disgust which filled me suddenly became too overwhelming to sustain. With a thick heave I proceeded to retch onto myself, my sick mixing with the beast’s own bile, and I sobbed bitterly for my home.

“Oh, my dear mountains and precious lake. Will I truly never again delight in your sweet air and radiant beauty? Am I to perish so far from all that is fair and wholesome, without even the cold stars to bare witness to my demise?” I lamented; my voice thick with the grief of a man who believes he is to die isolated from everything he once held dear.

The spongy flesh seemed to mute my voice effectively as a heavy curtain might, and my words fell upon deaf ears, for no reply came from my creation. My captor. My killer. Was I really to meet my end as nothing more than a meal? My last breath tainted by the stench of bile and vomit? The pressure to my back returned, and although the touch revolted me, I was far too exhausted from my fear and the quickly thinning oxygen to do more than twitch in protest. What difference would it make anyways, my fate was already sealed.

Each breath I drew grew more ragged and gasping with every passing second, my panic having done nothing but quickly use up what little air I had in the stale cell, and in some fever, I realized that, although my air was quickly thinning, I had not yet begun to feel the slightest tingle of digestion. Oh, what sweet twist of fate was this! I still would meet my end as nothing more than a morsel of food this was true, but I would be long since unconscious and perhaps even suffocated before acids truly began to work on me and thus spared the sensation of digesting alive. It was a small assurance, but so consumed was I by grief and terror of my fate that even the small mercy of a painless death brought me comfort. It was more than a man like me deserved after all I’d done. The innocent blood on the creature’s hands stained mine as well, and I thought bitterly of poor darling little William and dear Justine. Their blood has been spilt on my account, and yet, while their deaths had been horrific tragedies, I took solace in knowing they had left the world far quicker than I would, and that I would be seeing them again soon.

My vision swam before me, and with one last shuddering sigh I slumped against the slick walls, no longer attempting to catch my breath, for what would be the point in trying to breathe when there is no air left to fill my lungs. The stomach clenched around me with a disgusting squelch, smothering and squeezing my helpless form as it worked to knead what I presumed to be caustic acids into my sodden clothing and soft flesh, preparing for the undoubtably difficult task of liquifying my un-masticated body. With a gasping, barely audible sob I pressed a trembling hand out against my churning prison walls, cursing my creation and praying my end would be swift. Then the darkness engulfed me, and I knew no more.

Due to the circumstances in which I had fallen unconscious I fully expected to never wake again, so when I started awake some unknown amount of time later in the very bed I had been snatched out of, I could seldom comprehend what was happening. My first thought was that my horrendous experience had been naut but a dream; an apparition brought upon me by the dreadful task I knew I would soon be required to complete. Then I became aware of the disgusting film of sticky, foul smelling sick coating my body and the dull, yet throbbing pain in my ribs, and my blood ran cold. It had been no dream. My creation truly had assaulted me in the night, swallowed me whole and alive, and, by some miracle, vomited me back out before his digestive system could process me. In fact, aside from my ribs, which were badly bruised, I appeared whole and unharmed. Not even a drop of acid had singed my clothes, and my skin was fair and unblemished as it had always been. I pressed a hand to my cheek as if to make certain of my unharmed state, and then, to my own surprise, I began to laugh. It was not a mirthful laugh, but rather one of incredulous shock and relief as I grasped at my warm and unharmed skin. So certain had I been that those final moments filled with slimy blackness and foul reeking air inside the creature would be my last that the cold air of my room and the sting of my nails against my face might well have been gifts from Heaven itself. Even now I marvel at my incredible escape and wonder what could possibly have prompted the monster to give up as filling a meal as I surely must have been. I do not think I shall ever know, but judging from the healthy nature which I possessed upon waking, I can only assume he realized he could not process me as he intended and his body expelled me, though wether such an expulsion was voluntary on his part I still could not say. Nonetheless I knew I was no doubt incredibly fortunate to have survived such an encounter and my resolve had the been strengthened. Where before I had postponed my promise, I vowed to not do so again, for who knew how long the wretched beast would be content to wait and leave me and others be. As soon as I was able, I would set to work creating another who would contain his terrible urges and put this dreadful encounter behind me forever.

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bored-platypus · 30 days

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the moon will sing (time traveling tim)

so. i saw this super awesome post by @puppetwoman17 about time traveling tim drake and got obsessed, so here's a small ficlet i wrote about it!

The thing is, Tim expects it. He’s faintly aware of the blood seeping from his stomach, staining his hands red— hands which are uselessly putting pressure on his wound. If he survives this, he doesn’t even want to think of all the weeks of pure agony and fever, brought on by the wonderful lack of his spleen and the fact that healing from wounds sucked, period.

Death isn’t surprising— he really didn’t think he would live past, what, twenty-five? Thirty? To live until beyond 50 with his lifestyle was, well. It sounded painful, anyways. And you would need to be a deeply paranoid neurotic. Like Bruce. Because as much as he respected his father and looked up to him, if Tim turned out anything like Batman, he’d probably find a bullet through his brain sooner or later.

Half because Tim was reckless and his plans were so convoluted and insane that nobody really knew what was going on either, just to confuse his opponent. The other half was, well. You can guess.

So. He’s bleeding out, the night is uncomfortably cold and the wind bites into his skin, sand grating against his back, and all Tim can think about is how much he hopes Ra’s al-Ghul doesn’t show up like a damned wraith and drag him kicking and screaming to the nearest surgery table and take out his kidneys or something.

Tim’s also thinking about his family. And the probable inconveniences that come with his death. Like arranging his funeral and all his assets and his Nest and the fact that Tim is a very integral part of the family and Dick will probably fall apart and Bruce will mourn and brood, and, and damn it. Tim should probably revoke his thinking process or something.

—

Tim is twenty three years old when he bleeds to death alone, and nobody finds his body until three weeks later when his family has scoured the Earth and his distress signal rings, rings, but nobody sees it. His predictions about his family come true.

But that isn’t quite relevant, because Tim isn’t aware of such a thing.

Instead, Tim closes his eyes and falls and jerks up on his bed, clutching his chest as years of memories flood his brain, too much for a mere eleven year old. It feels like his head has been cracked open and molten lava had been poured through, scorching his veins and circulation. It feels like agony of the highest level and Tim is faintly aware of the darkness creeping in, his mind too overwhelmed and overstimulated from years of memories flooding into his brain.

And so for the second time in a few minutes and a lifetime, Tim welcomes unconsciousness with open arms.

The next few hours are spent in pure agony, his body being too weak to move and his limbs too short for him to coordinate. He’s pretty sure that there’s a pool of dried blood underneath him from a nosebleed, but he’s too tired to turn around, so he just uncomfortably shifts away from it. Not for the first time, he thanks his lucky stars that his parents are neglectful, because he doesn’t even know how he would explain all of this.

Two days later, he musters the strength to stumble out of bed, gulp down the bitter, carbon dioxide-filled water next to him and get to the kitchen. It’s April 1st, twelve years ago, Tim is eleven years old, and his family doesn’t know him yet.

Half of the terrible things that have happened to Dick haven’t happened yet. Jason hasn’t died yet. Duke is still a kid and his parents are healthy. Babs hasn’t been put into a wheelchair by the Joker.

Steph is still living with her father. Damian and Cass are being trained as assassins.

Mrs. Mac is due to come in a few hours. Tim looks at the blood-crusted covers of his bed and his crumpled clothes.

Oh, shoot.

So instead of researching or training, Tim spends the next hour trying to get the bedsheets off with his tiny, noodle arms, half stumbling on his feet because he’s way too damn short, and making his way to the bathroom so he can take a shower and get some of the blood off so it doesn’t stain too badly.

It’s probably a lost cause. Not that his parents will notice or care about a missing bedsheet, but it feels wasteful to just throw it away to hide evidence of his unintentional time travel.

Two and a half hours later, Tim stumbles out of the laundry room, his bedsheets and pillow finally in the washer. He collapses on the nearest chair and scans the room for his father’s computer.

He lets out a shaky breath. His family is generally unscarred. Jason is Robin again. Jason. The boy who Tim had held with a certain degree of, well, disdain. Thinking about it kind of makes him want to punch is past self in the face, or cringe in the way that you can only do when you think of something embarrassing you used to do. Like victim-blaming your older brother for getting beat to death while trying to find his mother.

It wasn’t the only way he looked at Jason, but he had always thought of him as too reckless. Maybe he really did deserve the beating. Well, not that he believed that young teenagers should be beat up by young adults in Robin cosplay, but at least Tim wasn’t exactly traumatized by the experience. Better him than some other poor civilian kid Bruce could’ve adopted.

And Tim did get his revenge. By getting Jason on his private parts. But whatever. Revenge was revenge, and Tim was better than the whole crime lord setup his older brother had. In practice, anyways.

Chewing on the ballpoint pen, he writes down the first thing on his list (in code, of course) since coming back in time.

prevent jason’s death

Well. Now that he had a comprehensive list, Tim was down and ready to plan.

—

A hour later, Mrs. Mac appears, none the wiser to what happened to him. Tim greets her as she walks in, and she smiles and greets him back, putting lunch in the fridge. She notices nothing wrong about how he stays sitting on the chair in the living room, and Tim says nothing about it. When she leaves, he pulls the piece of paper out of his book and the pen from his hair, scratching down some extra points.

Hmm. Maybe the Court of Owls should go early. Or perhaps that would create too much change?

Dick would have a better time in the future if they were gone, though. Tim frowns, dragging his pen back and forth in a short line on the table.

He still needed to factor in the fact that he was an unknown to the family. The thing is, Tim loves their dysfunctional, broken family and he knows Bruce and Dick loved him back. But to be honest, it would be easier to change events if he wasn’t being scrutinized by Bruce every day. And it wasn’t like Tim had any shortage of money, with his parents still alive and his family fortune enough to cover whole lifetimes, so he wasn’t worried about his own safety.

It would be nice to go to college too. Maybe Stanford. He was smart enough to make it, and the location was close to the vigiliante community that if he so wanted to, he could probably join and watch his family from the outskirts. Last time around, Tim just couldn’t leave Gotham. Being a vigiliante was his life— he couldn’t even justify it as a temporary thing anymore. Their family had gone through so much tragedy and Gotham was still filled with crime and Tim had an obligation to keep her safe. It just… he couldn’t escape his mantle because he loved it, and Tim had a difficult time letting things go once he loved them.

But if Tim could change things from the start, he didn’t need to be pulled back into the life. (He couldn’t have it, even if he loved it, because it was never his in the first place.) He could start anew, be a vigiliante when he was in college and far away from the family he hopefully would’ve fixed by then.

Well then. First things first, he needed to remove a factor from Jason’s death so he wouldn’t die in the first place.

—

Mrs. Mac comes by and cooks him lunch, and they eat in silence. Typically, Tim would fill the silence with chattering, glad to have someone to talk to in the empty manor. But Tim’s mind is whirring, drawing up and discarding plans. By the time Mrs. Mac stands up and tells him she’s going to leave now, Tim has thought of three contingencies and twelve more future events he needs to address.

He mhms when Mrs. Mac prompts him to, and eventually she leaves out the front door, leaving him alone with his thoughts. It’s spring break and Tim doesn’t actually have anything to do because he’s in middle school now, so he mulls over the Jason problem for a few more hours.

It comes to him when he’s microwaving the leftovers from lunch, and Tim is pretty sure he’s a genius, or something. Sheila Haywood worked at a refugee camp in Ethiopia handling medical supplies, but she was embezzling funds from the organization she was working for. It wouldn’t be difficult for Tim to trace it and report her. By the time Jason began tracking her down, she would most likely be in prison, just for a few years and everything would hopefully blow over and the Joker wouldn’t blackmail her because she had no use to him in prison.

It was cold, perhaps. But her life wouldn’t be over with a few years in prison, and Jason would be alive. Nothing more than they deserved.

Jason, alive. Then Damian, Cass, and Steph. He would see to his family, whole and happy. Then perhaps, in the future, when he was older and safely out of Bruce’s adoption zone, Tim could perhaps work with them. Laugh about how he never expected the Wayne family to be vigilantes, just to throw them off his trail.

Tim allows himself this one selfish thought, because he has nothing else but the shattered remains of a future that will never come to be, and a family he left behind but still exists.

a/n:

i wrote this in two hours under an inspired haze of time travel and tim, two of my favorite things

tim is a super unreliable narrator if you haven't already noticed lmao

also if i get any characterization wrong feel free to leave some discourse or ping me on the head

but like please be gentle cause y'know constructive crit, not bashing

thanks for reading! :D

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sibling-whump · 2 months

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Whumpee had permanent memory loss. There was no way of getting their old life back. But luckily, they had Caretaker with them every step of the way.

They had Caretaker to tell them what to do, how to act, and how to be. They had Caretaker to correct them when they made a choice they otherwise wouldn't have made back then. And they had Caretaker to patch up all the consequences of their frequent failures.

So... who was this other person, getting so upset at how Caretaker treated them? Why were they yelling? And why did they promise to take Whumpee away?

#whump #whump prompt #oblivious whumpee #unreliable narrator #bad caretaker #more like whumper in disguise really #carewhumper #tw abuse #whump writing #caretaker #whumper #sibling whumper #sibling whumpee #sibling caretaker #(what i intended while writing but i left it ambiguous in narrative ^_^)

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soups-archive · 4 months

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Im in love with the implications of tape 1 of Roier's lore because he either:

1) Was legitimately turned into a rat by the federation, which, beyond the goofy fucking model, is genuinely frightening body horror that I think roier (the guy not the cubito) has the full capacity to explore knowing his rp abilities.

2) He was hallucinating getting turned into a rat because of all the drugs he the feds are pumping him with. This comes with the extra terrifying implication that the feds ARE actually experimenting on him, but what they're actually doing to him is being obscured by the effects of the drugs.

Either way it's fucking horrific and I love it. I can't wait to see what he has planned next.

#qsmp #soup speaks #roier #tw drugs #tw hallucinations #god i hope hes hallucinating because genuinely there are so many sick ways he could portray that #he could continue the rat storyline but have it get more and more absurd as a way to communicate to the audience that its all fake #or he could have the set up be the same as this stream #with cucurucho taking him out of his cell for testing and each test or experiement being more absurd than the last #with the horrible implication that shit is being done to him but we just cant see it #unreliable narrator type shit #we could even get little peaks of reality before the big reveal of whats actually happening #like #!!!!!!!!!!!#its so good im so hype for the next tape #i missed the feds being a genuinely terrifying fucked up threat

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bbcphile · 4 months

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WIP Wednesday

I've finally worked up the courage to post the opening of one of the Mysterious Lotus Casebook fics I'm writing (Li Lianhua/Di Feisheng/Fang Duobing), specifically, from my post-canon fic where LLH's shiniang tried to sacrifice herself to cure him.

Tw/cw: suicide attempt, mention of off-page non-consensual medical procedure, internalized ableism

***

Li Lianhua crashed to his hands and knees on the ground as the last trickle of his borrowed qi abandoned him, the densely-packed sand doing nothing to cushion the blow. The impact rattled through his spine and ribs, shaking loose a bout of coughing that forced him to swallow down the burning flare of copper trying to escape from his mouth. He couldn’t cough up blood now, not here, too many steps away from the water’s reach. It would leave evidence of his route, a trail that his shiniang would undoubtedly follow once she had broken free from the immobilization. He couldn’t let her find him until the job was done.

He pushed himself to standing, his arms and legs shaking hard enough to nearly drop him back to his knees, and he blinked to will the dancing black spots from his eyes. The waves awaited him, and he refused to crawl to meet them. He took a staggering step toward the sound of crashing water ahead of him, far fainter now than it had any right to be, and squinted against the sunlight to get his bearings.

A large gray lump on his left snagged his attention, disrupting the blur of gold and blue that filled up the rest of his view. Why did that look familiar? He took an unsteady step closer, pressing his palm against his chest to convince his lungs to hold back a cough one more time, and the gray lump resolved into a rock.

A rock that had once served as a pillow that was soft only in comparison to how hard the rest of the day had been.

Of course. He’d landed at Donghai beach. He swallowed back tears with a bitter laugh. Never let it be said that the universe didn’t have a sense of humor.

He’d returned after all: three months late for the duel and over a decade late for bringing his decrepit body back to the waves that had so decisively spat him out. But surely this time, with all the mysteries solved and no business left unfinished, the sea would accept the offering of his broken frame. Li Xiangyi was long dead and it was past time for Li Lianhua to follow his example. He was already a ghost in every way that mattered. And this was the only way to guarantee his shiniang would live.

She would be furious, of course, but wasn’t furious better than dead? How could it be unfilial to make sure she lived on? Too many people had died for him; he refused to let her join those ranks. Dying to save her was already a far better death than he deserved.

As for the others, Xiaobao would have his teachings and would be too busy climbing the heights of the jianghu to miss the weak physician he once protected.

And a-Fei—

—well, how could he still fixate on defeating a ghost with Xiaobao shining more brightly than Li Xiangyi ever had?

No, this end was far better for everyone, and best of all, no one would sacrifice their life or be forced to play caretaker to an empty husk of a man.

A familiar chill seared through his veins and meridians, despite the warmth of the fur of his outer layer, stealing away his breath and the amorphous blue blur before him. He took another stumbling step toward where it had been, his heart stuttering painfully in his chest.

Not much longer now. It seemed his frenzied dash here and self-shattered heart meridian were more efficient for what he had in mind than the weight his waterlogged fur coat would have offered.

Perhaps he didn’t need the coat for this at all. His body would certainly float further without it. And not even his shiniang could save him now, so what harm could it do to leave some evidence behind? Xiaobao might not believe the beggar’s words, but surely this fur cloak at the water’s edge would put to rest any lingering futile hopes. And then Xiaobao would tell a-Fei.

And if it brought them peace, if it let them say goodbye, then how could he not leave it behind?

It was decided, then.

He lifted his hands to the coat’s laces, then paused. Were those voices? For a moment, he could have sworn he heard—

—Ah, no, the hallucinations must have started again.

He smiled. At least he had heard a-Fei and Xiabao one last time, if only in his mind.

He untied his laces with fumbling, stiff fingers, and let the coat fall behind him.

His heart and lungs clenched with another spasm, and a wave of dizziness broke over him, threatening to drop him to his knees once more.

He fought against it, muscles shaking as they never had during battles. He couldn’t surrender now; not until he reached the water. He could manage three more steps. He had to.

He tried to lift his foot again.

The world swam before him, and darkness dragged him under.

#mysterious lotus casebook #mlc fic #my fic #Li Lianhua #Di Feisheng #Fang Duobing #Feihua #tw: suicide attempt #the fic will end happily I swear!#This is just about the lowest point for everyone #This is my first time really sharing my creative writing publicly in about 4 years #I am sooooo nervous omg #yay for at least temporarily being healthy enough to write!#wip wednesday #the POVs of the fic alternate between all 3 of the MCs #and they are all unreliable narrators in different ways

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nana-mizu-shiki · 12 days

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....(the "emotionally intelligent one")....(emotional repression).

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deklo · 8 days

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:/ kinda wanna draw the foxhole/bathtub scene from tsc :/

#is that too much :/ (don’t care sorry)#also i have so many things on my to draw list so if i DO it won’t be for a while #tsc spoilers #more spoilers: i originally didn’t really believe he tried to kill himself and that it was just a rumor #but the more i think about it and jeans thoughts/POV when he hurts himself and thinks about his SH and his suicide attempts/tendencies #they are very vague #and he is definitely an unreliable narrator #so i think i’ve decided he indeed did try to kill himself #sorry!!!#suicide mention #tw suicide

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ashintheairlikesnow · 5 months

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how might finn be doing on this fine evening?

CW: Unreliable narrator, memory issues as a result of trauma, emotional manipulation, gaslighting (or is it?) referenced captivity (or implied captivity of a different kind, depending on how you read it)...

Death Valley

North Carolina, Present Day

Wind blew with a knife edge around the rest area, and Finn hunched his shoulders against its bite as he sat, watching Little Mother stalking with single minded precision across the grass. What she was hunting, he had no idea, but she was intent on its capture.

"Take care, Mütterchen," He called out. "Do not go too far."

One of her rabbit-soft ears flicked, the only sign she heard him. Her tail shifted sinuous through the grass, back and forth, back and forth, as she moved with her belly nearly to the ground. Her kittens gamboled around beside him, staying where Finn's body and the bulk of his truck hid them from the worst of the cold. Little Mother trusted him to keep them safe for her while she wandered, and Finn did his best to be worthy of that trust. He dragged a little string along the ground, coaxing the kittens into stalking it, batting at it with paws that had more enthusiasm than aim.

Overhead, heavy gray clouds threatened to finally unleash the sleet the radio had been promising was coming. They hung so low the wisps of them seemed to hover just above the ancient rounded mountains that stretched all around him. If he stood, he could reach up and nearly touch them, feel wisps of damp chill around his fingertips. The rest stop was perched on the top of a mountain itself, the highest point in the state supposedly. There'd been a plaque over by the building.

Finn remembered, in a vague and foggy way, that he had hiked up younger mountains once, with jagged peaks that seemed sharp enough to slice apart the stars at night. He'd gone with friends of his, and a girl he sometimes fooled around with.

Then he'd left for his American holiday, just after, promising he'd show her photos when he got back.

He never came back.

His mother had gotten the film from his little disposable cameras, developed the photos. He'd seen his own smiling face in a photo another tourist had taken of him standing, framed by the Badwater Basin salt flats. Schneider's last photo on the camera found in the wreckage of his vehicle.

Even if he hadn't made it back home to show her, he supposed Anja would have seen all the photos that were released to the public by now. Had she married? Had Anja found herself a husband, had children, built herself the normal life she'd dreamed of? Had she forgotten all about some silly, enthusiastic boy in her class who had once kissed her breathless in a tent with their noses both frozen from the outside chill?

He put his fingers to his lips, but he couldn't remember how kissing her had felt, not anymore. Robert had painted over it all with this slime-slick touch, the smell of decay and lemon-scented cleaner fighting for dominance.

Any passing attraction Finn felt for anyone anymore was only a brief flash of something warm before the memory of Robert froze over him, shattered him all over again.

Children giggled somewhere nearby, a family ushering distracted little ones with too much energy for their tiny size into the building. Would those children know who to run from, if they needed to? Would they know not to trust the friendly smile of a stranger, not to take their own water bottle if he had touched it?

Would they-

"You didn't tell me you got a cat," Noah said from off to the side, and Finn dropped his hand, muscles tensing. He stopped pulling the string, and the kittens set up a chorus of meows, angry that their game had come to such a sudden end. One of them hissed in Noah's direction, tiny fangs bared. "Or...multiple cats."

"Mütterchen," Finn answered, gruffly, gesturing to where Little Mother had gone a few feet away. "She came to stay with me and had the kittens." He didn't look up, even as his heart began to beat faster, heavy inside his chest. "It is nice to have company, driving."

"No doubt." Noah, without asking, dropped to sit right next to him, nearly brushing Finn's left arm with his right. Finn tensed, shifting just enough to put a little space between them again. "Mütterchen, that's cute. What's it mean? Mother-... mother-hen?"

"Little Mother." Finn hated that Noah knew it now, that it felt like simply explaining it to him ruined the fragile love he had for her name. "Why are you here?"

"You turned your phone back on." Noah was looking at him - Finn could feel the weight of his eyes, even though he refused to give him anything in return. His voice was low, outwardly worried. "I told you to stay here, and I came to you. Do you... not remember that conversation?"

Sometimes Finn forgot things. Whole days, entire conversations, events... his memory came and went as it pleased, and only his time with Robert remained clearly etched into his mind, as much as the scars were carved eternally into his skin. Noah sounded concerned for him, but... Finn bristled, anyway. Something felt false in the tone, like he was acting.

Of course he was acting.

He was just upset the Mouse had been hiding in the walls, on the road, where he couldn't find him.

Finn cleared his throat. "No, this I know. I know we spoke, Noah, I did not forget, but. Why did you want to meet me?"

"Why? Finn-" Noah groaned, exasperated. "Come on. You up and vanished, man. Why was your phone off for a week, huh? Your phone, laptop... everything. The GPS in your truck, even. You could have been hurt, or dead, or in a cage somewhere again-"

Finn had to swallow the rising spike of panic at the idea. He could have been, couldn't he? And no one would know, once again no one would know. Just like before.

Noah leaned forward, his voice soft and sweet and sad. "What happened to you? What have you been doing?"

Finn had spent days bundled in the tent, watching the kittens and feeling warm down to his bones even with the icy chill outside. Inside the tent, they kept warm, he, Little Mother, and her kittens. He cooked ready-to-eat meals on a campfire in a pot that he washed using water from a stream. He'd felt entirely, perfectly alone. It had been wonderful.

Had Noah been worried that he was dead?

Guilt gnawed, even as half of him was sure it hadn't been worry but anger that Finn wasn't under his thumb, if he couldn't reach him and follow him and track him and-

And keep him-

"I wanted some time to myself," He muttered, hardly able to get the volume up to be heard. "That is all."

"Right." Noah sighed. "Yeah, no, take whatever time off you want, you know you're helping me out with transporting the, uh, the cargo to be sure, but... Finn." Noah paused. Finally, Finn cut a glance to the side, barely meeting those falsely warm, kind, soft eyes and that slight smile with his own solid closed-off nothingness. "Finn, look at me."

When his gaze didn't stick, Noah reached out and took him by the chin with his gloved hands, forcing him to make eye contact. Finn's muscles locked in a sudden burst of fear but he didn't move. He didn't dare move.

He always froze, for Robert.

"You can't turn that shit off," Noah said, voice low and soft. Poison underneath the velvet, Finn knew all about it. Fury under the false worry. Robert could speak so sweet and kind like that, and then beat him until he broke a rib and feel nothing. "I get worried when I don't know where you've gone off to. You get lost, Finn, and you and I both know it. You get lost in your head, you forget where you are or what you've been doing. You forget how to call for help. You forget everything."

Finn found himself trembling, fighting to stay still. The kittens pushed against his fingers and he pet them with numb hands, a little too roughly, staring at Noah because the other man hadn't yet let go and he didn't dare pull away. "I, I don't-... so much anymore-"

"You do." Noah's voice dipped, became firmer. "You still do. Don't lie to me." He let go, patting Finn's face briefly, and then looked down at one little kitten who had pushed against his leg, letting his fingers dangle so the little one could bat at them. "Remember when the, uh-" He glanced sidelong to see if anyone was paying attention to them, but no one was. "Remember when the runaways had to call me because you forgot how to use a phone? Just sat in the truck's cab talking to yourself for hours? When you kept trying to dial German phone numbers?"

Finn kept his eyes on the ground, feeling a blush heat his face even as he hunched his shoulders to hide it. "... I remember that they took the phone away and called you."

"And you spent months in the little house I rented for you barely able to even remember to brush your own teeth-"

"That was many years ago, Noah, when I first was sold to you-"

"Ssshhh! Even aside from that, what about just a few months ago, when you kept watching crime docs on Netflix and had nightmares for weeks on end and stopped answering to anything but Mouse?"

Finn stiffened, and his hands went up to hold his head as he dropped it, fingers digging into his short hair, eyes closed against heat he refused to acknowledge was tears. His head began to ache, a low pounding throb behind his temples. "Stop," He whispered, but Noah wasn't done.

Noah never stopped.

No one ever stopped because Finn asked them to, or begged, or pleaded...

"If you don't want to work, then stop working," Noah continued, putting a hand up to rub at Noah's back, circling and circling his palm, sending shudders of discomfort down Finn's spine. "Do whatever you want. I don't care, it's fine, you can even keep using the truck. But I'm not drowning in money, and I can't keep giving you cash if you're not doing your job, if you just stop contacting me and I can't even see where you are. I'm not rich, Finn. This isn't a lucrative business, saving people. You're a huge help to me, and I'm grateful for that. But... you can't keep making me worry about you and then acting like I don't have the right, after everything I've done for you. It's cruel, don't you think? You're like a brother to me, and when you just go off the grid for a week, I get so worried, and I don't deserve that. Not after the years I've taken care of you."

Finn watched Little Mother pounce, but she must not have caught her prey. Her tail twitched in dismayed annoyance, and she turned to look at him. He watched her eyes go to Noah. Back to him. Finn swallowed, barely daring to breathe, to move, not even daring to speak. His heart hammered inside of him, sweat stuck his sweater to his back beneath his coat.

"I don't have any identification that's real here," Finn muttered, voice weak. "I can't get a job that is not cash under tables. I-I have no passport, even-... Robert-"

"He took your passport, I know. And if you keep working for me, that's not a problem, I'll take care of you," Noah said, shifting to soothing. He patted Finn on the back and then dropped his hand, leaving crawling goosebumps like ripples in a pond, rolling out disgust over Finn's body. "If you don't want to do this anymore, that's fine. Strike out on your own, go with God, have my blessings, whatever. But I can't just... pay for you for everything forever. Everyone has to earn their keep, around here."

Robert used to say that all the time. Earn your keep. Finn earned his keep, as Robert's Mouse, on his knees or his back or his stomach or listening to the screams from the basement with the muzzle locking his jaw tightly closed, he couldn't even scream with them-

He shivered, shaking his head. "I do not want to stop," He whispered, lips barely moving. "I-I have nowhere to go, no one... I took a week off, Noah, that is all. Just a week-"

"You can take a week off whenever you want." Noah stood, brushing his hands down his thighs as if getting rid of some invisible dust. "Let me know first, and I'll make sure you have no work to do. But if you turn off your phone and your GPS again, I'm going to assume that means you quit, and I'll cancel your phone line and your debit card. So make sure I know where you are. Got it?"

Finn didn't look up. He held Little Mother's gaze as she moved closer to him, her tail a question mark, rubbing her face against his leg and giving a soft, curious meow.

"Hey." Noah nudged his other leg with his boot, and Finn flinched as if he'd been struck. "Oh, man. Hey, don't be like that." Noah softened once more - or his voice did. Finn didn't look up to see his expression. "I just want to know you hear me. I can't spend all my time worrying about you. Make sure I know where you are, from here on out. No exceptions. None. Understood?"

Finn swallowed. His throat felt like it had closed, like his heart had filled it with too much fear to speak. But he managed to whisper, "I understand, Noah."

"Good. I have a job to do here, a couple people to pick up and take to Vermont. You take a couple days to think about our conversation. I expect a call at 8 pm on Thursday, no later than that. If you don't call, I'll assume you quit and act accordingly. Stay safe."

He walked away, and Finn let him go, sitting in the smallest ball he could make of himself, listening to the happy people laughing and chatting around him as they took in the mountain views on every side.

Noah had Finn's passport.

He was sure of it - he was sure he remembered Robert handed it over when he sold Finn to him, when Robert's little Mouse was handed from one man's care to the next, silent and shivering through the experience.

But by the time he'd found the courage to ask, Noah had said there hadn't been any passport, just the title to the truck changing hands.

But Finn remembered it.

Then again, Finn remembered things that hadn't happened all the time, now. He forgot things that had happened, or that would happen. Noah was right, he barely remembered anything, really. Maybe that was something that hadn't happened, too.

Maybe...

But he was so sure, and the memory was so clear...

"Komme, Mütterchen," He said, pushing himself to his feet on wobbling legs. Little Mother and her kittens reluctantly allowed him to put them back into the truck, one by one. He made sure his phone was on and charging, his laptop, checked the GPS that was installed. Just as Noah told him to.

Good little Mouse, closing the door to his own cage.

At least, Finn thought, Noah's cage was so much larger than Robert's had been.

Even if it still wasn't freedom.

#death valley fic #finn schneider #unreliable narrator #gaslighting tw #manipulation tw #traumatized whumpee #memory loss tw #past captivity #or even current #captivity #depending on how you view the situation...#whumper caretaker #caretaker whumper

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even-disco-baby · 2 years

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DOLORES DEI — “I don’t *understand* you, Harry. You aren’t dying, you’re just sad. Why is everything an apocalypse to you? People don’t die of sadness! I’m… I’m not trying to kill you, Harry…” Her holy gaze falls to her feet. “I never wanted to hurt you at all.”

DRAMA — She speaks the truth, sire. All she ever did was love you.

RHETORIC — No. Don’t let her control the narrative. She’s *wrong.* People die of sadness every day. Sadness the likes of which she has never and will never know. Tell her about the body on the boardwalk, his mouth full of chewing gum to mask the smell of disappointment. Tell her about René’s angry little heart full of barbs and spines that repelled all but one man. Tell her about Cuno’s father, wasting away and leaving nothing but a specter that will dog his son’s footsteps forever. Tell her about Ruby. Tell her about the Bad Day.

“I never wanted to hurt you, either. I just wanted you to understand *my* hurt.”

“Just because you can’t imagine something doesn’t mean that it isn’t real.”

DOLORES DEI — “But that’s not true, is it?” Her beautiful eyes are full of pain. “You *did* want to hurt me. You wanted me to be sad, too. And then you wanted me to leave you and prove that you were right about everything. About me, about life…”

She sighs, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Well, you got what you wanted. I’m gone and I’m never coming back. Are you happy? Does it feel *good* to be right?”

INLAND EMPIRE — Nothing will ever feel good or right again. You have made certain of that.

RHETORIC — It feels better than the constant dread of being abandoned. It feels like vindication.

“I never wanted to hurt you, either. I just wanted you to understand *my* hurt.”

“Just because you can’t imagine something doesn’t mean that it isn’t real.”

DOLORES DEI — “This again!” She pinches the bridge of her nose, and the gesture makes her look strangely more human. “What do you want me to say? ‘I’m sorry for not being born poor?’ ‘I’m sorry for not being an alcoholic?’ ‘I’m sorry I don’t want to die?’ I’m not going to ruin my life just to understand where you’re coming from, Harry!”

And then, her expression softens. Like light passing through stained glass. “You’re not well, Harry. You don’t need to die. You just need help.”

EMPATHY — She genuinely wants you to be better. And she believes that you can be.

RHETORIC — But she fails to understand the difference between you two. Poverty, addiction, the pain wracking your bodymind… She can leave these realities behind. Go back home to her parents, start a new life on another isola and be a new person. And so she did, and so she is. But you? It’s too late for you. It was too late from the moment you were born, in the death throes of the revolution. It was her people that killed it.

VOLITION — Is any of that her fault? Is it wrong for her to save herself from you, just because you can’t? You can be sad and angry at this wedge the world drove between you, but why did you have to misplace that anger? You took it out on her just because you could. You made it impossible for her to stand by you without getting stabbed in the back. You even became a cop so you could take it out on other people, too. Stop this, Harry. No more cruelty.

“There is no helping me. The world isn’t built to help people like me. I realized that in Martinaise. None of us can just *leave.*”

“Fuck you. You don’t know what I need.”

“I want to get better. Would you love me again if I got better?”

DOLORES DEI — She smiles, and it’s tinged with pity. “Oh, Harry… You are what you are. I’ve already forgiven you for that. And you may not forgive me, but I am what I am.” She closes her eyes, head bowing just slightly, almost like a prayer. “But we cannot *be* together anymore. Don’t you see that? There is nothing good left that can come of it. It would just be… more of this.”

Her Innocence Dolores Dei opens her eyes and looks around her— at this strange set you have constructed to act out a million different conversations that all end the same way. “I can’t live in your nightmares, Harry. And neither can you.”

VOLITION — You don’t have to anymore. Let her go, Harry.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Goodbye, Dora.”

DOLORES DEI — She smiles that pitying smile again. It’s not going to be that simple. “See you around, Harry.”

INLAND EMPIRE — You can try to rid yourself of this place, this feeling… But it will come back to you eventually. What you build at low tide will be swallowed up again someday.

VOLITION — And then you’ll build it again. As long as you live. You can do it.

#disco elysium #harry du bois #dora ingerlund #dolores dei #suicide tw #dora is. so juicy to me.#tfw you come from wealth and so you are the only person in the narrative capable of leaving the realities of life behind #but the leaving is exactly what deprives you of a voice in this story #except from the pov of your shitty unreliable narrator ex #who can only remember you as a vague concept to project both his own self loathing and his directionless anger onto #but there’s also kernels of truth to certain things he remembers about you #which is that class drove a wedge between you that prevented you from being able to even imagine what was going on w him internally and why #but he only drove that wedge farther and made it impossible for you to bridge that gap #are you the villain in this story? are you a martyr?#you’re neither. you’re just a human with no power over the circumstances of her birth #but more power over what course your life takes than other characters in this story #and so you get to live in one new world at the cost of another

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cursedzucchini · 1 year

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Dp x DC prompt #whatever

Guys this has been rotting in my brain for the past month and i think it has lots of potential.

So basically Danny & Damian childhood friends.

Somehow, someway (maybe after five years old Damian kills one too many instructors, which are irreplaceable, maybe his arrogance causes one too many failures) Talia convinces Ra's to put weekly 'play dates' with the other league's children. These play dates are supposed to show Damian his superiority over them, but also make him care for his future subjects.

What the two didn't account for, was, well... Children.

Damian wasn't the mildest child, not was he trying to be likeable. He didn't see the point. And when you add their parents repeating over and over again how important the new child is.. no wonder all of them were scared to even look at him.

The chosen child himself was quite happy with this development. He didn't want to be there in first place, especially because he was specifically forbidden from cutting down any annoyances. So it was a good thing none of them dared to come to 10 meters radius to him. He didn't mind the children immidietly bursting into tears, when they lock eyes. He didn't feel angry, because these weren't even children of any important people, with no obligations to be nice to him, and they didn't even dare to breath in his vicinity (seriously, a boy passed out because he didn't wish to breath when Damian was sitting few spaces next to him. It was ridiculous).

He didnt feel like an outsider, he felt like their leader. He didn't feel loneliness, he felt proud. He didn't, he did.

So.. when a child, always sitting in a corner staring at the sky, was cornered by several of the other children, he didn't do anything. He was someone they should follow, he did not owe them to solve their petty rivalries. (Even if they insulted the child for their expressionless face, for being unable to recognize their imaginery rules of some bigger game, for being different. Even when Damian started realizing with more and more terror, this would be him, if he wasn't All Ghul)

...

...maybe he should establish himself as a good leader, by helping them. This once at least.

Damian walked closer, only wanting to discuss whatever bullying problem was happening, but the moment the children saw him, they ran. Well, most of them at least.

Danyal was the child of some lower member of the league (maybe even someone who was under their protection, doesn't matter). He was a very quiet, some would even say antisocial. He would spend all his time staring at the stars and not mingling with his peers. He didn't often wore any sort of expression, but once Damian spend more time with him (unwillingly might he add, even if it was him who looked for the other boy, and maybe it wasn't unwillingly, but that's not something he wants to think about. Ever), he realized, Danyal was full of them. Every time he talked about the stars, mentioned the new book his parents gifted him, and as the time went, when Damian himself was mentioned, the demon's heir couldn't help but think the older boy would burst from them.

Damian still wasn't quite sure why he was hated by their his peers. He knew some people would find Danyal strange, but he didn't quite understood (wasn't he the same? Why was he brilliant perfect amazing but Danyal strange idiot weird?).

But what he did know for sure, was that Danyal was his. He was his subject, someone he took under his wing to protect, and in exchange, Danyal would look after him too. It might be helping him out with any assassination attempts, or telling him the stories of space, when the younger boy couldn't force his tongue to form words.

Or at least he had been.

The family Danyal was from was poor. So when one of the tougher times came, it wasn't strange one of their children had to go. And what choice it was, picking between healthy beautiful children and a 'ghost living in a body'.

Only Damian hated it. He didn't understand. While yes, Danyal was his subject, he had many of them. If he wanted to be a good leader, he can't just focus on one them. That would be unfair. He saw this choice being made so many times and he was never bothered by it, so why now—

In the end he never discovered the answer. He locked the question deep inside his chest, inside his heart, where nothing could ever reach. He was Al Ghul, he was too great to be caught of guard and be strucked in it.

So when years and years later, when he was already living with his father for some time, he saw a black haired, blue eyed teen with tan skin, and the same grin his friend subject had, of course it was natural he knocked him out and brought him into the manor.

Not because he missed Danyal or anything of course. He had to... Check if this was some sort of plot of his Mother. Naturally.

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rawmanticism · 1 year

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S01E01 "In Throes of Increasing Wonder" / S01E07 "The Thing Lay Still"

#Louis having mixed feelings for Lestat since day one #he's the definition of disaster gay #the king of bad decisions #'I wasn't thinking clearly'#yeah no shit louis #at least he didn't say 'i wasn't thinking straight'#if i hear another queer character say 'i wasn't thinking straight' i'm gonna lose my last braincell #although daniel would have appreciated the pun #interview with the vampire #amc itwv #louis de pointe du lac #unreliable narrator #tw murder

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uncanny-tranny · 1 year

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I think sometimes people take the whole "gender is separate from sex" to mean that trans people can say their gender is one thing, whilst their sex is really this other thing, that transition could never touch sex.

I think it's a shortcoming because it is used in order to defend treating trans people like what their sex "truly" is - that, for example, a trans woman says she's a woman, but her truest identity is that being completely male, no matter what she's done to transition. That's an example of what I am talking about - it doesn't mean that I don't agree with the premise of sex and gender being different, but that there's a difference between "sex and gender are separate" and "sex and gender are separate (which means trans people are still whatever I think they are)."

#trans #transgender #lgbt #lgbtq #ftm #mtf #nonbinary #transphobia #transphobia tw #i see it as a transitioning trans man personally because i'm treated like whatever sex/gender is 'right' to somebody else #and it's just like... transitioning has changed so much even if you refuse to acknowledge that aspect of me y'know #and i think it's unfair to trans people to treat them like unreliable narrators of their own experiences

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withoutalice · 6 months

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oops! all food!

Rating: M

Warnings: disordered eating, binge eating, mental health struggles

Word count: 3,600

~~~

Fortress Maximus could only stare directly as the bright, phosphorescent light from the Lost Light’s halls poured into his habisuite, cascading over him exposingly. Dust stood still in the air, illuminated sacredly in the dark kitchen.

“Maxie? What’s happened to you?”

(Full story under the cut)

A/N:

Hehe~ oops! All food p*^n!

TW: Binge eating and talk of disordered eating guilt

Good luck!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fortress Maximus crashed into his berth. This had to be one of his longest days on the Lost Light. Early this morning, he went to get a checkup at Ratchet’s to ensure he was recovering from his coma properly. After that, he had his appointment with Rung, which took up the rest of the morning and a bit of the afternoon. For some reason on the way back to his habisuite he was dragged off to Swerve’s to get the “friends check-up” so he wouldn’t lose it, or something. Well he wanted to use their inner energon to paint the ship the whole time. He abruptly had said goodbye to the table before he did something he regretted and trudged to his room, exhausted.

Now he lay face down, venting heavily but evenly. He was so tired and-

He heard his tanks groan.

Fort Max punched the wall next to him and sat up. He needed fuel. He hadn’t had anything all day except for a mint in between Rung’s and Swerve’s. He leaned against the backboard of his berth and pulled his private datapad from under his pillow. His bleary eyes squinted at the several applications he could choose from. It was only 6pm, it definitely was dinner time. He decided to start with a standard personal pizza. He put in his order and closed his eyes, waiting for the knock on his habisuite door.

He still startled when he heard the rap at the door fifteen minutes later. Still in a sleepy state, he dragged over to the door with a handful of shanix for a tip. Then he stepped back to his bed, settling in with his dinner and turning on a program to watch. His servos were large enough for the whole pizza to fit easily, so he began to bite away at the steaming hot pizza. With each bite the cheese stretched in gooey strings from his denta that was then quickly swiped up with his glossa. Steam rose from each separated piece of pizza and swirled past his optics. Fortress sighed satisfied and relaxed more with each large bite. Before long, the personal pizza was gone and Fort Max left to wash the grease off his hands in the kitchen sink.

He went to go sit down and continue his program. He gnawed on the ends of his servos for a few minutes before he finally conceded to his tanks protesting. He clicked off the program and put on some music instead. Max reached over to grab his datapad off the nightstand for the second time. It was okay right? He should have a little extra because he had eaten nothing all day. It was totally justifiable. He realized as he looked down at his apps that he didn’t know what he wanted to eat specifically. Well, he had a few ideas, but he couldn’t possibly order more than a couple items? He offlined his optics.

After a moment and another yowl from his tanks, he decided it was fine. I mean, have I ever done something like this? It can’t hurt every one in a while… He opened up a different app this time. Can’t have the same place again…what if they think I regularly eat more than one bot should? Shame burned in his cheeks at the thought. Max placed his order and waited again, eyes fixed on his habisuite door. Fifteen minutes passed, and his order hadn’t arrived. To stave off the hunger he got a glass of low grade energon, then a second one, then half of third before his tanks sloshed uncomfortably with the weight of the smooth liquid. His tanks still clenched painfully like he hadn’t eaten in a week.

His optics bored into the door, and when that long awaited knock sounded he couldn’t hide his desperation as he stepped to the door and opened it jerkily. Fort Max shoved the heavy tip of shanix into the delivery bot’s servo through the slightly open door. He was trying to hide from guilt that he didn’t know the origin of. Carefully he put down a towel on his bed and set out the food. Set in front of him were two large bowls of macaroni and cheese, a plate of mozzarella sticks, a basket of fries, fried chicken, a caesar salad, and a 2-liter bottle of carbonated sweet energon. This could feed six bots, or a larger family unit of bots easily…he reflected to himself. He didn’t want to dwell on that. He wanted to ease the clenching of his tank.

Fort Max practically inhaled the fries first, not really savoring the taste or texture; he ate them without any of the provided sauces. The salt dried out his glossa shockingly fast so he washed it down with long gulps of the sweetened fizzy energon. Tanks feeling a little more satiated, he mulled over what to eat next. He decided on the macaroni and cheese. He popped open the lid of the plastic to-go container and sighed open-mouthed at the smell. He dug in with the plastic spoon. The macaroni and cheese squelched with each stirring motion. The cheese sauce was so thick it was hard to remove the spoon when he was ready to eat. Maximus then carefully put a spoonful into his mouth. The sauce coated the inside of his mouth intimately and his denta stuck together while he chewed. He vented shallowly through his nose. He nearly missed the next bite. His spoon was going faster than his mouth, and some of the food dribbled onto his chest plating. Fort Max quickly swiped it up with a napkin but cleaned his lips with his glossa. He wolfed down the last few bites of the dish and set it aside.

He then started on the mozzarella sticks. He broke the first one apart with his hands and watched the steam rise. After he ate that first one, he realized he forgot the marinara sauce so he cracked that open too. Max tried to savor them. He was still disappointed they gave him so few…

Fortress was starting to feel weighed down by the grease so he took a break by eating his caesar salad. He had no urgency, as his tanks finally were above the empty level but not completely full yet. He took the first couple bites, cringing at the unpleasant dryness of the salad even with the dressing. But he knew it was healthy so he continued through, eyeing the bucket of fried chicken strips. The music in his habisuite droned on in the background. He picked the last few lettuce pieces out of the salad that his fork couldn’t get and swallowed them quickly, tossing the container into the can next to him. Fortress took a few more sips of fizzy energon before starting on the salt-heavy fried pieces.

It was unfortunate that the chicken was room temperature at that point, but the taste was still amazing. He went through two or three little to-go containers of BBQ sauce, ranch, and ketchup each. He was feeling a little overwhelmed by the delicious taste, but half of the bucket remained and he was out of sauce. His eyes wandered up to the second container of macaroni and cheese that was left. He had to reach far to grab the last container, feeling his nearly topped off tank put pressure on his insides, but it wasn’t too uncomfortable yet. He was able to finish off both containers by using the rest of the chicken strips to scoop up the macaroni. The explosion of flavors and the comfort of the cheese and protein in his tank felt like it was warming his spark. His HUD popped up a suggestion to recharge, but Fortress Maximus didn’t feel like going to recharge just yet. He turned on the TV again to catch up on the news for the day finally.

```

Fortress Maximus fell asleep with the TV still on.

```

He woke up with condensation from his frame pooling underneath him. He panted and swiped a servo on his forehelm. It came away wet. Even worse, his tank was rumbling again, even after his larger dinner. Checking the time, he saw it was a couple hours past the night mid-cycle. The Point-One-Percenter got up, went to the kitchen again, and poured something to drink. His frame felt like it hadn’t eaten in vorns, his processor acted like it was starved of nutrients. I should get that checked out by First Aid or Ratchet tomorrow… He thought to himself. He was so mad and ashamed and confused about what had transpired in the last 24 hours. He forgot two simple meals and now his frame was breaking down like a malnourished illegal miner mech.

He couldn’t help his survival coding. He grabbed an emergency ration stick from his day kit for emergencies and sat on his habisuite floor with his datapad. Maximus barely registered the total of his purchase. Hopefully no one would question the charge. After punching in his delivery information with shaking servos, he curled up in the fetal position on the floor of his kitchen. His processor was woozy and his optics swam in exhaustion. His whole frame shook and he felt like his internals were digesting each other to get any scraps that had semblance with nutrients. Tears leaked out of his optics at the pain.

Honestly, Fortress Maximus was scared.

The delivery mech, as per his directions, knocked and left the food at the door. Fortress laughed in relief. He pulled himself off the floor and pulled the food inside.

He didn’t even make it to the table in his suite. He ripped open the first of the many paper bags with his order in it. It was a large extra pepperoni pizza. He reached into the bag again, finding the extra ranch sides he requested with the order. He ripped open several packs with his denta and squirted them all over the pizza. He frantically used his servos to spread it onto multiple slices before grabbing two slices and shoving them into his mouth. He wasn’t even tasting the food as he chewed and swallowed as fast as he could. He grabbed another fistful of pizza and opened his jaw as wide as possible to stuff as much of the food he could into his mouth. He sniffled and swiped up more ranch to put on the pizza. He felt as if he couldn’t eat fast enough. He ate two, three, four pieces at a time until the whole family sized pizza was gone.

He moaned and lay face down on the floor. His body shivered as it struggled to digest the large meal he ate. He ate too fast but that wasn’t enough to stop him from grabbing the next bag full of party size chip bags, bread and mayonnaise. He took out the toast pieces and slathered them in mayo, crushing chips in between and making a ‘sandwich’. The soft, soggy bread contrasted with the crunch of the chips and the mayo stuck to his glossa heavily. Some of the mayo oozed out of the bread and covered his servos. Without a second thought he shoved each finger into his mouth and licked his palms clean. What he couldn't clean off with his glossa he simply wiped onto his own thighs, leaving a sticky, greasy mess in its wake. All the while, his processor screamed at him to stop, to take control of himself. But his body refused to listen, determined to gorge itself in desperation. Maximus knew he was self-destructing.

Next was the pastries. Oh mmph…pastries… The tray of cinnamon rolls with the glistening, viscous sugar slathered on them was almost erotic in a way. He felt perverted just looking at them. He curiously stuck a singular servo into the center of one, and it made a slick shck! noise when he pulled it out to lick it clean. He tenderly raised the one with the fingered hole in it up to his face.

He took a bite. Immediately he received that dopamine shot from the sugar, sobbing with relief. He was already envisioning the next cinnamon roll he would consume. As he finished off the final pastry, the feeling of guilt began to set in. But it was too late. He had already fallen off the wagon.

Maximus reached for another unknown pastry box. He flopped back to lean against the kitchen wall, spreading his legs wide to make room for his overfilled tank with the box of donuts in his lap. He opened the box, smelling the copious amounts of sugar, smelling the signature fried butterfly dough. Max heard a muffled Ping! from his lower panels. He felt his belly strain against his armor and rub against internal nodal wiring unnaturally but pleasurably. Just at the smell and his cooling fans clicked on, blasting at their highest speed. Even though he was uncomfortably stuffed, Fort Max began to polish off the donuts.

He had an eating ritual for all 12 donuts. He would nibble the edge a little, then stick his glossa through the center hole, eating it without the help of his hands from there. He slurped up the sticky maple, chocolate, strawberry, and frosting cream off of his servos and chin lazily. He was slowing down. He was getting tired, but his frame was still raging for fuel. Fort Max looked at the empty boxes around him. He still had more in his order. He had to continue.

He whimpered and strained to reach the next box. He went through a loaf of garlic bread, chocolate bars, sugary cereal, cheesecake, popcorn, hot wings, triple chocolate cookies, cheese burgers with fries, ice cream and-

His frame stopped.

Max's processor returned to him and finally all his emotions bubbled to the surface. At first, tears silently leaked out of his optics as he looked around his habisuite's kitchen. He hardly remembered eating all of that but, checking the time, he realized it was possible that this was his doing. He had to have been eating for three hours straight. At least the early rising bots were already walking around the ship. The pain from Fortresses' stomach registered next, he couldn't get up and was bloated beyond belief. He tenderly held his stomach with shaky servos, slouching back farther against the wall nearly lying on the floor, and rubbing slightly to ease the stiff pain.

At first it was a sniffle, then a short cut-off sob, a weak cry, before he was completely wailing at his predicament and anguish. He let go of his bloated belly to cover his face with his servos, laying on his side in the middle of all the food scraps and wrappers and other trash on the floor. His frame shook and armor jiggled as he cried. It was a complete nightmare. He felt angry. Sad. Pointless. Disgusted, guilty, shameful and everything in between. He had never experienced such self hatred towards himself. He'd never felt so…ugly. Max hiccuped. Beating one fisted servo against the floor, and biting the other, he screamed in torment.

Why does this always happen to me!?

What is even the point?!

Fortress Maximus felt his tanks clench in being over-full this time. He continued crying like a lost child as he sat up again, looking around the habisuite hopelessly.

No one can know…

But why was he so anxious about being caught? It was just fuel, wasn’t it? After his day off his bloating would be mostly gone and messes could always be cleaned. It’s not like he broke any rules of the ship…

Everyone makes mistakes everyone makes-

The door handle turned with a click!

“Maxie? What’s happened to you?”

He recognized that silhouette anywhere. First Aid was standing in his doorway, and when Max’s optics adjusted to the searing light, he could see the terror upon the medic’s face. The tension was thick and charged with grief, confusion, disgust, concern, indifference…

Embarrassingly, the Point-One-Percenter tried in vain to stand up without the use of his servos and arms, to prove he was still capable. He failed.

“I-it’s not what you think!” He wailed.

The medic just shook his helm.

“I just don’t know what to do, Max.” First said grimly.

“Please! I can fix this!” The panicking bot uselessly swiped away wrappers, only uncovering more crumbs and trash piled on the floor.

“You need help, Fortress. This is…horrific!” First Aid gestured wildly at the state of the habisuite. The medic stepped in and grabbed receipts off the dining table. As he read the numbers of the cost of each order, his optics widened.

Maximus, overwhelmed with sadness and shame, drops his head to the floor. First Aid just stands there, his EM field tightly restricted, his arms folded in disappointment as he watches the sad spectacle unfold.

"First Aid...I...I...I just don't know what went wrong," He sobs. "This isn't me...you know that!"

First Aid's voice dropped to an alarming whisper. Maximus had never seen such anger in First Aid's optics before.

"You ate everything... again? I've heard this so many times."

Max's voice grew desperate.

“Please, don't tell anyone!”

“Fortress Maximus, you are beyond help,” First Aid said, his tone stony. “Get it together, frag it all! You can't just eat everything in sight every time you feel emotions.”

The large mech whimpered.

"I... I know... I thought I was doing better..."

“For frag’s sake Fortress!? It’s been nearly a year of therapy; it’s been two years since you were rescued from Garrus 9.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think…”

Fortress Maximus felt betrayed.

First Aid took a step inside and surveyed the mess. His optics scanned over everything, and then his scanners caught a glimpse of the discarded boxes scattered around the room. Max, still on the floor, tried to cover himself up with his servos. He was ashamed, but he knew his efforts were useless.

"I can explain," he tried. "Please believe me-"

The medic's hand clenched the receipts tightly, shaking as the point-one-percenter's heart rate began to accelerate. The medic looked up from the receipts, and their optics met. Maximus' optics widened, knowing the time had come. His optics lowered to his chest panel in a silent, defeated sigh as he realized there was simply nothing he could do to hide the evidence. The damage had been done.

"I know, I know! It's just... I can't stop. Everything I taste is amazing at the time, but after..."

Maximus trailed off as First Aid began reading the total cost of his multiple orders. He was speechless. It was an inconceivable amount of shanix. Maximus just watched in anguish as the medic picked up each receipt and added up the total. He wanted to cry again.

"Just a rough patch, First! I'm in perfect control!" Fortress Maximus waved away the medic's concerns even as he took rapid shallow breaths, gasping and panting in front of him. The medic could see deep stains in the Point-One-Percenter's armor that suggested this binge-eating episode was not the first.

Fortress Maximus froze at First Aid's words, a cold realization settling on him like a blanket. He was utterly helpless to control himself, and he knew it. How many times would he repeat this same cycle before he lost everything? Maximus knew in his spark that he had hit a rock bottom, but how would he ever climb out? The Point-One-Percenter felt First Aid's judging gaze pierce the deepest part of his spark, and he had no response.

"But I'm doing better! I am. The binges aren't as bad as they were, at least not physically. I just... I need to keep myself entertained, distracted. If not, I get bored. Then I get depressed. Then I eat until I've become this... this embarrassment." The sad bot looked up at First Aid, his optics pleading for understanding.

"But it's all I have, Aid.”

First Aid shook his head one last time in disgust, opened a comm to Rung, spun on his heel and slammed the door behind him, locking Max in his habisuite with his mess. He was alone to wallow in his shame and the evidence of his binge-eating. Maximus was at a loss for words as he heard First Aid walk away. He felt so helpless, a feeling he wished he’d never have to know again. He stared around his habisuite for a moment, breathing deeply to try and calm himself down.

He knew what he had to do next, but he couldn't summon the strength to leave the mess he had made. Eventually, he closed his optics and laid motionless on the floor.

~~~~~~~~

A/N

First off, I’m sorry I wrote this. Uhhh points for creativity? Eheh >.<

Thanks for reading though! Just remember, that even though I write about heavy topics doesn’t mean I'm struggling. ;)

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