proud victim of the tumblr accent. it's fading out of public consciousness as the tik tok accent takes precedence; a linguistic evolution that makes the tumblr accent 85% funnier to unsuspecting civilians. it's like releasing a disease on a non-inoculated population. coughing baby versus hydrogen bomb.
once my therapist said I used very uncommon and creative phrases and adjectives and i just did not have the heart to tell that Old Lady From A Foreign Small Town that I was translating tumblr speech into our language. so I was like yeah... must be from the books I read...
like girl we have an army of scholars over at tumblr.com crafting our language it's not just little old me I swear
I once called a colleague's Borzoi a beautiful Gentle Alien, assuming the term had long since become commonplace outside of Tumblr, and discovered when he burst into delighted laughter at the term that it Had Not. I had to explain to him that I'm not a comedy genius, just repeating a niche meme.
Why is it easier and more comfortable to sit in a position that actively damages my joints than it is to just sit with okay posture. Why does my body crave its own destruction
very soon the entirety of the tumblr dashboard will be consumed by insane people being insufferable over AMC's interview with the vampire. fortunately i am one of those insane people
how daniel molloy feels after trying to conduct an accurate interview about vampires, but his subjects are louis de pointe du lack of information, lestat de lyingcourt, armanipulator, and claudead.
This version of the progress flag legitimately looks so nice
Gilbert baker rainbow, huge intersex circle, the design is cluttered but in a good way 10/10
[ID: A version of the progress pride flag with a large purple intersex ring outlined in gold, looping through pink, blue, brown, and black chevrons on the side, which have a base of white. The horizontal stripes are: pink, red, orange, yellow, green, light blue, dark blue, and purple. End ID.]
what if you told someone you liked their shoelaces while you were on your knees blowing them in a bathroom stall and they told you that they stole them from the president
still caring about internet friends you lost touch with years ago is so embarrassing. yeah i had a deam we met up irl recently. the last time we spoke was maybe 7-8 years ago. i still wear the laces we randomly decided was a sign of our friendship. i dont know what any of your socials are or if youre even active on any. sometimes i see someones art resemble yours and i wonder for hours. do you still go by that name you chose? whenever i see it i wonder if its you. we couldve passed each other in this vastness a thousand times and not have a clue.
ao3: "and at any second now"
rating: T
warnings: prinxiety, pots, internalized ableism, food, crying
genre: hurt/comfort
description: Roman and Virgil go on a little picnic date at the park (prompt "picnic" for @prinxietyweek , which i totally forgot about, whoops. also lyrics from ajj "body terror song")
I'm very sorry that you have to have a body
One that will hurt you and be the subject of so much of your fear
It will betray you, be used against you
Then it will fail on you, my dear
Dread coils in every limb as Virgil gets dressed. They're supposed to have a picnic date today. The weather's projected to be warm, but not Death Valley levels, and there's supposed to be a light breeze. He's been looking forward to it for days.
And now, just getting dressed, Virgil feels like collapsing face first into his pillows and breathing in fabric for a while. His heart's racing, his head is swimming, nausea keeps surging up his throat, and despite still being half-naked, he's already hot and sweaty.
Roman's in the bathroom, so Virgil feels free to slip out their pulse oximeter, just to check. 135. Not the worst it's ever been, but it certainly matches the soup of symptom shittiness swirling around in Virgil's body.
He sits down, then after a moment of contemplation, flops back, making sure his head is on Roman's pillow so he can breathe in his partner's scent. Better. He can feel his heartbeat slowing, steadying. The dizziness is beginning to ebb and in its place, a sickly fatigue is starting to creep in.
"All I did was try to get dressed," Virgil mumbles, staring up at the ceiling, and struggling to swallow the lump in his throat. He can't cry. Roman will notice. Roman might call off their picnic. Virgil doesn't want that.
Actually, if there's one thing Virgil would change about Roman, it might be that. Symptom flare, in Roman's mind, always seems to mean that Virgil should rest. That plans can be cancelled and things can be shuffled around and it's okay to take a break.
And it's not that Virgil doesn't appreciate that. Because they do! It helps knowing that Roman's not going to dismiss them when they feel like shit, or push them into overdoing it.
It just--
He wishes that Roman would let him decide that a little more. That maybe, Virgil's okay not feeling the greatest, if it means they get to do something. Either something fun, like this picnic, or something else, like an important appointment or chore.
Virgil rubs at the bridge of their nose. Of course, every time they think of bringing that up, all they can think is that they're just weighing Roman down with their disabilities. Because if they insist on powering through something when they're unwell (especially the important shit), then it takes longer. Both for the thing, and then for the aftermath. And Roman has to help him more sometimes. And he can be out of commission more, from POTS or chronic pain or migraine or whatever else. Keeping Roman from doing anything. Making himself even more of a burden.
Roman never calls him a burden, but Virgil's good at scribbling in that blank himself.
Virgil drags himself upright again, grabbing his half-empty bottle of electrolytes™ and taking a few swallows. They can do this.
They do manage to get dressed by the time Roman is out of the bathroom. Black skirt that hits a few inches above his knees, purple shirt that hides the abdominal compression, knee-high compression socks in a purple/black Halloween pattern. He's got rainbow sneakers for the outdoors, ones that always make him smile.
Roman's face lights up when he sees them, and Virgil's cheeks redden, a pleased smile turning up his mouth.
"You look gorgeous, darling!" Roman says, arms slipping around Virgil's back and pulling him closer, planting a kiss on Virgil's forehead.
"Thanks," Virgil says. He bites his bottom lip as he makes a show of looking Roman up and down. "You're pretty handsome yourself," they say lightly, tugging Roman down for a proper kiss. Roman tastes faintly of toothpaste.
"Ready, darling?" Roman asks. Virgil nods, then hesitates.
"Gotta pee again," they admit, as their face goes redder. "I drank more."
"Good boy!" Roman praises, and Virgil feels a tingle of happiness go down all the way to their toes.
When they return, Roman's sitting on the couch in the living room, idly scrolling through his phone. An honest-to-goodness picnic basket is laying at his feet, with a purple ribbon threaded through the handles.
"Oh my god," Virgil giggles. Roman looks up and grins, unashamed.
"Do you like it?" He asks. Virgil nods and sits down on the other side of the couch to put his shoes on. He has a bag, too, one that already contains some useful things, like his midodrine and extra electrolytes. He has a water bottle, too, of course.
He's lightheaded again as soon as he stands on, but he tries not to let it show as he smiles at Roman. It will be fine, Virgil chants to himself. His smile goes sappy, seeing Roman grab Virgil's hoodie "just in case" the weather changes.
The weather outside isn't particularly hot, but Virgil's heart still starts pounding in his chest as he waits for Roman to unlock the car. If I get this picnic canceled, I will never forgive myself, Virgil promises himself darkly.
"Virgil?" Roman asks, after buckling himself in. Virgil turns, sure that the truth of his minor POTS flare is written all over their face. Roman smiles softly at them, then tugs them closer and kisses their lips. "I love you."
"I love you, too," Virgil breathes, suddenly overwhelmed with how much he loves this man. Guilt squirms, cold and sour and abandoned, in the pit of his stomach.
The park's not that far away. Virgil feels fine, bopping along to the cute playlist he turned on, the air conditioning blasting his skin. Roman's adorable when he belts out a song, Virgil decides. They can't stop the smile when Roman sings a particularly tricky bit and then grins after, like he's accomplished something brilliant (and he has).
There are people in the park, but not as many as Virgil would have expected on a nice day. Roman parks in the shade, and some of Virgil's apprehension slips back, pooling in his chest.
"Shall we?" Roman asks, and Virgil nods eagerly.
Roman won't let them carry the picnic basket. No matter how Virgil entreats him.
"It is my noble duty," Roman informs them, holding it higher, out of Virgil's grasp. Virgil stomps his foot, laughing.
"Roman!" Virgil protests. "I can carry a picnic basket! You're the one who put it together, the least I could do is carry it!"
"Hmm, a worthy argument," Roman says, pretending to ponder. "No."
"You're ridiculous," Virgil mutters. Roman grins smugly at him, then tucks the picnic basket in one arm, offering his other hand to Virgil.
"May I escort you?" Roman asks, like they're suddenly in a period drama. Virgil laughs and takes his hand.
"Sure, but if I fall, you have to rescue the picnic basket and the picnic basket alone, it's my dying wish," Virgil teases.
"You don't feel like falling, right?" Roman asks, the joking evaporating from his tone, and Virgil sighs.
"No, my love, I'm not going to fall," Virgil says. He wishes he hadn't said it, all of a sudden. He didn't- it was just supposed to be a joke--
"Good, because the picnic basket gets it if you do," Roman says, and he's smiling when he says it, but Virgil knows he's serious. It quiets them, makes them pay more attention to the discomfort in their chest and the exhaustion weighing down their limbs.
Roman finds an empty pavilion and sets the picnic basket down in the middle of a table, gracefully assisting Virgil in sitting down on one side of the table. He sits down facing them, and lightly tugs the ribbon on the picnic basket's handles.
"Voila!" Roman says. "Lunch is served." Virgil smiles at his theatrics. His chest feels soft and fuzzy and warm now again. He knows Roman means well. Knows he worries.
"Give me your wrist?" Roman requests. Puzzled, Virgil holds out one arm, cheeks flushing as Roman lightly ties the ribbon around his wrist. "Mine," Roman says quietly, and Virgil feels like melting.
"Yours," he agrees, just as softly.
Peeking into the basket, Virgil wants to tear up. Roman's picked out several of their favorites. It's not fair. It's not fair he's so sweet and kind and loving and--
"Virgil?" Roman asks, concern and alarm mixing together in his voice. Virgil looks up and blinks rapidly when he realizes that Roman is suddenly blurry.
"Sorry," they say, swallowing hard. "Sorry, I just- you're so sweet."
"Sweetheart, I don't think a cupcake in your lunch is enough to make you cry," Roman points out. "What is it?"
"I don't-" Virgil takes a deep breath. "I need my midodrine," he admits roughly. "I don't- I don't feel the greatest, but-"
"Darling, we didn't have to-" Roman starts, confirming Virgil's worst fears.
"But I wanted to!" They blurt out, accidentally interrupting him. "Sorry," they mutter, cheeks hot. "I just- it's always a little bad in the morning, and it's a little worse today, and I hate it, I hate doing nothing and feeling so shit, it's not- it's not fair, but I- I want to be here, I want to do things sometimes, I don't want to just cancel all the time, but I don't know when that's just- just the internal ableism talking, or when I just wanna do shit, and I appreciate you so much, but you just- I don't want to cancel," Virgil finishes plaintively, breathing hard. Tears burn the corners of his eyes. "And now I'm ruining everything, and I just-"
"Hey," Roman says, suddenly much closer, and Virgil realizes he's gotten up and moved to Virgil's side of the table. He gently tilts Virgil's chin up, so he can look into their watery green eyes. "Sweetheart. You aren't ruining anything."
"I'm crying," Virgil points out, voice wobbling. Roman's thumb gently brushes away some of the tears, as he smiles sadly down at Virgil.
"You are," Roman says. "But you haven't ruined anything, beloved. You're just overwhelmed. I'm sorry if I've been contributing to it. I don't want you to feel like you can't rest, or listen to your body, or push through things just because you think you have to. Your health is so, so important to me. Physical and mental. Can we-" He hesitates, and Virgil waits, heart trembling in his throat. "Can we talk about it when you don't feel well? I won't knee-jerk say that we should cancel something, or not go out, okay? We can talk about it. Would that help?"
"Yeah," Virgil says, feeling like a bobble-head doll as they nod. They sniff hard once, then twice. Ugh, congestion. "That- yeah, that would help a lot. Thank you." Roman kisses Virgil's cheek, and Virgil sags against him in relief.
"Now," Roman says. "Even though you don't feel well, you want to still have this picnic, right?"
"Yes," Virgil says. "I do. Very much." His heart feels lighter in his chest, though he knows it's still beating a little fast. "Yes, I do. With you." He reaches out a hand, booping Roman on the nose and making him laugh.
"With me," Roman agrees, with a little laugh, tugging Virgil closer against him. "Then let's eat, sweetheart. And don't forget your meds."
"I won't," Virgil promises, fondness stealing through them like warm, sweet syrup. "I love you." A thought strikes them, and they pout. "I can't lie down for at least four hours after I take it, though."
"We can cuddle like this," Roman says, already knowing where their mind is going, as he wraps an arm around their middle. They've somehow found themself almost straddling the end of the bench, pressed into Roman, but Virgil can't say he minds very much.
"Good," Virgil says, and pulls the picnic basket closer.
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