or is it foster now

One bright spot in this trash gymnastics week is learning that Aly Raisman’s siblings are adopted. Adoption can be hard to talk about & visibility matters.

When Morgan won the AA this year my first thought was how cool it was that consecutive world champions are adoptees.

Aly & Simone are the two gymnasts with the highest profile in the USA right now. Simone’s adopted from foster care and Aly is part of an adoptive family.

I love this!

Whatever it is, stop trying to figure it out now. Let it remain unresolved a little while. Stop trying to fast-forward to the ‘answer’ scene in the movie of your life; trust the present scene of ‘no answer yet’. Allow the question itself space to breathe and be fertilized. Relax into the mysterious ground of Now.
—  Jeff Foster

anonymous asked:

your writing is amazing, and i was just going through it all again when I say you were doing drabbles!! Just finished rereading It's Complimentary!! I love it so much!!! For the drabbles could you do “I don’t do hugs.” and “Everyone keeps telling me you’re the bad guy.”. You could do it separate or together I just would like Virgil to be the focus. I can't wait to read through the drabbles you do!!! They will be awesome!!!

a/n: ahhhhh, thank you!!! <3

7. “Everyone keeps telling me you’re the bad guy.” and 56. “I don’t do hugs.“

warnings: mentions of previous parenting issues, swearing, self-deprecating thoughts, insults, mentions of fighting

Virgil hears the creak of the porch behind him and tenses—Patton’s come looking for him. Well, whatever. What the fuck does that matter? What can he possibly say to make Virgil any unhappier than he already is? Oh, I’m disappointed in you, kiddo or now, now, I expected better from you, or—or even maybe we should call your caseworker.

Whatever. Virgil doesn’t fucking care. At least if Patton sends him back to the group home he won’t have to put up with Patton’s other foster sons anymore. (And he is so terribly, terribly sick of dealing with them—especially Roman, that fucking airhead.)

But Patton doesn’t huff, or sigh, or even speak at all. He simply sits down beside Virgil on the porch steps, a couple of juice boxes in his hand. He offers one to Virgil, who narrows his eyes and shrinks away until his shoulder is pressed hard into the porch railing and snaps, “I don’t want your fucking juice, dickhead.”

Patton should definitely shout at him for that, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sets the juice off to the side and leans back on the palms of his hands. They sit in silence for a solid five minutes, staring out at Patton’s yard as the sun sets over it—it’s scattered with foam swords and plastic shields, tiny model trains, colorful toy dinosaurs, and a pair of unsolved Rubik’s cubes. It’s a house built for a family, and every part of Virgil recoils from living here. (Except, perhaps, the foolish part that utterly and entirely craves that pure belonging.)

When the silence becomes too much for Virgil to tolerate, he scowls at Patton and says, “Are you just gonna sit here all night or what, man?”

And Patton goddamn smiles at him. It’s not his usual smile, though. It’s not sunny and warm and blisteringly bright. No. This one is softer, quieter, and—and sadder. “I want to talk, kiddo.”

Virgil rolls his eyes. “Get it over with, then.”

Patton takes a deep breath and stretches his legs out in front of him, an image of picturesque relaxation. Virgil doesn’t trust it for a second. “I’ve already spoken to Roman about what happened, but I’d like to hear your side of the story before I say anything.”

“Roman was being a fucking jerk and I got pissed and I hit him.” Virgil shrugs, but tension is a tight cord running through him. What is Patton going to do to him? He hit one of Patton’s sons—one of his real sons, one of the ones who’s been with him for years, one of the ones who isn’t—isn’t Virgil, isn’t a blemish in their perfect little family, isn’t unnecessary and unwanted.

“Roman did admit that he said some mean things to you,” Patton says, nodding slowly. “It’s okay if you were angry. It’s okay if you are angry. But Virgil—”

Oh, there is was. But Virgil, I still have to punish you. But Virgil, hitting is completely uncalled for. But Virgil, you’re a fucking violent moron and we’re giving you back.

“—hitting isn’t a healthy was of expressing that anger,” Patton finishes, and that doesn’t comfort Virgil any. “You really hurt Roman.”

Virgil’s shoulders hunch. He hadn’t thought it was that bad. He’d just socked the dumbass in the jaw when he kept yammering on and on about how fucking great he was, and how very much Virgil paled in comparison. There’d only been a little red mark.

“Not physically,” Patton continues, and that grinds Virgil’s thoughts to a halt. How the fuck else could have hurt Roman? “Physically, he’s fine, although I know being hit did hurt him for a little while. I meant emotionally. He’s feeling a lot of things right now, just like you are. I won’t betray his confidence with me, but maybe you could talk to him later—once you’ve both calmed down.”

“No way.”

Patton inclines his head but lets the subject drop. They’re quiet for a while longer, and Virgil’s fingers are starting to tremble. What the fuck are they doing here? What is Patton waiting for? What is Virgil supposed to do? Should he sit here and brood in silence like a moody brat, should he snap and insult Patton like a jerk, or should he try his hand at sucking up and try to get back into Patton’s good graces?

It’s not something he’s ever contemplated before. Usually, he couldn’t care less about where he ends up or what his foster parents think about him. They’re all temporary, anyway. Everything is temporary. (Except, of course, his constant fear and loneliness—just his luck, really.)

But Patton is different. Not by much, but by some. He talks to Virgil instead of forcing him to stand in a corner or stay in his room or—or other things. He doesn’t ruffle Virgil’s hair if he leans away, he doesn’t sigh and roll his eyes if Virgil overreacts, he doesn’t give Virgil those sad, disappointed looks when his grades aren’t as good as they should be. He’s different, and that’s new and it’s scary and at times it’s stupid, but—

Virgil grinds his teeth. But nothing. “So when are you sending me back?”

Patton glances at him, surprised. “Back?”

“Yeah. Back to the home. Keep up.”

And Patton lapses into silence again. He draws one knee up up to his chest and loops an arm around it, staring hard at the grass where it’s being ruffled by the gentle breeze. Some awful, terrified thing writhes in Virgil’s chest as he waits until finally Patton says, his voice low and quiet, “Everyone keeps telling me you’re the bad guy.”

Virgil doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t. “Yeah, well. Big deal.”

“I don’t think they’re right, though. You’re not a bad guy, you’ve just been dealt a bad hand in life, but Virgil—Virgil, if you’ll let me, I’ll do my best to change that.”

That startles Virgil into silence for a moment, and he shoots Patton a wary look. What?

“I want to give you a good life here. I want to make this place home for you.”

“But?” Virgil says, scowling.

“But nothing.”

Virgil opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it again. What is he supposed to say? He needs to think of a witty retort, he needs to spook Patton away with his barbed tongue and bitter sarcasm, because this is all impossible and ridiculous and—

“Can I give you a hug?”

Virgil recoils. “Fuck no. I don’t do hugs.”

“Okay.” Patton nods. “How about a high five?”

“No.”

“Fist bump?”

Virgil stares at him, dumbfounded. “No?”

“Handshake?”

“Are you an idiot?”

Patton shrugs. “No, I don’t think so—and you aren’t either, Virgil. You know hitting Roman was wrong, so I don’t expect you to do it again. How about you come inside and we can talk about some better ways to express our anger, okay? The mosquitoes out here are starting to really bug me, if you know what I mean.”

Virgil rolls his eyes—Patton is really stupid, sometimes, but sometimes—

Sometimes, maybe, that’s not so terrible. At least it keeps Patton from yelling at him. Sighing, Virgil pushes himself to his feet and grabs one of the juice boxes Patton’s left sitting on the porch. (He ignores the surprised smile Patton offers him with steely determination. He doesn’t do it to make Patton happy. Why the fuck would he do that?)

The two of them step back into the house, and Virgil sips on his juice and listens to Patton ramble and make idiotic jokes and (for a brief, temporary time) finds himself okay. Not happy—he’s rarely happy—but okay, and that’s more than he used to. He can only hope that it’ll last. (It won’t, but—but he can hope, dammit.)

Shitpost
  • Ray: The stars are beautiful tonight...
  • Zack: Ya know what else is beautiful?
  • Ray: *braces herself* ... no...?
  • Zack: The fact that we're both alive right now.
  • Ray: ...
  • Ray: ... how dare you use a meme to tell me that, that's unfair.
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Avengers (2016-) #7 - Mark Waid & Phil Noto

“All I can do is beg for forgiveness for the man I used to be.”

Victor von Doom saying Tony Stark was one of the few men he respected. Meanwhile heroes still don’t respect Tony. This guy has my vote.

Riverdale Dads.
  • Betty: my dad forced my mom to give up my secret brother for adoption.
  • Jughead: my dad is in jail for who knows how long, leaving me in foster care.
  • Veronica: my dad is out of jail and is now coming back to town to continue his illegal businesses and cause more suicides.
  • Josie: my dad is never around and hates me because of the music I play.
  • Archie: my dad was shot in front of my eyes and now his life hangs in the balance.
  • Cheryl: my dad committed suicide after killing my own brother.
  • Kevin: ........ my dad wears khakis... like all the time.
  • me: *trying to write a paper due in nine hours*
  • my brain: hey remember that show Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends
  • me: please don't start this I have work to do
  • my brain, utterly ignoring me: In the show, most of the characters we see were imagined by children who just wanted a friend to play with, but others were imagined by children with ulterior motives in mind, such as the monstrous ones kept chained up in the back or the ones imagined to look like food by children at weight loss camps who were on restricted diets. This has many existentialist implications about the purpose and nature of imaginary friends, as well as prompting questions about their society and culture.
  • me: please stop
  • my brain: How much of an imaginary friend's personality, by the time they are taken to Foster's, is shaped by the child who created them vs the culture in which they existed afterwards? Can an imaginary friend be taken forcibly by authorities and placed in custody of Foster's if they become a distraction to others or a threat to society at large? Can imaginary friends be specifically created for a certain purpose, eg with qualities that would make them suitable for thievery, etc? Can they change their purpose or personality, or are they forever trapped in how they were imagined? What about the nature of the imaginary friends themselves? This has broader implications about the existence and nature of the concept known as the "soul." If we presume that a soul exists, do imaginary friends have a soul? Is their soul wholly unique, or does it come from the human who imagined them, ie does the human impart part of their soul into the imaginary friend? Branching off from that, what is the religious structure like in the world of Foster's? Are there places where imaginary friends are worshiped as deities? Are gods just imaginary friends with supernatural powers?
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kbtbb genderswap! 

@maidofstars @tsundere-eevee @bolt8826 @themysticaldaydreamer @alolan-lillie lolol