#...LET THE POSTERIOR JOKES BEGIN!

[erisenyo]

"could you please come and get me?" I'm BEGGING🙏🙏🙏

For this prompt game! (And also this one!) (Andthis one too lol)

(Can be read as a follow-up to this)

“…and, like, everyone goes through phases!”

Hakoda hastily unfolds from his very undignified stretch at the muffled sound of Sokka’s voice, wincing at the protest of his sore back. Bato keeps saying he’s eventually going to value his posterior chain enough to stop taking red eyes no matter how cheap they are, and one day Hakoda is actually going to listen instead of making jokes about posteriors.

“—and sisters, you know? They never let go of anything no matter how old you all get, and they always take things too far—”

Hakoda glances again around the dim lit, tidy shop as if maybe the angle of the sunlight will have changed, vaguely pleased and surprised that Sokka is here so early as the faint jangle of the admittedly-huge keyring filters through the door.

It’s hours past when they usually open, of course, but judging by the timing of Sokka’s late-night-scarfing-down-dinner phone calls, he’s been working plenty past when they usually close.

“—not in a creepy way or anything, obviously. Just a joke. A bad one!”

Not that Hakoda was really worried. And he was right to now really worry! There’s nothing blown up, no scorch marks or tools missing because Sokka really needed a good shearing weapon for his robot-killing robot, no half-deconstructed engines and piling-up repairs because Sokka is sure he’s figured out a way to get more efficiency out of the whole system.

“—and that one is totally new, anyway. I had no idea it was even there! And so, um. High definition.”

Those this Audi sitting in the middle out of the shop, which is very out of place for Wolf Cove to begin with, let alone in Hakoda’s shop…

“And I mean, you know how sisters are!”

Hakoda does have some questions about that.

That Jesk kid better not be involved, or whatever his name was...

“Or—right?” Sokka’s voice is suddenly clear as he finally finds the right key to unlock the office door. “You—maybe? I mean—you—or—”

“Yeah,” a husky, raspy voice cuts in, faintly amused, and Hakoda pauses in surprise as he realizes Sokka isn’t on the phone. “I have a sister.”

Hakoda glances curiously through the office window as Sokka flicks the lights on, bright light illuminating the office and the break room and the car bays one by one, revealing his son—dressed for work, not starving, not injured, good—and the lean, black-on-black clad boy behind him, and Hakoda feels his eyebrow jump up in surprise.

Ah. He recognizes a pretentiously pre-worn designer leather jacket when he sees one. That would be where the car came from, then.

“And,” Sokka hurries on, darting nervously around the office as he wakes up the computer and sets down his coffee and Hakoda’s other eyebrow slides up to join the first. He can recognize Sokka’s cover-his-ass voice anywhere. “It’s not like I would recognize you out of context anyway without, you know. Or with, or—and so, like, it's not like I was being weird or anything, or like, trying to lock you in the basement or something, or—fuck.” Sokka scrubs his hands over his face before pasting on a bright, game smile and marching toward the car bays. “Yeah, I’m just going to stop talki—Dad!”  

“Sokka,” Hakoda greets him, giving the other boy—not a boy, Sokka hates being called a boy, he reminds himself—a curious look. “And…?”

“Oh,” the boy blinks, freezing a little. “Uh—”

“I didn’t realize you were coming back,” Sokka hops in, hurrying over. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just wanted to grab a few things from the house, see you and Katara a bit,” Hakoda assures him, reaching out to give Sokka’s shoulder a squeeze and offering a smile to the other boy as he trails Sokka after a moment across the shop floor. “Who’s this?”

“How’s Gran Gran?” Sokka asks as the boy hesitates, mouth half-open.

“She’s doing well, things are coming along,” Hakoda says, cocking his head to get a better look at the boy. He’s definitely familiar—not surprising, with those nearly-gold eyes and scar and the kind of cheekbones that Sokka loves to trip over—but Hakoda can’t quite place… “Are you one of Sokka’s college friends?” Shit, Hakoda should know those. He at least knows it isn’t…what was his name, Tamu? It’s definitely not him…

“Ah, no,” the boy says, shifting on his feet and flicking a quick look to Sokka. “Wh—"

“How long are you back for!” Sokka says over top of him, eyes wide with interest and that’s definitely his cover-his-ass voice again…

“Just a few days,” Hakoda says absently. Is it one of Sokka’s high school band buddies? They used to always be hanging around the basement and crowding into the kitchen. “I haven’t seen around town,” he says slowly, the sense that he knows this kid niggling at the edge of his thoughts.

“…No,” the kid agrees after a beat, equally slow.

“Yeah,” Sokka says quickly, voice coming out high. “He’s not from around here!”  

“This is your car?” Hakoda asks, because the kid might not look much like a trombone players but he does look like a speed demon.

“Uh, yeah,” the kid says, glancing at the sleek red lines where Sokka’s set the Audi out with pride of place dead center in the middle of the shop. “Sorry?”

“Sorry?” Hakoda blinks, momentarily distracted from the nagging familiarity of the kid.

“I broke down,” the kid shrugs, apologetic, and Hakoda can only give him a bemused look.

“It’s what we’re here for,” he says. And they’re certainly going to charge him for it, with a car like that—and Hakoda will be making sure he’s charged. He recognizes that look on Sokka’s face…

“Right!” Sokka says, overly bright. “Car repair!”

“A full-service operation,” the kid murmurs, cutting Sokka a sideways look.

“We strive to be,” Hakoda says proudly, giving Sokka his own curious look as his son chokes a little, blushing. Oh yeah. Hakoda is definitely making sure this kid gets charged.

“Car repairs!” Sokka says loudly, clearly powering through…whatever is going on. “We’ve had a lot of those! Want to—” he glances quickly around. “—the books! Want to see them? Or the—I can get you up to speed?” he suggests half-desperately. “On everything?”

Hakoda makes a vaguely affirming noise, listening with half an ear and mostly watching the kid who is in turn watching Sokka, looking faintly bemused by and more than a little curious about Sokka’s immediate, exhaustive, relieved, highly detailed account of the past month.

Maybe he’s a new teacher in one of Sokka’s art classes? He thought they were all old men by Sokka’s description, but this one seems like an artsy type. Though why he’d be here and not back in Republic City…

The kid gives Sokka another sidelong look through his lashes that really isn’t all that subtle to anyone other than Sokka, and ah, that could be a reason.

And he can tell Sokka likes his friend back from the fidgety, half-nervous, half-hyper way he’s shifting his weight and playing with his bracelets and rings and he better be fucking taking those off before work, Hakoda’s not trying to have anyone lose a damn body part inside an engine. At least the earrings are out…

Hakoda thinks, though, that he really would have heard of the kid if he’s following Sokka cross-country to keep him company. But then, maybe that’s why he has the persistent, nagging sense that he’s met or at least seen this kid befo—

“Oh!” Hakoda suddenly exclaims, snapping his fingers as realization hits. “I know you!”

“You—!” Sokka trips a little as the kid startles, giving Hakoda a half-surprised, half-cagey look. “You should really hear about theorderthatPakkutriedto—”

“You’re the boy from the poster over Sokka’s bed!” Hakoda says, triumphant and Sokka cuts off with a high, strangled noise, the kid opening his mouth and nothing coming out.

“The one where’s he’s all shirtless and oiled up?” Hakoda prompts when Sokka doesn’t say anything, pleased to have placed it. “Remember, you got that fancy photo editing program for it? So you could cut him out of the full shot and enlarge the size? And Bato took you to that special print shop in Whale Harbor to get it done out on the special poster paper?”

The kid slowly transfers his stare from Hakoda to Sokka, who is looking more and more like a deer trying to freeze to avoid the notice of an oncoming car.

“You know, for your eighteenth birthday?” Hakoda reminds him, concern fluttering in his chest when Sokka doesn’t immediately latch onto the topic like he always does. “Because you couldn’t find any magazines big enough to see from that far away?” He definitely isn't misremembering, he knows he isn't...right?

The kid slowly closes his mouth, eyebrow inching up higher and higher.

“And you’d filled up all your wall space, so you needed to move to other surfaces? And Katara said you weren’t allowed to put anything up in the shower?” No, he's definitely right. Hakoda had been quietly and intensely relieved by the shower edict enough to be sure.

“I,” Sokka finally says, mouth working, “I, uh.”

“Didn’t you recognize him?” Hakoda frowns, reaching out to feel Sokka’s forehead.

“Yeah, Sokka,” the kid—shit, Hakoda still doesn’t know his name though—says, pointed, “Didn’t you recognize me?”

“I…need to go now,” Sokka announces, suddenly fumbling in his pockets.

“What?” Hakoda blinks, confusion threading alongside his pleasure at finally placing the face.

“What?” the kid half-laughs, startled.

But Sokka just whips out his phone, already marching away, his face crimson and voice echoing off the high ceilings, “Katara? Yeah, I’m—yeah, I’m still in town. Yes, I know that you're on nights, I—yes, I—look, could you please come and get me?” A pause. “No, I—actually, yes. I need to go die now, please. Not here.”

Hakoda stares after Sokka as he finally shuts the office door behind him, bemused, scratching the back of his head and shifting his attention to the kid who looks like he doesn’t know whether to worry or laugh again.

“Well, I’m Hakoda,” he eventually offers, extending his hand and biting the bullet that it’s okay to not know this one’s name, they probably haven't actually met before, “I’m his father.”

“Zuko,” the kid says after a beat, accepting his handshake—strong grip, callouses, no eye contact but that’s okay considering he’s looking after Sokka. “I’m, uh. The guy from the ceiling?”

Hakoda huffs, half-amused and giving him another quick look—and then his hand a slightly harder squeeze. “Grown up a bit, have you?” A lot less oil, too. And a lot more clothes.

Same cheekbones, though.

“Uh—so has he? Since then?” Zuko hazards, glancing toward the office where Sokka is…screaming into a pillow, by the looks of it.

“One could say that," Hakoda says after a beat, thinking of Sokka’s last trip to Whale Harbor and the poster tube he’d come back with happily cradled in his arms. “But maybe not as much as you’d think.”

#Hakoda is so proud of himself #He is going to get a good grade in Dad and in remembering his son's interests and hobbies #A thing that is possible to get and desirable to achieve #Sokka and Zuko are quietly dying and Hakoda is just there like 🙃 #asks and answers #prompt games #fic writing #my writing #Sokka #Zuko #Hakoda #Zukka #Zukka fic #Rockstar Zuko AU

[ohyoufool]

I love supporting journalism but NYT is paywalled and we all need some GOOD NEW QUEER COMICS so posting the full article under the read more!

Original Article

By George Gene Gustines

June 9, 2023

‘The Dog Knight’

Frankie Jude Bryant is a nonbinary middle school student who is dealing with identity, the usual academic challenges and, oh yes, trying to become the Dog Knight, a champion for humans and canines. Despite the presence of magical talking pooches, this journey of heroism and self-discovery feels grounded thanks to captions that get into the head of Frankie, who prefers they/them pronouns. On the first page, they think, “Do you ever feel like you don’t make sense?” Later, Frankie muses about their frenemy Dallas, who misgenders them: “She gets it wrong on purpose just to make a big deal about correcting it.” And when Frankie finds their tribe, “For the first time in a long time, I look in the mirror and I don’t feel a pain in the pit of my stomach.” Written by Jeremy Whitley, drawn by Bre Indigo and colored by Melissa Capriglione.

‘Marry Me a Little: A Graphic Memoir’

The cartoonist Rob Kirby chronicles his 2013 march down the aisle in Minnesota with his longtime partner, John Capecci. The story highlights where gay marriage stood at the time (each state was making its own rules before same-sex unions became the law of the land in 2015) and looks back at Jack Baker and Michael McConnell, who somehow were able to obtain a marriage license in Minneapolis in 1971. The personal recollections are powerful and honest: Rob remembers when he first casually used the word “husband,” which felt like “a small but genuine political act.” He also acknowledges the white, middle-class privilege that allowed him ambivalence about getting married. His ultimate conclusion: “Marriage does not define a relationship. Unless you want it to.”

‘Gatsby’

The messages of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “The Great Gatsby” — about social status, love and chasing dreams — are revisited in the present with a racially and sexually diverse set of characters in their 20s. Gatsby is a Black tech millionaire looking for a love who got away, and Lu Zhao, the stand-in for Nick Carraway, is visiting from Singapore and summering on Long Island (where a $5,000-plus afternoon shopping spree highlights the casual wealth). The main characters are refreshingly blasé about their sexuality: Lu’s girlfriend, Alexis, asks, “How do you identify?” But Lu’s answer does not really matter as Alexis says, “I love being on this journey with you. I’m here for you no matter what.” Written by Jeremy Holt, drawn by Felipe Cunha and colored by Dearbhla Kelly. 

‘Hex Americana’

The cartoonist Bree Wolf spins a tale about auto racing, teen romance, monsters and ghosts. Flesh-and-blood Ken forms an unlikely alliance with Dante, who died in a previous race and haunts his car as a ghost. A successful partnership will allow Ken to compete in the annual Grand Prix and help Dante move on to the afterlife. The more than 300-page story packs in a lot of character growth, action, flashbacks and drama. The relationship between Ken and Karen, his mother, is particularly nuanced. Karen is supportive of her son, who is gay, but she struggles with how to correct her overbearing friend James when he makes thoughtless jokes about Ken. (Iron Circus Comics. Aug. 30.)

‘Death Drop: Drag Assassin’

The Gayborhood, as it is called in this five-part series, has seen better days. Thugs feel empowered to assault young gay men, and a drag queen named Lunaira has gone missing from the club Posterior Delusions. Residents have little faith in the local police. Enter Death Drop, a former hit man and current drag queen, who is pushed by Mother Henny, the hostess of the club, to find Lunaira. “She’s a queen of color who has been missing for more than two days,” Mother Henny says. “You do the math.” It helps that Death Drop and Mother Henny used to date. Let the investigation begin. Written by David Hazan and drawn and colored by Alex Moore. (Scout Comics. June 14.)

‘Turtle Bread’

Kim-Joy, a British baker and cookbook writer, teams up with the artist Alti Firmansyah for this story about Yan, who is struggling with low self-esteem and social anxiety. When Yan finds a local baking club, she is plagued by doubts about whether she will fit in or be liked, but she soon learns that everyone struggles in different ways. Yan eventually becomes confident enough to rally the club members to seek out and support one of their fellow bakers who needs it. Yan would qualify as an ally, but there are characters with significant roles in the story who are gay and lesbian. And there are recipes, including one that gives this story its title. (Comixology Originals. Available now.)

Original article

#check please fans DIS ONES FOR YOU!!! #BUT ALSO QUEER LIT AS A WHOLE!!! #omgcp #queer literature #pride month #pride literature #book rec #comic rec #queer comics #omg check please #heartstopper #nyt #be gay do crime #pride #lgbtq+ #heartstopper comic #I speak

[plaindangan]

You'll NEVER GUESS why I'm sending it, it goes with a few other maki related asks I sent but basicaly. maki and kirumi dont understand everyone's sudden obsession with twerking, they have the biggest (along with a certain other artiste) fattest ass in the class but they cant understand why its hot... Up until a certain dark skin (possibly eldritch sex goddess in disguise) angie comes with a LITTERAL golden boombox and makes them listen to "Good music" for the very first time, changing their life~ (can be a simple stuff, or being a progressive corruption each time angie turning it louder and louder, into pure overkill)

Disclaimer: R18 material! If not to your liking then please do not read!

"So you wish to know more about the wonders of shaking what your Mama gave ya, hmm?~ Well, you're in luck! Atua has gifted to me a wonderful device that can show allow you to know such pleasure!" Angie said, happily showing off a golden boombox. Kirumi and Maki...were not so impressed.

"Are you joking with us? Pretty sure the only thing that will show us is how outdated you are with the times." Maki snarked and Kirumi gave a nod.

"Indeed, I also fail to see how a boombox can better help us with understanding why people go crazy over others shaking their...posteriors." Angie let out a 'tsk, tsk'.

"Relaaaax...all will be revealed~" Angie said before turning it on to about 20% volume. The music blaring out was at a moderate level and both could easily identify as some form of rap...albeit one that was constantly emphasizing 'bitches' to 'drop it low and shake their asses'. Neither truly impressed lyrics wise...but the beat was strangely...hypnotic. Gradually, they started to nod their heads.

"Okay, so the beat of this is pretty decent...but I fail to see how trash rap is going to 'show us' anything." Maki said. With a sly grin on her face, Angie turned the volume up a notch. Volume 40%

The music was slightly louder now, but surely that wasn't enough...to...huh? By now, both women found themselves on their feet, their hips shaking gradually in tune with the rhythm. A...pleasant feeling spreading throughout their bodies, especially their hips.

"Starting to get it now?~ Hmm...but I suppose another notch will truly show you~" 60% now and as they adjusted to the new volume, to Maki's surprise, Kirumi had stuck our her backside, her heavy dumptruck bouncing in tune with the song they've been hearing.

"I-I've believe I can see the appeal to this~" Kirumi mused, and she wouldn't be alone, as Maki found herself squatting low just like her and shaking her backside as well. Though, with how low her skirt was, anyone could see her white panties sticking out from underneath.

"You are beginning to get there my dearest friends, but I assure you we aren't done yet~" 80% By now, the music could be heard from outside of Angie's workshop and anyone within earshot would be naturally drawn to the music to check it out.

But do the two twerking women care? Nope! In fact, their next actions would spit in the face of caring. Kirumi had ripped away her long skirt, proudly showing off her cheeks cladded in purple lingerie. As for Maki it was no issue to drop her skirt and tie her shirt to show off even more skin. She put her hair down!!

"Fuck yeah, turn that music up, Angie!!" Maki said, uncharacteristically feeling in a great mood from a 'trash rap' song. What neither woman was realizing was that their bubble butt's were already heavily increasing in size to the point that their underwear was ripping, trying in vain to hold out.

"Are you suuuuuure?~ Well, who am I to deny people having a fun time~" And with that, Angie turned the dial all the way to 100%

To outsiders, they could probably hear that boombox halfway across campus and back, but would gradually be lured in by that hypnotic beat towards Angie's workshop. Once there, they would see an astounding sight. Both Kirumi and Maki had stripped off even their shirts, leaving both in just their bra's as they were twerking their life out, both having the the time of their lives. Their underwear gave out and ripped away - leaving only giant buns that would wobble, shake, clap and even bump into the other every so often.

It was a sight to behold and enjoy...though not without a price. With a basket, Angie was going around collecting yen from the newcomers. She wasn't going to charge her friends for a good time, no way!

...But those who were new to the scene? They were fair game~

#DRyonaga-R18 #DRharukawa-R18 #DRtojo-R18 #coweade asks

[hviidjoyner27]

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[thefanbasewhore]

Oh Baby, Baby

Summary || Reader wants a baby, Bucky thinks becoming the winter soldier destroyed any chance for that.

Warning/content || kinda sad in the beginning but HAPPY ENDING, small Drabble, crying etc. Slight breeding kink?, Suggestive, implied smut

Paring || Bucky Barnes x reader

A small smile twitches at the corners of pink, full lips. Stretching the chin of his cheeks, dimples appear under the fullness of coarse thick hair as he hears slow, sluggish foot steps decend the stairs.

There's already a mug of steaming, hot coffee poured on the opposite side of the counter. He smiles as she enters the kitchen, sweater paws curling around the cup to take a sip. Bucky continues chopping an onion, no doubt for the breakfast he has planned, the smell of bacon filling the kitchen.

"Good morning, doll."

She nears the counter, hip to hip as she lifts from her toes to press a kiss against his cheek. "Good morning Lover."

Placing her coffee back to its original spot, she begins to crack the eggs already set out and ready to go, adding some seasonings and cheese before signing. It catches Buck's attention, raising one eye brow to peer up at her. "Is something wrong honey?"

"I want a baby." The words cause the former soldier to freeze, visibly stiffening as his mouth drops ajar. He's stunned, completely frozen under the mercy of her words as the knife falls from his grasp and the counter.

"W-What?" The words are spread out, unsure as steel blue eyes search for meaning in her own, for the lie or joke, but there isn't one.

"I want a baby, Bucky."

The metal appendage of his pointer finger accompanies whirling and clicking of plates as it presses into the red henley, into the muscular swells of his chest. "With me?"

"Well typically wives do have babies with their husbands." The words silence him again rather quickly and it makes her blood cold. He's still frozen in one spot, the bacon in the pan continues to sizzle as he gulps rather loudly. His uncomfortable stance, sad eyes say it all. "You don't want to have a baby with me Bucky?"

"I'm a former assassin, was brain washed for 80 years, not to mention I'm 106 years old. Why would I?"

The words sting, a little harsher then intended but she gets it, bites her bottom lip and refuses to meet his gaze.

Bucky notices the change in body cues, shoulders dropping, lip quivering despite how hard she tries to hold it in. "Honey, I'm sorry, I didnt mean to -."

"No, no, it's fine." She denies as she turns towards the bedroom and dismisses Bucky's touches and words. "I understand, I'm going to go take a shower."

Despite the thick cloud of smoke from hot water and the high pressure through the facet, Bucky sighs hearing the still audible sobs, thanks to super hearing.

***

She doesn't expect him to be sitting on the bed as the thick, hot clouds follow behind her so she chooses to ignore him, walk past without a word. It was still too fresh, she didn't want to talk about it, ruin the chances of Bucky being happy.

This is what he wanted, to be retired, just the two of them on a 100 acre farm, no Hydra, no superhero stuff and of course now coming up on their one year anniversary of being married.

"Why are you ignoring me?" She curls her towel closer as his arms reach out to clasp around her wrists, pulling her between his legs, pressing his weight back into the bed. "Don't be like this."

"I'm not being anyway, just forget about it, I don't want to talk about it." She answers with a huff, despite her words shifts the weight of her hip into his lap. Fingers play with the short brunette's hair, curling the hair at the nape of his neck, trying to calm his pounding heart.

"well I do." He answers, "you're upset."

"Forget about it, Bucky." She presses a sad kiss against his jaw, "It doesn't matter."

"I didn't mean to say it like I did." Bucky explains, lips finding hers with soft pressed apologies, pressing their foreheads together. "It came out wrong, was just caught off guard, sweetheart. The last thing I wanted was to make you cry. I just never thought about it. In the 40's yes, I wanted that but now... I'm just starting to find myself."

"I know, I don't want you to feel bad about it. I understand Buck." Smaller, gentle fingers cup his face, slipping under his jaw until steel blue eyes meet her own. "I shouldn't have even said anything, it's not fair to you. I don't know what I was thinking."

"Stop that." He mumbles against her temple and nuzzles the tip of his nose into her hair, pressing a small kiss there. "It's not unfair, it's normal. I can't blame you for wanting to be normal. I'm anything but, I just don't understand why."

"Why what?"

"Why you would want someone like me. Trust me around our baby, I'm a brainwashed, one hundred year old man."

"Was." She corrected, "was a brainwashed, one hundred year old man, it's been years Buck. It didn't work when Zemo tried or anyone else."

Bucky pauses, eyes fluttering as if he's thinking, guilty eyes not meeting her own. He's filled to the brim with it, it's fiery and pumping throughout his body, warming to the core. She should have these things, a normal husband, not one that wakes up from nightmares every night. He should have been able to drop to his knees and taken her right on the kitchen floor the moment she asked for a baby but he's filled with hear. Absolutely guilt-smashed, tipsy with blurring vision as small tears burn his waterline.

"What if someone comes for me? Hurts it? Or even worse one day he comes back." The emphasis on he makes is heart breaking . The winter soldier still lurking deep inside of him, he can never be one hundred percent cured. The dark memories and nightmares make sure.

"Don't cry Buck, please don't cry. It's okay, it's okay, we don't need to have a baby." Hands cup his cheeks so delicately, like he's a porcelain doll, one of her favorite judging by how her eyes shine. Pressing soft kisses of reinsurance against his jugular, forehead and corners of his lips. "All I need is you."

"You should have normal things. I'm your husband, I should be able to give you this if anything." He argues, sliding her hips closer for she straddles his thighs. Big, strong arms wrap around her body, rest on the posterior surface of her hips. "I want you to have everything. You should have everything, you're so good to me."

"Hey, it's okay. I have you." The tip of his nose leaves a burning trail across the skin of her collarbone and up until he can lay a kiss behind her ear.

"But you got me thinking now...Imagining coming home with you all big bellied, filled with my baby." A gasp falling from her lips as he pushes his hips up into her, the thick line of his erection heavy against her inner thigh. "And I agree, this farm is way too big for the two of us."

"Don't do this just because -."

He silences her with a deep, meaningful kiss, whispering against her lips. "I need to stop letting my old life hold me back. I've always wanted kids, I've always wanted a family." He pauses with another deep press of his lips. "I can't let my fear hold me back. There's nothing I want more then to have a baby with you."

A loud squeal fills the room as Bucky stands up, making sure her arms and legs are wrapped securely around his neck and waist. He nibbles at her skin and ear with a playful laugh, hands falling to cup the round swells of her ass. Her back hits the bed with a 'ooof' and Bucky is pulling the towel away with one swift movement. "Cmere, time to work on making you a mommy."

#bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fluff #bucky barnes #bucky x you #tony x bucky #bucky imagine #steve x bucky #bucky x reader

[dykesforcyclops]

allijay + 5?

5. where it doesn't hurt

the television plays reruns of some mindless game show that jaylen seems uncannily engaged in. she has refused to lie back, insists on sitting cross-legged on the couch with the popcorn bowl in her lap, her back straight, her shoulder relaxed as allie gently holds the wrapped ice pack against it.

they picked this couch together, he recalls. the chill is beginning to cut through the kitchen towel, numb his fingers, and he carefully rearranges the towel's folds to give himself a less frigid grip. jaylen had thrown herself onto the iklea display, declared this one, and he could never say no when she got that grin - patted the soft orange cushions to call him to her, arms outstretched. he'd let her pull him down, kiss him messily on the display sofa in front of half a dozen customers. she'd let him pull her back up to her feet before an employee caught them.

he draped a blanket over it when she broke things off again and moved back in with mike. dark brown and loosely lace-knit from thick, soft yarn, to let just a bit of the color cut through, but not too much. the orange had been grating on him.

his fingers are frozen again.

"cold," jaylen mumbles. she shifts uncomfortably. she's stripped down to nothing but her sports bra and tight boxer shorts, said she was overheating an hour ago. "cold. cold. allie -"

"oh, is this cold?" there's a hint of a grin spreading across his face. he pulls the towel away, presses the bare ice pack to her collar.

"fuck!" she tenses up comically, springs inward, her face scrunched like she's bit into a lemon, but she's laughing. "hey!"

"sorry, is that cold?" he moves the ice pack to his other hand and shoves his frozen hand into her face, his fingers pressing divots into her cheek, her nose. she shrieks, and pushes him away as best she can with her good arm.

"fuck you!" she gets out through laughter. he's chuckling too. he takes the ice pack back, and gently rubs the flushed red skin at her collar with his hand - not the cold one - to bring some warmth back. "you're the worst," jaylen tells him. "i'm injured."

"whose fault is that?" he says, because he knows if he told her once he must've told her a thousand times not to work herself to hard, not to push herself until she found a limit and then push harder past it - told her a hundred times that a breaking point is a stopping point, and not a fucking challenge.

"fuck off," she answers. even that line of teasing is a little too close to a lecture for her tastes.

he presses a warm kiss to her collar, an apology, and reaches for the knit blanket - pulls it up from the back of the couch and wraps it around her. "there," he murmurs, all playful cruelty gone, all tenderness now. "better?"

"little bit."

"you have to keep the ice on it," he reminds her. "your doctor said."

"i know," she says, and he can tell how badly she wants to complain. he picks the ice pack up from where he'd discarded it on the cushions, goes to work carefully rewrapping it in the kitchen towel.

"you know what it's called?" she asks.

"labral tear," he recites without thinking, though as her tone sinks in he can tell she's setting up a joke.

"a slap tear."

"'cause it'll happen if you slap too many people?" he guesses.

"no, i'm serious." her grin spreads through her voice. "superior labrum anterior to posterior. that's actually what it's called. slap," she finishes, and pops the p, and punctuates the word by smacking the afflicted shoulder.

she regrets the bit immediately, and groans in pain, and falls backwards into the couch cushions. allie is stunned for a moment, and then bursts out laughing - can't help himself - shocked sputtering laughter, and he gets out through it, "why the fuck would you do that?"

"i don't know," she groans, eyes squeezed shut tight. "oww," and it's so pathetic, and so predictable, moronically self inflicted, and even as the obligatory concern for her settles in his chest he can't help the laughter, the adoration on his face.

he pulls the blanket shut around her, and gently places the bundled ice pack against her injured shoulder again, and with his other hand he cups her cheek, leans over her, kisses her as she lies there. "you are so fucking stupid," he mumbles, still half laughing, against her lips.

send me a ship and a number and i'll write a short fic

#this is so dumb and my heart is so warm for them #blaseball #allijay #allison abbott #jaylen hotdogfingers #injury cw

[anianimol]

Wounded | Tetsuro Kuroo

Kuroo x Fem!Reader

Fluff/Imagine

Summary: You notice Kuroo nursing an injury at practice, finally confronting him about it as you both come to terms with your feelings. 

“Alright, let’s pack it up for today” Coach Nekomata’s voice echoed through the gym as the sound of rubber squeaking against the floor faded away.

As you wheeled the volleyball bin back into the storage area, you looked up to see Kuroo a few paces ahead of you, only resisting the urge to call out to him as you noticed something was off. He was—limping? Blinking, you wondered if it was just your eyes playing tricks on you; you had been Nekoma’s manager for about three months now and had never heard of him nursing an injury, much less showing any signs of physical weakness on the court.

Scrunching your eyebrows in concern, you decided you would confront him about it on your ay out; it probably wasn’t a good idea to bring it up in front of the other guys, especially since there was going to be a big practice match against Fukurodani the coming weekend. 

Swallowing your nerves, you called out to the captain as he headed out of the locker room, bag and towel in tow. “Hey, Kuroo” you yelled out, his head spinning towards you, a grin spreading slowly across his features. 

“There’s my favorite new manager,” he chuckled as you rolled your eyes while he jogged over. 

“What’s up? Need help with something?” he inquired, taking in your serious expression. 

“Actually, I was thinking you might,” you said, pointing down at his left leg. “Ahhh,” he smiled sheepishly, hand scratching the back of his head; “ It’s no biggie, just feeling a little tight after practice, that’s all.”

You frowned, concerned that he was trying to hide his pain from you. “If it’s not a big deal, then you won’t mind if I take a look at it, right?” you questioned, hands on your hips as you furrowed your brow at him. 

“ You know what, I can just ice it when I get home Y/N, don’t worry,” he rushed, attempting to make his escape. Oh no you don’t you thought, stomping after him, grabbing him by the back of his jersey as he yelped, failing at his final attempts to convince you that he was in perfect condition while you dragged him into the empty nurse’s office. 

Throwing him down on a cot while you discarded your schoolbag on a nearby table, he began to grumble like a five-year-old as he watched you wash your hands. 

“Y/N, are you trying to seduce me? You know you could have just asked” he drawled with that husky voice of his, the smirk sliding off his face as quickly as it had appeared when he heard you scoff with disgust. “Stop trying to distract me you big baby, you’re not flirting your way out of this one.” 

Seeing the sour look on his face, you added softly, “Kuroo just let me take care of you for two seconds, goddamnit, I know what I’m doing.” 

You began examining his calf, not noticing the warm color making its way across his cheeks as he turned away, embarrassed that your words affected him so easily. 

The more he got to know about you, the more he seemed like; he felt like he was slipping through quicksand, becoming more interested with each interaction. He had begun to take notice of you during his second year after being forced to stay after school for a month to pull his grades up. 

During his afterschool sessions in the library, he had seen you there multiple times, spending time reading or helping friends with homework, approving club paperwork, or maybe just eating lunch. At first, he had convinced himself that he was only attracted to you because you had seemed to pay him no mind, but after a few weeks of actually looking forward to his afterschool work, he figured it would be better to admit it to himself that he was beginning to develop feelings for a girl he had never met. He couldn’t really pinpoint exactly what it was that drew you to him; all he knew was that he wanted to spend much more time with you, watching those animated expressions cross your face as you told a story or watch as your nose scrunched up and your lips pouted while focusing on work. 

After Taketora had bugged him for days on end to talk about the mystery girl he was infatuated with, he finally caved, prompting their idea to hatch a plan to make you the new manager. 

So there you were, feeling up his leg to determine the source of his pain; totally not awkward at all. Looking up suddenly, your stare was met with the intense gaze of Kuroo, pupils focused on your face as you worked. Feeling your ears blazing, you cleared your throat as you started; “ Ok, so I think you pulled what’s called your tibialis posterior, a muscle in the middle of the back of your calf.” 

He whistled. “ Damn, Y/N, a tibia-what?” 

You laughed; “ I’ve been looking into physical therapy techniques to help the team, so I’m pretty sure this isn’t super serious. But I would still like to try out some massage therapy and stretching to prevent something worse from developing.” you added sternly, glancing back at Kuroo. 

“Alright Dr.L/N, I surrender. You sure you know what you’re doing though?” He poked you, earning a well-deserved smack. “Just shut up and stretch out your leg” you groaned at him, squeezing out some lotion to prevent friction as you eased the tension from his leg. 

-

“ I’m going to need you to relax,” you begged a restless Kuroo, as he squirmed under your grip. “For god’s sake, can you STOP MOVING FOR TWO SECONDS!!!” you barked, pinning his leg down. “ I can’t help it!” he yelled back, gritting his teeth. 

Wait a second. “ Oh my god. Kuroo. You’re ticklish.” you choked out, making your best effort to stifle your giggle. He pouted at you, his ears visibly hot pink as he pulled away. You laughed, sighing as you grabbed his leg once again; “I’ll try my best not to tickle you, ok? Just stay still for three more minutes and I’ll buy you ice cream on the way out.” 

You rolled your eyes as he immediately went completely still as you began working out the muscles in his lower leg. As you focused, you noticed the ridiculous amount of muscle this man had on his body; with practically not an ounce of fat on his body, you figured he could probably lift you like a feather. ‘Not that you’d mind’ you thought to yourself, imagining those long fingers wrapping around your body, calloused fingers brushing your cheek—

A groan of pleasure woke you from your daydreams, and looking over at the captain, you realized his eyes had closed, his expression serene. Smiling softly, you admired the way his spiky hair fell across his forehead, some pieces sticking to droplets of swea—Jesus, get a grip Y/N you groaned silently to yourself; you could not fawn over Kuroo Tetsurō. No. He was the captain, that was totally inappropriate, especially because he probably only saw you as a friend, nothing more. He had plenty on his mind, especially with the fall tournament quickly approaching. 

“Y/N” 

You jumped, startled by his sudden utterance. “All done?” he asked, propping himself up on his elbows. “Yup” you squeaked out, rushing frantically to get up and clean off your hands. 

“Hey, Y/N, you ok?” he questioned, making note of your flustered expression as he sat up. Practically tripping over your bag, you headed, face first, towards the floor until hands came up around your shoulders, steadying you. 

“Woah there, slow down,” he murmured, looking up at you worriedly as he felt your warmth spread through his fingers, shooting up his arms as his body reacted to your touch. 

“Umm,” you gulped, meeting his glance with wide eyes, finally giving in to the temptation to peek at his lips, observing quietly how his cupid bow gently accentuated those plush lips. Realizing a bit too late that you had been staring (quite obviously) for way too long, your glance shot up to meet his as you froze in place. 

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, the rising and falling of his chest quickening as he looked into your eyes. Without a word, he leaned forward, pressing you to him, as his lips gently grazed yours, your fingers finding their way across his broad shoulders and reaching the base of his neck. 

Pulling away slowly after a few minutes, your forehead rested against his you caught your breath, grinning with rosy cheeks as you gazed at one another.  

“ Well if my leg didn’t feel better earlier, it definitely does now” he joked, softly stroking the side of your face as he pulled you into his arms.

#underratedhq #haikyuuwritersnet #kuroo tetsurou #haikyuu!! #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu hc #kuroo #fanfic #kuroo scenarios #nekoma #anime #hq anime #hq kuroo #hq imagines

[ddaenqu]

Brazen

pairings: yandere student!taehyung x student!reader

themes: High School AU, School AU, Angst, Mature, Friends With Benefits AU

tags: possessive behavior, obsessive behavior, protective behavior, unhealthy behavior/relationship, toxic behavior/relationship, threatening, two-faced taehyung, bullying, cliché bullying, harassment, mentions of underage sex, implications of underage sex, friends with benefits, fuck buddies, unrequited love, one-sided love, sexual implications, derogatory names, heavy cussing, horrible attempt at comedy :(

a/n: my first draft: superhero taehyung. second draft: actually no i want idol taehyung. third draft: wait but dragon taehyung??? fourth draft: wtf am i even writing anymore.... kind of got this AU from @jooniescupcakes :(( since she was studying for a bunch of exams

(for anyone who doesn’t know what V8 is, it’s a tomato drink)

based on the prompts: “Don’t make me hurt you.” and “Red is the perfect colour on your skin.”

disclaimer: i don’t encourage underage sex, this is only fan-fiction. it’s not my right to tell you what you can’t or can do, i’m only advising you to be safe when making any choice. thank you, and please enjoy! :)

— ♡

You should be here by now, he thinks, the thought ticking against his mind with irrationality spilling at the tip of his tongue, seconds away from running around the campus to find you.

The teacher is busy at the teacher lounge, some classmates joking and conversing around the room, occupying the desks as seats. But you’re not here. You aren’t in the room with him, as you usually are, either sitting by your two close friends that you have, both who Taehyung thinks are nice and manageable with convincing, or finishing up your work for other classes.

Being that it was break, and he had the same class as you next period, he only found it an opportunity to talk to you—not that you didn’t talk to him—it was his only way to talk to you without having to be fucking you in the bathroom stall. And even then, you rarely talked to him, merely uttering a few words of encouragement.

It was odd, your schedule had always been the same, he had memorized it from having to constantly check what classes you were going to pass or go to, and for him to intercept with a reasonable excuse he planned beforehand. Your simple nod or easy acceptance had made his heart jitter, his head reeling lightheaded, all the while keeping his careless façade. Even if the thoughts in his head are any less vile—and having to do with you, standing in front of him.

Taehyung slumped in his chair slightly, taking out his phone and wishing—hoping that one day you’d give him your number. You had to at some point. You had to have some respect for him. Couldn’t you?

Didn’t he deserve it?

He taps on the contacts app and immediately regrets it, he cringes to having to relish the memories of each name saved. One with the girl he had met at a party hosted by one of his friends, another he had met at a library, and the list continued on.

But you weren’t on there.

He’ll have to block and delete most of his contacts, to remove issues in yours and his relationship in the future, if you ever happened to see his endless contact list.

He frowned after thinking about it once more. You weren’t one to check anything of his, and he had been getting his hopes up to an impossible scenario. He moved away from his contact list, his eyes glancing toward the door to the classroom—still no sign of you.

Time is ticking, your break will be over within a few minutes, and you’re still not here. If he had to guess, you were probably with someone else, some bastard of a guy who thinks with his dick than his actual brain.

It wasn’t a secret to him or the whole school that you were sleeping around with others. And he had expected that since the beginning of this relationship, he has to force himself to let it be until he figures how to get closer to you.

The names like “slut” and “prostitute” were passed around when it came to you. When you walked into a room, he was sure you could feel everyone looking at you as if you were a zoo animal. The looks were demeaning, not subtle in the least, their eyes screaming a thousand words they have yet to said.

Although, you never really cared—or showed it. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you once look hurt or remotely scared. At one point he had thought you were inhuman from the overwhelming amount of indifference you showed when guys asked what your hourly pay was, what your future was looking to be, or when girls acted like you were a pest.

His worrying got the best of him, an annoyed feeling tugging at his heart, soon fixing himself to look around the campus for you, something he knew you would hate. You weren’t very hard to find, after all, you stuck out like a sore thumb. As he was about to get up from his chair, the chatter in the small class died down, not enough for silence to overlap, but enough that it was off. Whispering, instead, had filled in the tiny gaps.

Taehyung’s head snaps up from whatever he’s looking at, he’s clearly forgotten now once he sees you at the doorway holding a rag to your face. His nerves spike, his heart doing flips now. The simple things about you giving him joy once again, relief flooding that joy.

He quickly regains that natural smile of his—only for it to drop when looks at you again. All the fine details in your change of clothing, the red stains splotched around your clothes.

You trudge towards your seat, a scowl present on your face as you run the dirty rag through a few strands of brittle hair, an awkward stench wafting in the room. Like iron and grass mixed together, it wasn’t pleasant, but neither was it gross.

He watches you pull your seat out and sit, your body is stiff, from the way your shoulders perk up and how your legs move into a perfect angle under your desk, he notices all of it. Every fine line on your face when you scowl or pull your lips out, or the way your hand curls into a fist when you try to run your hand through some tangled strands.

Taehyung wants to ask what’s wrong. He wants to know who did this, make them beg for forgiveness. He wants to hold you and protect you, making sure you’re in no harms way. He wants to do so much, but he doesn’t—he can’t. You only know him when he’s horny, or when he’s an asshole, or when he’s cheating on a test in class.

His mouth is tight, forcing a huge smirk on his face as he makes his way over to you, a little surprised that you’re not surrounded by your friends already, he then notices they haven’t been in the class the whole time and your belongings weren’t with you or in the class either.

“Someone have too much fun with arts and crafts?” he forces a comment out, pulling up a chair beside your desk. “Or is it a new style?”

You shoot him a glare. “Shut up. I’ll beat your annoying ass right in front of everyone.”

You wipe under your neck where some of the juice had spilled to and begun to dry.

“I’m honestly so close to doing so,” you threaten, but the threaten doesn’t quite make it to your tone. Too preoccupied with cleaning up any red on you that you see. “You can thank your fan club of one-night stands for making me look like this,” you growl.

The red-white splashed rag in your hand went to wipe down around your shoes and ankles.

“Now it looks like I fucking murdered someone and decided the blood was a fashion choice,” you look down at your shoes and a bigger grimace grows on your face, “My shoes are all red—fucking fuck.”

Your hands grip tightly around the rag, squeezing some of the unknown red fluid back onto you as you try to rub at your temples with the other hand.

He watches with interest. A moment like this was rare, he knew you had a bit of a temper through past experiences, yet it was usually managed in some way. It seemed like you were close to punching someone with the way your eyes indefinitely narrowed. And you were talking to him. Willingly.

Of course, his chest swelled with anger, his foot tapping consistently against the floor. He was going to deal with his little “fan club”, as you put it, not that there was a specific group that was targeting you. It was more like they were taking turns, but he didn’t care. If he has to go through every person here—he will. Fuck his reputation at this point, as long as you still talked to him, he didn’t mind.

“Is it paint? Doesn’t smell like it.” He fakes a disgusted face that you reply with a huff.

“Tomato juice.”

He hums. His posterior is calm and aloof, slightly degrading with that awful smirk on his face, ogling your oblivious self. However, thousands of thoughts and scenarios are playing in his mind, mixed feelings bordering on raw rage and wanting to kiss you—if wanting to kiss you was an emotion.

“Well, you know,” he begins. “red is a perfect colour on your skin.”

You look at him with an unamused look, partially disgusted he even had the audacity to make a joke like that when you’re this close to snapping his neck in half.

His boxy-like smile appears. “No seriously, you should wear red more,” he reassures, partly teasing you, but also hoping his comment would stick with you and inspire a change in wardrobe. You always stuck to casual, too comfy, and non-impressive clothing. Not that he didn’t mind, but it doesn’t do much for his fantasies.

“Whatever, just tell your group of whores to fuck off.” You look up at him and your eyes finally meet.

Although, yours are a void, and his aren’t.

I was already planning to, he thinks. But his lips purse into a pout anyway, his elbow on your desk while his hand was poised to hold his head up.

“Why don’t I just tell them we’re dating,” he suggests, a tinge of hope rising inside of him. “It’ll get them off your back for a while.”

He could already see your reply with the disgusted expression on your face, your lips twisting into an ugly grimace as if the word “dating” had put a curse on you.

“Don’t make me hurt you. The fact that you even suggested that is astounding, honestly.”

He laughs it off. You think so lowly of him.

“Fine then.” He relents, he won't push that aspect of your fragile relationship that far, he will wait. “What’s my reward?”

“Me not going to jail for choking out seven Brittneys’ you dicked down,” you reply almost instantly. “Just tell them we aren’t dating or some shit. Can’t even take a shit without V8 getting poured on me now.” You huffed.

He doesn’t reply, a blank look with a weary-like longing pooled in his eyes. He could see you roll your eyes, your teeth lightly gritting.

“Get them off my back,” you start, “and you can get a quickie. Or my foot up your ass, your choice.”

A light breath leaves his mouth, he’s partly disappointed, maybe more than partly—but it was better than nothing—better than not having you. Besides, it’s not like you weren’t ever opposed to more. He knows what buttons to press to get what he wants during your desperate moments. If only you were like that all the time.

Yes—this was fine, he tries to lighten his suddenly sour mood.

He immediately brightens or portrays more happiness that should be exhibited, only to get you back on your good side, whatever your “good side” was like.

Taehyung opens his mouth to speak but stops when he sees you getting out of your seat. He frowns, the period was going to start, where could you possibly be going? Even if you hated school, and half—or more than half of the schools' population hated you, your attendance was excellent and your studies were well-kept, where could you possibly be heading off to now when you look like Carrie at prom from the movie Carrie.

“Where are you going?” he asks, he tries to mask the concern on his face.

“To get clean clothes,” you state curtly and get up, however, you were going to achieve it. You walk away silently, a tail of snickering following behind.

You don’t take your time to reiterate your threat if he doesn’t clear up the misunderstanding, and quite frankly, he doesn’t think you believe in him that he’ll ever do it. You’ve always been one to handle things on your own, always have been good at being independent.

— ♡

(hope you enjoyed! feedback is much appreciated! 🧸❤️)

#bts #bts jhope #bts jimin #bts jin #bts jungkook #bts rm #bts suga #bts fanfic #bts fic #bts au #bts au fanfic #bts aus #bts v #bts kim taehyung #bts taehyung #kim taehyung #taehyung #yandere kim taehyung #yandere taehyung #kim taehyung x reader #kim taehyung x you #taehyung x you #taehyung x reader #fwb!au #yandere au #yandere #bts yandere #yandere bts #kpop yandere #yandere kpop

[you-guys--are-losers]

Spideychelle Week: Day Three!

//I’m not going to pretend that I didn’t squeal when I saw this prompt on @spideychelleweek‘s list. As many of you know, I am a HUGE Harry Potter fan, and I am notorious for combining weird things with Hogwarts AUs (See: The Chaser I Seek, whose next chapter I have yet to write XD). 

So, here goes: this is based on some AUs by @severus-snape-is-a-butt-trumpet. They’re both brilliant, so let me post them! 

The first is: “you know, i was joking when i suggested you jump into the lake and see if there really is a giant squid, and i’m still not sure why you needed to take your clothes off to do this” 

The second is: “you’re muggle born, and you insist on wearing your muggle clothes on the weekends, and i just cannot get over the way you look in those jeans, like, god help me”

Enjoy! 

Summary: Michelle Jones spends her days after class beneath the beech tree on the grounds, and she has since her first year at Hogwarts. So, when Peter Parker and Ned Leeds begin to join her when they are Sixth Years, MJ is naturally protective... And a few of her quips land her in a load of trouble.  

Characters: Michelle Jones x Peter Parker, Ned Leeds

Word Count: 2,581

Warnings: Humor, dorky British accents, jeans, partial undressing, and a quick dip in the lake

There is one thing that MJ would like to make one thing perfectly, perfectly clear

The beech tree on the grounds is her spot, and it has been as long as anyone can remember

Ever since the first year, the place to find MJ in her free time is sprawled out beneath the Therefore, the sight of MJ, dressed in her green and silver house robes and stretched out in the grass, has become as common a sight over the years as the hourglasses in the Great Hall, the ghosts drifting about the castle, and Peeves lurking in the dark corners to cause trouble

For the first five years of her education, this staple of MJ’s life remains unthreatened

She has to put up with people and robes during the day, sure, but as soon as the classes are let out she can summon her clothing, dart down to the lake, and enjoy her alone time, rain or shine

Sixth Year, though, everything MJ knows is threatened

It’s Sixth Year that proves to be the most difficult of MJ’s education, and therefore it’s Sixth Year that she has to put up with the most stress

Between the all-nighters, the group projects, and the mountains of homework, it is this year that she needs the tree more than ever, if only to look forward to the sprawling naps in the grass

But it is this year that the first real threat to her territory is posed

Because it is this year that Ned Leeds and Peter Parker make a move on her turf

At first, she thinks it’s just going to be a one-time thing

The Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, respectively, sort of show up one day a few minutes after she has settled

They don’t infringe upon her space, not exactly, but they do both have the audacity to greet her with polite smiles, forcing her to send a cordial nod their way

And then they do the unthinkable

They sit down on the other side of the tree

At first, MJ has no idea how to react

For one thing, she isn’t exactly sure how she feels about them, specifically Parker

He and Leeds have competed with her for top of class for ages, but there’s something about him that just makes her notice what he does

He’s sweet, and dedicated, and he’s impossibly determined, which has always made him a threat

More than that, though, he has deep, dark eyes that speak to a soulful nature and curly hair, which makes him exactly her type

For another thing-- Well

See first thing

She could ask them to leave, but then that would make her seem unreasonable

And there’s nothing unreasonable about wanting peace and quiet beneath the ancient plant that she has all but claimed for herself, despite having not even been conceived when it was planted

So, instead, MJ elects to completely ignore them, endure the discomfort for a day, and then enjoy the peace and quiet doubly tomorrow

And it’s not so unbearable, really

The best friends sit on the other side of the tree, talking quietly and using their wands to skip rock unnaturally far across the Black Lake

Still, when they leave shortly before she does, MJ can’t help but look forward to the peace and quiet tomorrow

When she arrives the next day, however, the Slytherin makes a discovery that only makes her more desperate

Because not only are the boys here again

But they are wearing their Muggle clothing

It’s not that MJ has anything against Muggles, of course

She may be a Slytherin, but her father was a Muggle before he left her mother, and she finds the idea of a simpler world a bit appealing when her brain gets too loud

But the thing about Peter Parker’s Muggle clothing is that he likes to wear jeans

Now MJ is all for people wearing whatever makes them comfortable

But

When Peter Parker wears those jeans?

Well, let’s just say it’s rather hard not to look

For a while, MJ manages to successfully ignore the boys

She makes it that day, then the next, then the next, until it is almost six days into a week

Their conversations are actually rather interesting, and a few times their talk about homework assignments give her ideas that earn MJ extra points

But still, they’re distracting, and still, they’re intruding on her quiet

And still, Peter Parker’s posterior refuses to quit

It’s on the sixth day into the week that MJ can’t take it anymore

As they are debating whether or not the giant squid really exists, they’re sending the stones flying with loud splashes, larger and larger, and the droplets are getting on her parchment even from a few feet away

It’s when a particularly large droplet lands on the parchment, smearing her ink that she loses it

MJ drops the parchment, pulls herself to her feet, and storms up to the boys who are leaning against the trunk

Both of them stare at her for a moment, then Ned offers a nod

“Hey, MJ. What’s up?”

“Look,” MJ says exasperatedly

“I know you guys are new to this spot or whatever, and I know you’re not trying to be obnoxious. But respectfully, if you’re gonna keep throwing stuff while you talk about the squid, please either take a long walk off a short pier to find out, or do it somewhere else.”

For a moment the pair are silent, but then the unthinkable happens

Peter Parker offers her a sheepish grin

“Sorry,” he says, running a hand through his hair

“We didn’t realize we were bugging you. We figured you wouldn’t mind a little company.”

“Especially since you’ve sat here alone for, like, ever,” Ned points out

Okay, that shouldn’t sting, but it does

Still, MJ just raises an eyebrow, keeping her face unimpressed

Peter, however, shoots Ned a look, and for some reason that little act of compassion both mortifies her and sends her heart racing

And then, to make it worse, Parker attempts to distract from his friend’s blunder in a way that causes MJ’s brain to stop functioning entirely for a moment

“Point taken, though. I mean, the best way to figure it out is to check ourselves, right?”

And then, Peter Parker is standing, and he grips the back of his shirt and jerks it over his head before MJ can even finish saying “What-”

After he pulls it off, though, MJ isn’t saying much of anything

Because, as her eyes fall upon the muscular, sculpted abs and pecs that Peter Parker apparently hides under his shirt, she realizes that they are, truly, the most magical sight she has ever seen

Panic shoots through her, and MJ jerks her gaze away from them, anywhere but Parker’s chest

Consequently, she finds herself staring into Peter’s dark brown eyes with shock in her own irises

“Wh- Uh, what the hell are you doing?” she manages to force out as she stares at him

“Checking for the squid,” Peter says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, shooting her a goofy grin

It’s sweet and it’s playful and it’s gentle, and for a moment MJ could almost forget that this kind deflection of her embarrassment is being initiated by the same kid who looks like he was chiseled from marble

“Ned, you gonna come in?”

From beside Peter, Ned goes, “Uh, I don’t think-”

Peter shoots him a look, though, and Ned lets out a sigh

“Okay! Okay, fine, whatever.”

It’s Ned’s turn to take off his robes, revealing a pair of khaki shorts and a nerdy t-shirt beneath, clearly a gift from Parker

Peter turns to the lake, and then Ned does, too, but by now MJ is coherent enough to be able to protest

“As admirable as the commitment is, neither of you is dumb enough to think that I meant it literally,” she points out, running a hand through her curly hair

After all, it’s the lake

It’s cold and it’s dark and it’s deep, and the edges close to the shore are filled with algae and a liberal amount of plants

No one in their right mind would go in there

But Peter Parker seems determined to prove to her that he is not, in fact, in possession of a functioning brain

So he turns to her, offers her a grin, and says, “What? You wouldn’t say something you didn’t mean, Jones. We’re just taking your advice.”

And with that, he begins walking down the short dock that leads onto the lake, meant to be used the few times a year the Gameskeeper has to tend to the creatures of the lake or harvest some of the algae

“Parker, you can’t just-”

Before she can finish, though, the stupidly sweet asshole has turned his back to her, and MJ is forced to stare at his well-developed lats and glutes before he takes a flying leap off of the dock, followed by a splash

Ned walks down the pier, then, too, rather more dejected than his best friend

“Leeds, you don’t have to-”

Ned turns, and as he looks at her, he offers her a grin that’s somewhere between sheepish and apologetic

“Yeah, yeah, I do.”

And then, though he doesn’t jump with the same enthusiasm, Ned steps off the pier and lands in the water with a splash

By then, Parker has surfaced, and MJ’s eyes find him immediately

The sight of Peter with his messy curls plastered to his face and a grin transforming his features, even as he shivers, is a strange one

At first, MJ isn’t sure whether she should feel even more embarrassed, but as he opens his eyes and fixes her with a stare, she finds that all thoughts of being uncomfortable fly out of her mind

“Yep, I’m pretty sure I saw it down there!” Peter informs her, and the absurdity of it all gets to her then

This is doubled by the way that Ned’s hair drips down over his eyes when he bursts through the surface

Before she knows it, a grin is twisting MJ’s lips and spreading across her face, and there’s a strange warmth growing in her stomach

“You guys,” MJ informs them, shaking her head, “are losers.”

“Informed losers, now that we know there’s a squid under there,” Ned corrects her, a smile sliding onto his face through the shivers

“But I don’t know,” Peter muses, mischief entering his eyes as he looks at her, “we might need a professional second opinion.”

When MJ realizes what he’s implying, the grin slides off her face and her eyes widen

“No way,” she informs him, shaking her head vehemently, “are you getting me in there. People are staring!”

And it’s true, they are

Flash Thompson and the rest of his group of Ravenclaws are sniggering across the grounds, and a group of girls walking past burst into laughter at the sight of the two dweebs in the water

One blonde in particular looks extremely amused, and Ned’s eyes light with eagerness when he spots her

“Hey, Betty!” he greets, raising a dripping hand

The girls laugh with renewed fervor as he cheekily questions, “Want a hug?”

The Hufflepuff shakes her head, sending her shoulder-length blonde hair swinging as she hums, “Dry off, then we’ll talk.”

MJ gives Peter a pointed look as the girls walk away, and he looks up at her innocently

“What? It’s just a little audience. And it’s not like you’re scared… Are you?”

The dare isn’t threatening, it’s teasing, and Peter’s eyes dance as he poses the question

“Come on, Jones,” Ned prompts, “the water’s nice!”

To illustrate his point, Ned sends a few droplets up on the wind with a splash, and when they fall to her cheeks they’re like little shards of ice

MJ can’t believe, as she stands there, the way her week has gone

She started it content to be stretched out in the grass by herself, willing the stress away for hours at a time with the sun warming her skin

But now?

The stress that she’s been feeling, somehow, melts away in the face of the absurd proposition of these two idiots

And, in the pit of her stomach, she can’t stop the growing warmth that is blossoming there as they both look up at her earnestly

So, rather than giving them a firm, “Hell, no,” and returning to her daydreaming, MJ raises an eyebrow in response to their challenge

“Please,” she replies, “the only thing I’m scared of is being associated with you two losers. But no one would possibly believe that someone on my level of cool would hang with you, so I think I’m safe.”

In response to her deadpan teasing, the other two grin, watching with anticipation to see if she’ll follow through

Before MJ can think about what a bad idea this is, she steps up to the dock, and, in one fluid motion, tugs her robes over her head

Immediately, the air teases goosebumps up on her arms

Beneath her robes, she only ever wears a camisole and leggings, so her shoulders, neck, collarbone, and a good portion of her sternum are bared to the wind

MJ takes the opportunity to gather her curly mess of hair into a lumpy ponytail, trying not to notice the way that Parker’s eyes widen and his cheeks flush in a way that contradicts his shivers

When she has finished, MJ slips off her shoes and socks and turns to them, warning, “Watch out, dorks.”

And with that, she takes one running step, then another, and then she is jumping off the dock and free falling for half a second in the air

She hits the water with a boom, and immediately her whole body locks from the cold

The sound of the splash thunders through her ears underwater, and a million freezing little bubbles rise to the surface as she sinks into the dark water, liquid that might as well be ice against her skin

The breath is forced from her lungs by the freezing water, and for just a moment, MJ is too cold even to think

After a few seconds, however, her body begins to rise to the surface, and after an instant of rising her head pierces through the water into the open air

For a moment, MJ is too cold to even open her eyes

Her feet find the gross, slimy bottom of the lake underfoot, and a few tendrils of freshwater plants caress her thighs in a way that makes her squirm

But, after a moment, she finds footing, and then she opens her eyes

And the sight she finds staring back at her takes away a little bit of the chill

Because both of the soaking wet nerds are beaming at her, and there is awe in their eyes as they look at her

MJ’s teeth begin to chatter, and for a moment, Peter appears remorseful

He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, MJ is already speaking

“You two are such drama queens. This feels like a freaking hot tub”

For a moment, there is quiet

Then, the two burst into laughter, and now everyone is looking

But, as MJ joins in the laughing after a moment’s hesitation, she finds that no matter how hard she tries, she can’t seem to bring herself to care.

#spideychelleweek2k19 #spideychelle week #peter parker #michelle jones #spideychelle #hogwarts au #spideychelle hogwarts au #peter #peter x mj #mj x peter #Michelle x Peter #peter parker headcanon #peter parker fic #peter parker fanfiction #michelle #peter x michelle #michelle jones fic #peter parker x michelle jones #michelle jones x peter parker #one-shot #headcanons #michelle jones headcanon #spideychelle hc #peter parker hc #spiderman:homecoming hc #hc rec #michelle jones hc #spidey #spideychelle fic rec #spideychelle oneshots

[reid-fiction]

Birth Plans and Baby Kicks

In which you and Spencer go to a birthing class.

A/N: You all have @reid-effect to thank for this. No, seriously, go and thank her. She basically thought this plot up and I just took it and ran with it and now I’m emotional because there’s never enough dad!Spencer in the world. (Also, thanks to the 5-hour long birthing class I watched on Youtube last night and skimmed for random facts to include.)

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“Now, does anyone know the three stages of childbirth?”

The rest of the room was silent, but Spencer’s hand went up immediately. You could feel your cheeks burning a bit, not because you weren’t proud of him for knowing the answer, but because he had known the answer to every single question the instructor had asked for the last two hours. It was a small class - only four couples in total - but you could almost see the other dads rolling their eyes every time Spencer spoke up.

“Stage 1 would be labor, which is divided into three stages in and of itself: early labor, active labor and transitional labor. Early labor is when the cervix dilates from 1-4 cm, active labor is between 5-7 cm and then transitional labor is the final 8-10 cm. Early labor is the slowest and transitional is the fastest. Stage 2 is pushing the baby out through the birth canal, and Stage 3 is the delivery of the placenta after birth.”

He had said all this in what sounded like only one breath and, even though you were very aware that your husband was already a wealth of knowledge on pretty much every subject, even you couldn’t help but drop your mouth open a bit in impressive shock. A quick glance up to the instructor and you could tell she was experiencing the same thing.

She swallowed, nodding slowly, and then shot Spencer a quick smile. 

“Yes, that’s all absolutely correct and actually beyond even what I was asking. Very well explained, Spencer. I should have had you teach this class, and I could have stayed home!”

The instructor laughed at her own joke, but the rest of the room didn’t seem as impressed. 

“Alright, the next question would be: When is a good time to head to the hospital once you’re in labor?”

Spencer’s hand went up again, and all you could do was throw a small, apologetic smile to the other couples in the room. It wasn’t your fault that Spencer knew all the answers and the others didn’t, but you wanted everyone to have a fair chance.

“The 5-1-1 rule,” Spencer explained. “Contractions are five minutes apart, 1 minute in length, and have been consistently like that for an hour.”

“Right again!” The instructor smiled, shaking her head in disbelief. “Okay, we’re going to move on to practicing some breathing techniques, so I’m going to turn the lights down and get some music going. Dads, grab one of the exercise balls and a blanket from the corner, and moms are going to get themselves in whatever comfortable position they want.”

You waited patiently for Spencer to bring back the items, and then carefully draped the top half of your body over the ball. Your belly was so big now that no position was particularly ‘comfortable’, but you did your best.

“Now dads, get behind your partners and I want you to place your hands on either side of her hips. Moms, focus on breathing in and out with my voice, and dads do a gentle massage to relive the pressure on her pelvis.”

You felt Spencer kneel down behind you and both hands go on your hips. Even though you weren’t actually in labor, the gentle pressing of his fingers into your skin felt heavenly. The baby had been resting on your bladder for what felt like the last month, and any relief was welcome relief. 

“Is this okay?” Spencer whispered, leaning up so you could hear him.

“Mmm, feels really good. My back has been killing me the last few days.”

“You know, if the baby happens to be in a posterior position - meaning the back of their head is against your back - that’s where you’ll feel all the contractions. Typically, the baby is laying anterior, so you would feel the contractions more to the front.”

You nodded, hearing what he was saying, but far too focused on how good his massage was feeling to really take it in. What you did hear, however, was the dad next to you talking to his wife.

“If he’s a doctor, why is he even taking this class? He clearly already knows everything.”

The dad had meant to say it low enough so only his wife would hear, but both you and Spencer were within range. You suddenly felt a strong sense of protectiveness over your husband; you didn’t like how the others seemed annoyed with how much he knew. Spencer, however, shrugged it off and glanced over at them, politely.

“Oh, I’m actually not a medical doctor,” he said. “I just read a lot. I have delivered a baby in the field before, when I was still working my old job. But, it’s mostly just head knowledge, not hands-on experience.”

Just like most other people who met Spencer for the first time, the dad didn’t seem to know how to respond. Instead, he gave a muffled, “Mmm”, and went back to massaging his wife. 

Over the years, you had tried to learn how to not let moments like that bother you - they certainly didn’t bother Spencer - but the pregnancy hormones were currently wreaking havoc on your emotions and, today, you were bothered. 

It occupied your thoughts the entire time you were supposed to be practicing your breathing, and it was apparent to Spencer that your mind was elsewhere.

“Remember your cleansing breath, (Y/N),” he reminded you, gently. “After you finish breathing through the contraction, you need to take a deep one.”

You nodded, doing what he said very halfheartedly. The class continued on like this with the instructor going over the different types of birth plans, the process of an epidural, when a c-section was necessary, and the side effects of medication. By the time she dismissed the group, you were a ball of nerves. It was all you could do not to burst out crying until you and Spencer got back to the car. 

“I’m starving,” Spencer announced as he fastened his seat belt. “Do you want to go someplace or order takeout?”

“Doesn’t matter,” you mumbled. “Whichever you want.”

Spencer glanced over at you, frowning a bit at how solemn you sounded. But, he had been fully aware for the last 8 months that your moods would be up and down. If you wanted to talk about it, you would, but he wasn’t going to push you. You were probably just hungry and tired and needed to rest for a bit once you got home.

Ultimately, Spencer decided on takeout from your favorite burger place. He had thought about Chinese, but you had been having issues with heartburn the last few times you had gone there and the last thing he wanted was to make you more miserable. 

As soon as you got home, Spencer went to work getting the food set out on the table while you went to change into more comfortable clothes. After about 10 minutes, when you hadn’t emerged from the bedroom, Spencer started to wonder what was going on. He walked over to the door and knocked softly.

“(Y/N), I’ve got everything ready. Do you want to eat now?”

When he didn’t receive any response, he knocked again - a little bit louder - and pushed door open a crack.

“(Y/N)?”

When he had looked into the room just enough to spot you sitting on the edge of the bed, still fully clothed in what you had been wearing before, he opened the door wider and stepped inside. It took him less than a second to realize that you were silently sobbing and he immediately dropped to his knees in front of you.

“Sweetheart, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“I can’t do this!” you blubbered.

“Can’t do what?”

“I can’t have a baby!”

Spencer, equally confused and concerned, reached up to push your hair out of your face and swipe away the tears on your cheeks.

“What do you mean, you can’t have a baby? Of course you can! You’re even more capable now than you were this morning after that class. You know everything you need to know short of actually doing it for yourself, why would you think you can’t do it?”

“You heard all of what she said,” you wailed, waving your hand aimlessly as if that would help your explanation be clearer. “The birth plans and the epidurals and the side-effects. What if I plan something and it all goes wrong? What if the epidural wears off? What if the baby is prot-posturen-...”

“Posterior?” Spencer prompted.

“Yeah, that thing,” you sniffed. “What if the baby is backwards and I can’t push them out! I can’t remember all those breathing techniques and how to lay and count! And I HATE needles, but I don’t want to go natural either because I hate pain! Spencer, I can’t have a baby! I’m not strong enough to do it, and I’m just going to do it all WRONG!”

Spencer could feel his heart breaking right along with yours the longer he listened to you pour your fears out to him. He had known from the beginning that you were nervous, but it was always something you had worked through together. He had no idea that you had been holding all of this in - even just since the class - and all he wanted to do was help you.

“And then, what about after the baby is born?” you continued. “I don’t know how to take care of a baby! How am I supposed to know if they’re crying because they’re hungry, or wet, or just unhappy? I’ve read about PPD; what if I end up with that and can’t be a good mom to my baby because I’m too depressed! What if you leave me because you don’t want to put up with me anymore?”

That was where Spencer drew the line. He was more than happy to let you tell him everything you were worried about, but there was no way he was going to let you think - even for a split second - that he would ever leave you.

“Hey, look at me,” he said, softly but sternly. “I don’t want you to ever, ever worry about that. I love you, and I love our baby more than anything. My job is to be here to help you through everything, from the moment that baby started growing in your stomach until the moment we send them off to college. I’m not going to run off on you just because you’re having a hard time. You’re going to be tired and you’re going to be cranky sometimes, but that comes with being a parent.”

He moved his hands down so they rested on your swollen belly and smiled. 

“Do you have any idea how amazing your body is? It knows, instinctively, how to push the baby out. It’s going to expand and contract and work in ways that even amaze me, as someone who has read dozens of books on this.”

It seemed as though the baby could sense that their dad was close by, because you started to feel a tiny little foot pressing out against his hand. Spencer smiled, rubbing his thumb over the area he could feel the baby moving.

“You are going to be an incredible mom,” he continued, leaning down to press a soft kiss on your belly. “And I’m going to be there with you at the hospital throughout the entire thing. Whatever you need, I’ll do. I’m there to help you remember when to breathe and how to count, and to distract you from the needles and the pain, and to massage your back when it starts to ache, and to encourage you and tell you how unbelievably proud I am of what you’re doing.”

He placed a few more kisses on your belly as the baby continued to flutter inside of you, and then slowly pushed himself up so he was looking at you face-to-face.

“And, I’m going to be there the moment our baby comes into the world - whether it’s forwards, backwards, upside down or they have to get them out another way - and it’s going to be the greatest moment of my entire life because that baby is ours. Every time I look at them, I’m going to be reminded of you and how much I love you.” 

You were still crying, but now it was less out of frustration and fear and more out of an unreal sense of awe that you had managed to end up with, arguably, the greatest guy in existence. Spencer wasn’t perfect of course but, in this moment, he was everything you never knew you needed.

You weren’t sure what to say, nor that you would even be able to form words, so you did the next best thing by leaning in closer and pressing your lips to his. He kissed you back, eagerly, keeping one hand on your belly and the other up around the back of your head as the baby continued to kick in your womb.

“Someone’s very active tonight,” Spencer chuckled, pulling back and glancing down at your belly. “Maybe we’re not giving them enough love?”

“I remember when feeling a baby kick used to freak you out,” you smirked. “Back when JJ was pregnant. How do you feel about it now?”

Spencer paused, pursing his lips and smiling.

“I think it’s the greatest thing in the world.”

You felt fresh tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you laced your fingers through his hair, watching him place kiss after kiss on your belly. 

“Yeah,” you mused, “you’re not the only one.”

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Tag List:

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[brownstonearmy]

2020-06-07: The Butt Of A Joke, Part 1

July 30 (Thursday morning)

As the party assesses their service requests for the day, Constable Silas Blackheart walks in with a request of his own for the hard workers at SHART HQ. Vandals stole the butt from the statue depicting the town's founder a few days ago, only for it to suddenly reappear in its usual position in the Brownstone Park grotto. Now the statue loudly excretes real turds whenever anyone approaches.

Silas suspects that some of the students at Wentenbocker are behind the theft and potential enchantment of the statue's posterior, but lacks the jurisdiction to launch a formal investigation there. He pleads with the party to investigate on his behalf, since this is a sanitation anomaly and SHART is specifically given the authority to solve such things. The party takes the case and sets out for Brownstone Park to assess the situation.

Brownstone park is located about 3 blocks southwest of SHART HQ, so it's an easy walk. The grotto with the founder's statue is the most prominent feature in this small park, though now it is accompanied by the pungent odor of Some Business (tm). As the party approaches, the statue loudly pinches another loaf, which plops onto a growing pile behind the statue.

While Spleenifer collects a tithe from the statue for holy reasons, Q (going by Disco today) notices a visible seam at the statue's hips and another just below the statue's ribcage. The butt of the statue is almost imperceptibly floating between the torso and legs without touching either part. Lucky makes note of the gender neutral depiction of the Brownstone statue and is curious about why no historian seems to be able to remember what the founder looked like. How common face blindness is among dwarves, anyway?

Spleenifer's proficiency with myriad tithes allows her to pinpoint the Founder Feces as originating from something from an omnivorous non-humanoid, specifically something that feasts on rotten things. Yep, something's suspicious here, and a trip to Wentenbocker is in order.

Once inside the academy's walls, the party meets with the headmaster, Cavander Olisanth. Master Olisanth mentions that he knows of some students who might participate in pranks that might result in colon concoctions, but he cannot simply compel all the students to present themselves for an investigation. Master Olisanth needs names in order to do that, but he gives the party wide berth to conduct their own investigations. He gives them permission to search the aviary, the herbarium, the dorms, and any other accessible commons areas. If the party has questions and can't find the headmaster, he directs them to seek out one of the senior students, an elf named Ariatha Nelson.

The aviary is the first location our party of heroes investigates. They climb a winding staircase to see a woman tending several hutches of ravens. Lucky realizes that ravens are omnivorous carrion feeders, and non-humanoid to boot, so maybe these birds have something to do with the statue? The woman turns around and is startled by the party's sudden appearance. Disco and Lucky both recognize the woman as one of the spellcasters Brynnan employed to send the party to the plane of Mechanus.

The woman's name is Todd (short for Tatyana), and she is considerably less hostile this time around. When asked about the newly-empowered statue, the only name Todd mentions as potentially being behind it is Rooney, the tattooed wizard that also helped Brynnan toss the party through the portal to Mechanus. Rooney isn't here right now, but Todd happens to have a key to her room. That key, and the keys to a lot of other rooms. Just don't ask how she got the key, or the nature of Todd and Rooney's relationship.

Rooney and Brynnan were pretty close, even after Brynnan's expulsion. Lately, though, Rooney's been spending all of her free time reading or going off-campus to... somewhere. The party notices something unusual about the book selection in Rooney's sparsely furnished quarters: the only books that appear to have gotten recent use are not arcane in nature. The books contain discussions about the histories of esoteric gods, the founding of Brownstone, and conspiracies about a powerful artifact hidden in a statue.

Todd is happy to escort the party around the academy for their investigations, and shows them the student's common room. A large and comfortable-looking sofa rests along one wall, while another door bears a large warning sign. "WARNING! Extradimensional space!" it says. "Bags of holding and other extradimensional spaces will explode beyond this point."

Naturally, this is a place the party wants to investigate. Disco opens up the door and sees another dorm room, but the combination of a bed with no sheets on it and some cross-stitch tapestries on the wall indicate to Disco that this might have been Brynnan's old room from before he was expelled. Grabbing a nearby chair, Disco slides the chair into the extradimensional dorm room to see what happens. When the only thing that occurs is a chair being moved into another room, Disco deems it safe to enter.

They perform an impressive display of stealth to skulk around the room and ascertain that no one else is in this room. But after entering, Disco feels as though they are being watched. They cast detect magic and see a faint aura of magic coming from something in the desk, as well as feeling something with an air of divination magic coming from somewhere behind Disco. Inside the desk is a small magical portrait depicting an animated dancer going through a series of impressive dance moves (100GP).

Disco pockets the portrait and leaves the room, concluding that there is nothing else of value in the area. But as soon as they cross the threshold, funky music blasts through the commons area and a group of dancers materialize in front of the party. The power of dance looks like it's going to be the only way out of this situation; let the dance-off begin!

An MC announces the rules that both teams will abide by and the dance moves start flying like Cirque du Soleil. For those of you playing along at home, the rules we're using for the dance-off will be posted shortly. Here's the rundown of who's on the opposing team:

Blue-skinned dragonborn in mercenary garb

Fedora-wearing gnome with a trenchcoat

Brown haired elf in flowing clothing with a ribbon tied to her rapier

Working-class laborer with a painted face and a leather apron

The gnome goes first in initiative order, and pantomimes an stylish investigation with an imaginary magnifying glass. Disco, whose name is incredibly appropriate today, responds in kind with dropping ass. Spleenifer, who is a lady of holy words, is unfamiliar with the concept of dropping ass, because it's not something that is often taught in warrior nun school.

Lucky conjures up some backup dancers with arcana, triggering a wild magic surge that causes a really heckin' cool vortex of air and makes Lucky's crew look super epic. It's so epic that it results in the gnome being the first dancer to get eliminated.

The dragonborn tries to ride that donkey with Animal Handling, but the donkey proves to be too stubborn to hit Lucky. Spleenifer uses her Athletics prowess to lawnmower the dragonborn. Since lawnmowers that aren't livestock-based don't really exist in the world of Dungeons and Dragons, the concept of lawnmowing is more abstractly interpreted as placing one's face on the floor with one's buttocks in the air and charging forward. Such a move proves to be both unexpected and successful.

Disco fan dances dragonborn into elimination with their sleight of hand, and Lucky uses her deception to moonwalk all over the ribbon-dancing elf. Spleenifer uses her persuasion to convince the opposing elf to go ballroom dancing with her, and then causes the elf to lose her composure with a few well-placed poop rhymes.

The laborer strikes back at Spleenifer with an intimidating Haka to eliminate her. But just because she's been eliminated doesn't mean she can't help out. Spleenifer chooses to help Disco as a backup dancer to give them a small bonus. Disco then uses their persuasion to convince the laborer to join a line dance, but the laborer jumps in on the wrong beat.

When it gets to Lucky's next turn, she starts off headbanging. However after a couple head bangs, she uses sleight of hand to secretly throw a handful of glitter to create a distraction. When it clears, she is performing a more classical dance. Several more times, she throws out glitter bombs and changes her dance style. It's too much for the last remaining dancer to take.

With the last dancer defeated, most of the magic fades from the portrait and the losing dancers get sucked back into the portrait. The adventure concludes for the evening, so stay tuned next time for more!

#adventure log #shits and giggles #dungeons and dragons #fishdavidson #dance-off #statue

[watching-movies-alone]

Mrs. Doubtfire (1993)

Before I commence ripping this thing to shreds, let's look at the good parts: touching concept, Robin Williams, good message at the end, Robin Williams.

Now, to set the fucking dumpster on fire.

Marketed as a touching story about a man, recently divorced from his wife with almost no custody (every Saturday visitation) of his children, striving to get to see them any way possible... in the form of transforming himself in to the 60-something year old Mrs. Doubtfire, their housemaid/nanny from England to better raise his children and gain custody after the judge sees that he has acquired a stable job, and a habitable home for the children.

Premise? Cute.

Execution? Ex-fucking--cruciating.

As character Daniel (Robin Williams) struggles to keep up his double-persona, there are many amusing incidents as he has to hastily switch costumes, leading to a series of cringe-inducing jokes at the expense of gender nonconforming people. As his switch routine involves applying a false face (courtesy of his makeup artist brother), wig, a whole bodysuit to simulate curves, breasts, and a false posterior, and hosiery to cover up his admittedly hairy legs, there are many an occasion where things may go wrong (which they do).

There is a solid forty-five minutes of the film that can begin to redeem it. Beyond the crude jokes, innuendos that often fall flat, and the comedic element of a man dressing as a woman to get closer to his kids (the character even remarks to himself that it was borderline obsessive), there is a very good message about divorce and its impact on children. As much as I would like to have been able to walk away with the message that divorce is sometimes for the best, and never because of the children losing the love of their parents, it was hard to concentrate on with the overlay of two hours and five minutes of discomfort with the images of the children's reactions to seeing their nanny was actually their dad.

If I could only pry out the last few hours. A spoon to the eyeballs would suffice. Or perhaps a toothbrush armed with a light bleach compound could gently caress the fissure dividing the halves of my brain to scrub this headache away.

Horrified to see that their nanny pees while standing up, and the genitals she has, the son (the name escapes me and I don't want to waste my search history on this movie further) goes running to his sister, screaming that the nanny was a:

 "Lydia! We gotta call the cops! We gotta dial 911 now!

Lydie: Why?

Chris: [stammering] Mrs. Doubtfire! He's a she! She's a he! He's a she-she.

Lydie: What?

Chris: He's half-man, half-woman.

Lydie: [screams] WHAT?"

They then proceed to arm themselves with a tennis racket and get into a defensive position.

Yeah, you read that.

Look, I adore Robin Williams. His performance here, as usual, was stellar.

Maybe it's just because I hear shit like this a lot from people to my friends, to others I know and love, that I get so uncomfortable with it.

This could've been handled better, but c'est la vie. Et la vie est shit.

Half slightly amusing, half dreadful in the sense that I dread to linger on much longer.

Really wouldn't watch it again. Once is more than enough. The message about divorce was good, however it was much overwhelmed by the constant beating of the dead horse that was "oh look, she's actually a man! This is funny, let's overdo the joke".

Proverbial horse? Dead.

Beaten to shit.

Shot at the race.

My ability to finish this on a positive note? Dead.

The person that ghosted me? Surprisingly not!

Alright here you go, fuckers:

Cinematography: 20

Screenwriting: 65 (underlying message)

Delivery: 80 (Robin Williams only)

Overall: 55%,  D - -

ONLY not an "F" because of Williams. Fuck this.

Oh, and!

Christopher fucking Columbus.

Fuck you.

#christopher columbus #mrs doubtfire #robin williams #movies #movie reviews #movie critique #movie ratings #movie #cinematography #cinema #trans representation #drag ? character #wtf is this movie

[taylorthebiscut]

" Okay, Azuna do it just how mama taught you" mom says smiling and crouching over me as I begin to levitate my father's hat from his head towards myself, revealing his male pattern baldness.

"Hey!" My father exclaims.

Mother lets out a boisterous laugh."Perfection, you'll make a marvelous sidekick for me one-day Azu" she says and then high fives me.

"On the contrary, I feel like OUR daughter's talents will have a better stage at MY hero agency" my father interjects while re-adjusting his hat.

Mom and dad both have very different quirks and have managed to make a name for themselves as individuals and as partners. One of Japan's most notorious hero couple. However, their distinct different talents and quirks have generated a very healthy competition between the two of them. Mom has her own hero agency in which she specializes in mind related quirks and my father's agency specializes in the art of deception and sorcery. He is also the theater teacher at Ketsubutsu Academy High School, a hero school. He claims that all heroes must have an act and he uses his skills to develop their roles in our hero society. One day I will have to make the decision to enroll in one of their agencies. Or I can always make a path for myself and attend a different pro hero's agency. I shake the idea out of my head. No, that's ludicrous if there is one thing the two of my parents have taught me it's that family is everything.

"Azu" my dad calls, interrupting me from my deep thoughts.

"Are you okay baby?, Is something on your mind?" My dad kneels down bringing himself to my small stature.

I shake my head "No father, I just-I don't know what I'd do without the both of you" I said staring into his brown eyes.

He rests his hand on my head " I swear you and this big brain of yours, do you ever stop thinking? Like for 1 second," he growls and rattles my head in his hands causing me to let out a laugh.

"She gets it from her mom," my mother says with a big grin. 

"Pft well that's obvious " my dad jokes rolling his eyes.

"Azu, please enlighten your mother and show her the excellent trick I taught you".

"Go on, exit stage left Hatsumi" my father continues lightly shoving my mom out the way to give me some room.

My father has a knack for these kinds of things. He loves to read and study up on other people's quirks. With that information, he learns their strengths, weaknesses and can even develop new creative ways for other heroes to utilize their quirk. My father helped me develop this trick, using my mind I can make illusions, I can make people see things that aren't there. However, this skill I acquired is only best for one to one battles. Considering that I can only use this strategy on one person at a time.

"Dupli-mir" I commanded.

Focusing on my opponent I can duplicate myself, four times, thirty times, even a hundredfold! I give the illusion of multiple duplicates of myself all around the living room. This trick can be utilized to make my opponent believe they are surrounded. My duplicates can fight however, to others watching it will just appear like my opponent is fighting air. My duplicates can't detain my opponent or actually cause them any critical harm and this relationship goes vice versa. It's just a trick I can use to "keep them on their toes" as my father likes to say or possibly buy myself some time by distracting the villain.

"Hmm, well color me impressed" my mother comments.

My father gasps mockingly "You see that Hatsumi, now explain to me how I taught her a new trick that you can't even do with your own quirk. Ha! I guess you can't teach an old dog new tricks" my father shrugs.

"I would appreciate a round of applause right about now" he continues.

"Well played, Sako" my mother says clapping and then levitates my father in the air.

"Hatsumi! You put me down this instant! I will get you back for this" my father threatens.

The two of them use their quirks like this all the time when teasing or doing pranks on one another. My mom, however, is better at executing these pranks in my opinion. One time for the entire day she teased my dad by making everything he wanted to use float in mid-air before he used it. They claim playful actions like this around the house while using their quirks makes for good practice and makes life a bit more amusing.

" I don't know if you can take it, know you wanna see me nakey nakey naked". Yep, that is my mother's ringtone.

She answers the phone while she still has my father floating and struggling in the air. So far she is only listening to the person on the other end of the call, not responding to whoever is speaking to her.

"We'll be right there"she says before hanging up on the unidentified caller. 

She abruptly stops using her quirk on my dad. Leading him to have a pretty rough landing.

"OWWWW" He exclaims. 

"No time for that, we have to go" my mother responds. 

"But my butt hurts" my dad whines, then rubbing posterior with his hands.

" NOW!". The tone of my mother's voices indicated to my father that this was serious

and it likely pertained to their work. He dusted himself off immediately and came to me and my mother's side.

"We're going to drop you off by grandma and grandpa, okay Azu" my mother mentions.

I nodded. "We'll come back and get you as soon as we are done with work" my dad adds. 

"I'll take her, I'll be faster. You hold them off and restrain as many of them as you can in the meantime" my mother instructs.

"You got it, boss". My dad kneels to my size and whispers to me in a tone that is still audible for mom to hear. "I think your mom is obsessed with telling me what to do". I laugh and my mother smiles. My dad rises and gives both me and my mother kisses on the forehead.

" I love both of you, PLUS ULTRA!" he yells before flying out the door and rushing to the scene.

My mother hurried the two of us to my grandparent's house. On the way, I hear cries for help and the loud sounds of collapsing buildings. I tremble in fear and lean closer to my mom. 

"Everything will be fine Azu". 

We arrive at my grandparent's home. After all the chaos we heard on the way here my mother wasted no time to fly to the scene.

My grandparents had the television on the news. The scenery was devastating massive buildings destroyed. I see the camera pan to both my dad and Ectoplasm! They are both destroying those thugs!

I also see Sir Nighteye, helping some of the victims escape. "Yeah kick their sorry butts dad!" I cheered at the TV, standing on grandma's couch.

"Darling, don't you want to watch something else? Your favorite movie is on, The Devil Wears Prada" she smiles and walks towards the couch to come to sit with me. She signals me to lay down near her.

"I want to see when mama comes" I groan.

Then I see my mom on TV! She was levitating one of the buildings before it crushes inward on all of those people. She is so strong. Both my mom and dad are! They have helped save many lives. I dream to be just like them one day.

As I'm looking at the TV screen I was in disbelief. I saw the building begin to cave-in.

"Sleep" my grandmother coos in my ear and before I know it my eyes feel heavier and I have drifted away into slumber.

#mha transparents #mha kaminari #mha rp #mha fanart #mhacosplay #my hero academy oc #my hero acadamy #my hero art #my hero academy cosplay #my hero academia #my hero academy spoilers #my hero academy fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #anime #anime boy #anime fluff #mha x reader #mha imagines #mha #anime / manga #manga edit #manga roleplay #mangacap #anime fanservice #anime fanart #anime fangirl #anime fandom #anime fanfic #anime fanfiction

[somekindofseizure]

When the Ink Dries Part VIII

<Thank you @icedteainthebag for giving me the tough love on the first draft of this.  And to all of you for waiting.  Rated Explicit.>

Chapter 19

Scully waited in the parlor room armchair wearing borrowed clothes, winding a chunk of overgrown split ends around her finger like late autumn weeds, the fur hem of Stella’s wool pencil skirt prickling her thighs.  She picked at her nails until one cuticle bed split open and bled.  Stella was still getting ready - had spent almost the entire day getting ready - for the fallen officers’ memorial event, but Scully’s impatience was levelled squarely at herself.

First thing this morning, Scully had promised herself she would get it over with.  In retrospect, she could see that her plans were doomed the moment she sunk against the bathroom door jamb and set her eyes on Stella.  Stella had been studying herself in the mirror, squinting, shoulder blades knitted together under her t-shirt, weight back on her heels.  Holding herself as she held everyone - at a distance.  Scully crossed her arms over her chest and cleared her throat in an effort to be acknowledged.  Her secret was an accidental one, born as a simple piece of information, an unshaped piece of wet clay.  Using nothing but time and cowardice, Scully had shaped that harmless blob into a weapon with a shortening fuse.  She had never considered herself an artist, except in the field of avoidance.

“My first work event since I’ve been out of commission,” Stella said with a self-mocking smile.  She looked down at a jar of cream and she swiped a glob across her forehead.  Scully hesitated - she’d get to the secret in just a minute - and reached for Stella’s hand, caught two of her fingers.  Stella’s shoulders swiveled and her hand swung with Scully’s like a trapeze act without a net, eyes flickering and then meeting her partner’s in the mirror.  Traveling forty feet in an instant of eye contact.

“Will they find me… as I was before?” Stella asked, a forced comedic lilt to her voice that reminded Scully of when she had to resort to asking Mulder how some skirt made her butt look.  She was embarrassed that she cared.  

“A couple months older, maybe,” Scully teased, then re-capitulated.  “Yes, they will.  Better, even.”

The secret began to smolder the minute Scully decided to put it off until later, foolishly leaving it to eat the silence like a fire eats oxygen.  Now it was hours-stronger, solid as cement, an extra story of the flat inserted between the two existing levels that they occupied.

Scully looked up from the armchair and felt her chin drop when she heard the typewriter click of Stella’s shoes on the staircase.  Stella descended slowly, dangling pauses like pronouncements, each patent leather heel hovering over its next step like she expected it to rise up and meet her rather than the other way around.  Blouse nipped at the sides pinned by seams to her body like a cloud to the sky.  Blacks so deep the gold seemed to swim in it, whites so new they shaded her face pink.  On her, a police uniform was a fantasy of authority and sex so pure that it seemed more like a costume than a mandate.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Scully said, forgetting both her secret and sucking of her bleeding nail a moment.

“Bring that finger over here and let me do that for you.”

If they’d had more time, it would have been a good idea, actually, a way of getting through it...  Run her fingers over Stella’s body between sentences, feel her out like a bit of Braille on smooth, sure stone, fingers placed here and there along her pulse, her spine, her hips, and yes one in her mouth.  Stella had an aptitude for nuance in physical contact that she lacked in conversation.  Would it have been exploitative to talk to her that way?  Or an act of kindness?

“That’s your real uniform?”

“I can’t tell if you’re judging or leering,” Stella said.  “If it’s the latter, please make that clear and let’s skip the party.”

“You keep calling it that. Party.”

“Because it is a party, darling.  We’re having alcohol and we put on high heels.”

“You partake of both those things every day.”

“You don’t.”

Scully smiled despite herself.  Stella was square-shouldered in the foyer mirror now, one lazy eye on Scully in the reflection as she fastened the little black tie around her neck and tossed her hair. As she did so, the blonde picked up the shine of the embroidery on her collar, a crystal casting the sun for a rainbow.

“Are they all going to look like this?  Your colleagues?  Underlings?”

“Why?” Stella teased.  “Looking for a replacement?”

“No, of course not.”  

Had that come off as overly serious? Defensive?  Later, in a childish game of what-if, woulda-coulda-shoulda, Scully would wonder how much sooner Stella would have read her, caught her out, had she not been in an unusual state of self-surveillance, so vigilant of her own vulnerability with the “party” that she could miss something to obvious.

“I have them tailored,” Stella said with a sheepish so-what of a smile.  

She slow-stalked the kitchen like a jungle cat, stroked the cylinder of a water glass and placed long, inexplicable glances on various inanimate objects in the room, as though deciding whether to consume or spare each thing.  Then she sipped her water, made tiger stripes on the rim with her lipstick.   There was silence to fill here, but Scully’s mouth had gone dry.

Finally, Stella reached for her jacket and slipped into it as though she’d been recently painted and was trying not to smudge herself.  

“How should I introduce you?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“People are likely to assume we’re fucking no matter what I say.”

“Only you assume that about everyone.”

Stella grinned into her last gulp of water and murmured, letting it echo and bubble as she slurped, pausing to swallow in the middle of her phrase.

“This is for your benefit.  I’m making sure you’re prepared.  People will whisper.”

“I’ve been whispered about that way at work my whole life.”

“There are worse things to have whispered by colleagues.”

“I know.  I’ve had those whispered too.”

Stella was unsatisfied.  She didn’t want jokes, she wanted confirmation that this evening would come off without a hitch.  It was not for Scully’s benefit, not really, and that was okay.  Scully spoke as though by rote, repeating her lessons.

“I am prepared for them to assume we’re a couple.”

Stella circled her and collected a small clutch purse she’d left open on the barstool, nudged Scully’s jeweled earlobe with her nose.  She tucked her phone into the bag, a bed of tissues and lip gloss, and then held it under her armpit as she put both arms around Scully’s waist.  Her face now rested on Scully’s shoulder, the carefully-applied layer of cosmetics wafting like spring flowers sealed in wax, a semi-edible decoration atop a birthday cake.  For a moment it seemed unlikely that anything else scheduled for this evening could hold as much weight as that shoulder did.

“I didn’t say couple.  I said fucking.”  Her jaw had dug itself a permanent residence in the posterior delta of Scully’s clavicle.  Scully worried for a moment that the makeup would come off on the sweater, but it was Stella’s sweater after all.  “Be a lamb and say it for me.”

“Fucking,” Scully murmured.

“Mm.”

Scully turned to face her.  Her neck spasmed where Stella’s chin had left a dent.

“You look nice in my things,” Stella said.  

Scully nodded, the guilt traveling like a heart attack up her arm from where Stella held her wrist.  She’d always been shit at accepting compliments, so Stella didn’t notice.

“You look perfect,” she countered.

“Thank you,” Stella said with the quiet, simple grace Scully could never seem to muster.

Scully braced herself.  She had Stella’s attention, the intimacy of a couple’s last moment alone before a party.  She battled the sickening rush of temptation as she considered what to do with it, whether to speak or keep Stella close, to stay here on the safe side of things a little bit longer.

“Come, darling.”

She took Stella’s arm and followed her out.

*

It had been a long time since Scully had observed Stella in a professional setting and she was mesmerized during the ceremony by her focus.  Hands and limbs kept to herself throughout the ceremony, occasionally lifting her chin, a sort of reverse nod of approval at something a speaker said or did.  Scully wondered if Stella’s mind was wandering, if she let herself think of the fact that she could have been one of these names, if she felt guilty or lucky or strange for having narrowly escaped a place among these unfortunate honorees.  

At the end, everyone was directed to the back of the room where tea lights sprouted on pale blue cloths tossed over coin-sized tables.  The room let out a collective sigh of relief, moving en masse toward the promise of small talk and wine.  Cocktail waiters emerged from swinging doors like crumple-vested spiders, drawing invisible webs around arbitrary clusters of people.  The mourners took part at once, moving easily between grief and relief.  Everyone knew their ghosts would be holding their coats for them at the door.  It was a party, like Stella said.

And for Stella, it was turning out to be a pretty good one.  Her posture was already soft with victory.  She’d appeared here in one piece, as herself, had reclaimed her reputation as reliable and invincible.  Scully’s ankles wobbled in her shoes as she thought of the car ride home, the living room where they’d step out of their shoes and wiggle sore toes, of how she’d begin to spoil a perfect night.  She wondered how many drinks Stella would have in her by the time Scully finally said what she needed to say.  One or two and it wouldn’t make a difference, three-plus meant a sloppier tongue and quicker wrists, the sum-total effect of which was generally more auspicious at the end of a night together.

Stella took two glasses of white from one of the passing trays and handed one to her date.

“Chardonnay,” she grumbled with the pout of an adult equally well-versed in self-abuse and self-care. “I spoke to them about this last year.”

Scully laughed.  

“People are grieving for Christ’s sake,” Stella went on.

Scully sucked her stomach in on a deep breath and Stella noticed, misread it as self-consciousness.  Scully let her, sins of omission multiplying like the empty plastic cups on the tables.   Stella leaned in, put her lips against Scully’s ear and Scully wondered if there would be marks on her skin like the water glass, little bands of metallic pink across the cartilage.

“Do you want to go?  We can go,” Stella prompted.  She fiddled with the knot of the bow on Scully’s wrap sweater and freshened it in a shorter amount of time than it had taken Scully to do in the first place.

“No, no.  I just… think I should have worn my own clothes,” Scully said because she needed something true to complain about.  “Or borrowed a uniform.”

“No one would have known the difference, two thirds of these people are idiots.”

“They seem nice.”

“That’s the third I’m willing to talk to.  You could have had mine.  Uniform, I mean.  I hate wearing it,” Stella said, righting herself beside Scully.

“You do?  Even after all that nipping and tucking?”

Stella’s face darkened as it often did when her memory retraced certain steps.  Scully felt obtuse for needing time to understand the tailoring – it was an act of control, not vanity.  

“It reminds me of school.”

This was always how getting to know Stella had been, like picking up items on a scavenger hunt: school names here, siblings there.  There had been times she was tempted to sit Stella down and ask questions for three hours, take notes and turn on a journalist’s tape recorder to get it all down.  It had never much bothered her much; she’d told herself she knew all she needed to know.  How to read Stella’s temperature from across the room, hear the switch flip from silent-at-peace to silent-in-turmoil with music blaring and a bar full of people.  That Stella likes to be touched, but only by people she trusts, that she likes innocent-faced men and women with purpose, that she brushes her teeth in the shower and leaves cabinet doors slightly ajar, that she likes to dance but only when she asks, that she washes her face wearing a red polka dotted headband sometimes.  She knew she could call her for any reason, at any time, and not be judged or turned away, and that when Stella didn’t answer a question, it meant Scully would find it out eventually, out of nowhere, in some other empty space between two moments, when Stella was finally ready to share it, and then Scully might wish she’d never asked it at all.  But she didn’t know how Stella was going to react to what she had to tell her tonight, and that made her feel like all that knowledge was for nought.

They were moving now, Stella in front and Scully in tow, sailing the crowd shoulder to shoulder, Stella billowing in and out of conversations with impressive ease.  Her fingers trailed behind when she walked, or at her side when she stopped, left an infrared wake for Scully to follow.  Scully felt freer than she was used to feeling as someone’s date.  And feeling good while she deceived Stella was unsettling.  Stella’s trust was a limited fund, one she was using up with every moment she held her tongue.

Stella had stopped now, but the crowd continued to move, and Scully had the sensation of standing still on a boat.  She felt her temperature rise and pushed up the sleeves of the sweater.  Her forearms turned pink from the friction.   She couldn’t do it anymore.

“Stella, I have to-”

Stella turned, pinched a crepey pastry off on hors d’oeuvre tray and supported it with a cocktail napkin on its way to Scully’s mouth. Scully lowered her eyes but obediently nibbled, licked the flakes off her lips.

“Stella-”

But she needed time to swallow and in that time...

“Oh.  You remember Ferrington?”

Of course.  The girl who had “door-stepped” Stella with the soup.  She’d had to twist Stella’s arm into a thank-you phone call, but Dani hadn’t picked up anyway and the voicemail got it.  Dani had a date tonight, presumably a girlfriend and Scully wondered whether Dani had assumed the same about her - presumably girlfriend.

“Hello again,” Dani said with a gracious first nod to Scully.  “Dana, right?”

“Hi there.  How are you?” Scully said, trying not to sound angry.  None of her worries was Dani’s fault.  “I don’t know if Stella told you but I loved your soup.”

Dani beamed and the conversation split, Stella taking on small-talk with the girlfriend and Scully entertaining Dani.

“Still here in town?” Dani asked.

“Yes, still here,” Scully said and tucked her hair behind her ear.  

A warm hand on her lower back, one of Stella’s fingers segregating two lines of cashmere ribbon around her waist, a gesture of concern, of care, of – Scully put her hands to her cheeks to cool them - possession.

“Warm in here, is it?” Dani said to Scully, head cocked in empathy.  Her face must be the color of an apple.  “So, how long before you go back?”

“May only be a few more days,” Scully said under her breath, wiping her brow.  She didn’t think Stella would hear and she didn’t want to lie - had not actively lied yet about it.

But of course, the room went silent the minute she mumbled it and her voice seemed so loud it was as though someone had inadvertently passed a microphone under her lips.  Stella dropped her hand from Scully’s back, turned with such eerie cool that for a second Scully wondered if Stella had known all along, had eavesdropped on the phone call last week.  She searched Stella’s face for some emotion - forgiveness or fury, anything other than the punishing granite wall of indifference suddenly being erected inches from her nose, limiting her view of all else.

Scully glanced at Dani, swallowed, squeezed her lips together before she spoke.

“I - I got a call from my work and I can’t extend the leave any longer so--”

“Always… hard to see a... friend go after a long visit,” Dani said, turning to Stella, unsure what exactly was going on but perceptive enough to know she should take Stella’s side.

“Mm.  Excuse me, this wine is abominable,” Stella said.  “I’m going to talk them into coughing up some liquor.  Anyone?”

And Scully had no choice but to let her go.

*

Scully found Stella ten minutes later in a screen-porch-faded bathroom with chipping yellow paint.  Familiar in the manner of a fever dream, more unwanted and disorienting for each recognizable reference point - a pallid iteration of the psych ward restroom in which Stella’s consolation had begun their friendship.  Stella leaned on the sink with fighters’ fists, blister red with white spots at the bones, staring with chilling remove into the ceramic basin.  Scully’s instinctive relief at not finding Stella in hysterics quickly transformed into the panic of finding this instead.  She glanced uneasily at the walls, as though to make sure they wouldn’t close in on her.

“Stella -”

How many times had she said her name like that tonight, trying to get to more?  So many it was starting to seem detached from Stella the person.  A word became meaningless and foreign if you said it enough.

Stella held a hand up and caught her eye in the mirror a moment and then a toilet flushed.  A waitress emerged from one of the stalls and embarrassed, fumbled through the hand-washing process.  Stella’s stare was unforgiving and lasted the duration, and Scully waited, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, trying to absorb the awkwardness with micro movements.  

“Lock the door,” Stella said when they were finally alone.

“What if someone has to --”

“I said lock it.”

“I’m sorry,” Scully said as she flipped the bolt.  It was heavy and hard to push, left a line in the middle of the pad of her finger.  The irritation she was beginning to feel in reaction to Stella’s behavior was something of a relief.  Anything to avoid the self-reproach she’d been bearing up under all day.  “It’s not like I want to leave you.  But I have to unless I’m going to, I don’t know, move here.”

Stella’s glare set into her like a machete, cleaved her right between the eyes.

“You think I care if you go?  I care that you just made me look like an idiot.”

“You don’t care if I go?”

“Don’t be a cliché.”

“What does that mean?”

“You don’t want to stay but you don’t want me to let you go either.”

“I just… I didn’t know where this was going… and my life…”

“It’s not going anywhere,” Stella snapped.  

Scully licked her lower lip and swallowed, trying not to cry.

“Well, that’s what I assumed.”

“I sound angry but I don’t mean to.  I don’t like surprises.”

Observing Stella’s process of calming herself was one of the more disconcerting experiences Scully could summon to mind, on par with the mid-ride plateau of a rollercoaster, helpless between two loops, listening to the engine click and collect the momentum it needed to throw you off the next drop.

“I don’t want anything to go anywhere,” Stella said, gaze softening but not warming, falling like sleet into the sink.  Scully followed it, gripped the drain with her eyes before it could swallow her.

“You haven’t been happy having me here?”

“That’s the present.  You’re talking about the future.”

“You know, this is a version of the same conversation we had fifteen years ago after the first night we spent alone together,” Scully said.

“Maybe we’re fools for needing to have it again.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t have had it in the first place.”

Stella scoffed.

“Come on, Dana.  What?  And just been together?”  She looked at Scully.  “You wouldn’t have had any of your life with Mulder, your child.”

“I lost them anyway.”

One of Stella’s eyes flinched and she licked her bottom lip, swallowed whatever bit of gloss she’d picked up there.  She turned back to the sink.

“Well, I guess I make for a decent consolation prize.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Scully said, “and you know it.”  She hated the way her voice sounded, wounded and will-less.

“You speak to Mulder recently?” Stella asked and ran her tongue in front of her teeth.

“Yes.  Why?”

Stella tossed off a look that landed like a punch in the chest.

“Don’t you dare,” Stella said and her voice rattled like a stick.

“Dare what?” Scully finally asked.  But Stella didn’t answer because she knew Scully knew.  Don’t you dare pretend he’s beside the point.

Cold air suddenly puffed from the vent overhead.  Scully crossed her arms and shivered with the recognition that she was taking part in an overreaction.  She had made many fights in her life worse this way, by trying to manufacture the end before it had lived its natural course, diminishing a drama before it had played out its denouement.

“Listen.  I don’t know what you want from me,” she said.  “What was my alternative here?”

“Bring it up sooner.”

“And then what?  You would’ve said stay, quit your job, move to England, and we’ll go to a party next week?  You’ve had this thing on your mind for days.  It would’ve ruined it.”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

Scully took a step closer and Stella stepped back.

“Let’s talk about this later when we’re calm,” Scully said, reaching for her.  Stella swatted her arms back out of reach.

“Let me be,” she said.  

Scully looked at her feet as Stella edged past her, avoiding her like the pit of a natural disaster.  The thought of staying in this bathroom one second longer than necessary was unbearable.  The thought of not following Stella out made her feel lost and scared and alone in a foreign country in a way she had not felt switching trains on complicated tube lines, not felt getting lost on runs around ungridded alleyways of gory murderers.  

She spent the hour rationalizing and emerged hungry and thirsty and calm, her tailbone sore from the plastic toilet bowl cover seat.  This would blow over quickly.  She and Stella had been through too much.  There were advantages to spending most of your life arguing every day with someone you loved.  You knew what to do with an hour alone in the bathroom.  (Not that Mulder had ever given her an hour alone in her life.)

The lights had gone darker, the crowd had grown louder and there was music she didn’t recall noticing before.  She searched the room for Stella’s golden head, eager to make things right.  The bar came into view as the crowd parted and Scully stopped short, felt a few bodies stiffen and pile behind her.  A couple drops of something cold splashed her calves.  People doled apologies or sought them but she didn’t care.  

There was Stella on a high stool with an arched back and a strategically crossed leg, talking to, or rather, listening to, or rather, pretending to listen to a male officer in his thirties.  Bored and sloping as the moon, leaning on one elbow over the bar, forearm waving its half empty glass of Scotch like a loose clock hand.  The shoe on her crossed foot clucked on and off her heel and she was absent behind the eyes, already living in an event to come within hours, the furthest future she was capable of embracing.

Scully threw a sharp glance down at the floor, then moved forward, thinking of the courage of crime scenes past.  She tried to imagine the comfort of a flashlight in hand, a gun in its holster, a walkie promising backup.  

Stella looked at her as though she were one of the cocktail waitresses carrying substandard table wine and she might as well have murdered her.

“Hi there,” the idiot man said, chipper, swingy, a lucky guy having a lucky night, and Scully allowed herself to hate him deeply and irrationally as she waited for Stella to introduce her.  Nothing.

“I’m going to head back to the flat,” Scully said at last.

“I’ll be there eventually.  Few more things I want to do here.”

He beamed with pride, the man did, in the periphery of Scully’s view; he was that thing she meant to do!  But Stella ignored him for the time being, fixed Scully with a hunter’s stare, eyes empty as the viewfinder of a rifle, Scully filling in the space between the crosshairs, fur up on the back of her neck under a string of pearls.  She felt Stella’s focus sharpen, watched her trigger finger wiggle around her glass.  And Scully turned while she could still get out alive, bolted through the human foliage of widows and revelers toward the exit.

*

There was comfort in the predictability of it: Stella going home with some random man to escape reality.  Scully managed mostly to put the details of it out of her mind and wondered instead what her role here was, what Stella would be expecting of her.   This, she thought, was as apt a description of love as any – wanting to give another person exactly what they expected of you, even when they weren’t looking, even when you were furious with them.

She’d left her shoes in two different spots on the staircase, clothes in three distinct heaps.  She’d hidden her phone from herself, hoped she’d had enough to drink on an empty stomach to fall for it, then cried and taken a shower and sipped wine from an open bottle.  Not knowing what else to do, she’d resorted to tackling the contents of two junk drawers and a spice rack on the kitchen floor.  She’d done this with Mulder sometimes too, reorganized his (overbearing, overwhelming) spaces in their home and office.  It made her feel closer to him then, and to Stella now, trying to safe-crack her logic from the inside out, determine why one thing was on the same shelf as the next, or why condoms were in the kitchen at all (though not wonder too hard).  It took a great deal of energy she would have otherwise used on self-pity to frame things the way Stella would, distinguish complex system from misplaced item; everything with Stella fell into one or the other of those categories.  

It wasn’t until she heard the thick poplin-gabardine swish of uniform sleeves in the foyer that she realized that Stella might view the innards of cabinets splayed across the hard grey floor as a provocation.  But it was too late to undo what she’d already undone, so she kept her eyes on the bottle of cardamom, weeded out a yellow potato chip clip, thought of Stella wiping her hands on a pair of overpriced sweatpants while closing a bag of kettle chips she’d stash in a corner behind the red wine.  

She slumped a little deeper, expecting any minute to hear strident stilettos making their way to the fridge, to feel Stella’s triumphant glare on the back of her head.  She braced herself for the smells, the sights, the evidence of spite-sex.  It was Stella’s right to go home with whomever she wanted, with or without the impetus of a fight.  Scully had never asked her for any sort of exclusivity.  She was good at not asking people for what they couldn’t give, but bad at accepting the fact that they didn’t offer it up.  

But there was something other than gloating triumph going on.  Stella stood still under the arc that separated the kitchen from the rest of the house.  A truce had arrived, or at least, it was within Scully’s power to provide one.  Scully picked up a plastic container of rainbow nonpareils and shook them weakly.

“What are these for?”

“Ice cream.  Fairy bread.”

A smile ached across Scully’s teeth.

“Fairy bread?  How am I supposed to keep arguing with you when you say stuff like that?”

“I’m sorry.  It was rude to send you off that way,” Stella said.  What she didn’t say was for fucking somebody else.

Scully put one hand on the floor and pressed herself up to stand.  The eye makeup hadn’t budged, of course, and the lips were red from rubbing rather than taupe from painting, but the cheeks were splotchy, and the bottom rims of her eyes sagged until the red part showed, as though they’d been stretched beyond repair.  She wondered where Stella could have cried.  Surely not in the presence of that strange man.  In his bathroom?  The cab ride home?  On some street corner between here and there, hiding in a shadow with her palms pressed into a row of brick?  Her heart sizzled like an antacid dropped into a glass - sadness competing with jealousy and anger.  Mulder had never tried or tested her in this particular way.  The first time they’d had sex, or maybe sooner, she got his undying faithfulness in return.  She’d only ever lost him to ideas, thoughts, to himself, never to another person.

The uniform skirt was wrinkled at the hips and the blouse sagged so that it was almost unrecognizable from this afternoon.  Scully felt a twinge of sadness remembering how the day had started; stiff fabric and affectionate glances, innuendo in a foyer mirror.  

“I didn’t expect you to be sorry,” Scully said.

“That’s two of us then.”

Scully rolled a row of unsharpened pencils that were waiting to be organized on the counter.  They seemed so clean and useful absent the frustrated chewing marks she was accustomed to finding in her and Mulder’s office.   Stella found other things to sink her teeth into.

“It’s your prerogative,” Scully said.

“I know that.  But you’re standing there looking at me like that and it makes me want to die.”

Something in the phrase or in Stella’s voice resembled a distant generic concept of couplehood.  This was how most people behaved.  They belonged somewhere at a certain time of night, they were sorry when they weren’t in that place, other people who expected them in that place got jealous, everyone felt guilty.  That was what a relationship was… wasn’t it?  How could she have gotten to this point in her life and not known?

“Maybe we could go to therapy,” she said and almost laughed at herself.  Somewhere she’d heard people talk like this.  “You know, figure it out.”

Stella looked at her with something like gentle reproach.  Or sympathy.  Or pity.  Or apology.  Whatever it was, it was not cruelty.  

“But you’ve come so far,” Scully said, turning her face away, giving in, letting it fold like a pile of shirts on her shoulder.

“Please don’t ask me to come any further.”

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

#wtid #myfic #stella and scully #stella and mulder #MSR fic

[jojoingjoseph]

these ass shenanigans are pretty funny ngl

( It’s a Fant-ASS-tical exercise in thought and letting loose after all the driving. One can even ASSume it is a necessary outlet in providing a logical and completely necessary outlet for all the ideas that come to mind even for a part time serious rp and ASSk blog. )

( Indeed, indeed. It’s a Posterior-ating thought to have such wit and wiles to write such cunningly ASSertive characters and retain a sense of their serious and silly sides despite the fact I’ve been at this for ..four years??? and I still wonder how I got here in the first place after all is said and done. )

( Least I aint the butt of all jokes but surely this is only the beginning of such stupid jokes REAR-ing their head to bite me in the ass later on down the road but we’ll burn that ass when we get to it. )

( thank u. )

#spaceispeachy #★ Joestar Secret Technique {OOC} #( joseph take the fucking wheel before I lose it. ) #( i cant keep a straight line of thought. )

[redrobinfection]

Coffee, Coffee Everywhere, Pt 20

<< Part 19

This is the “conclusion” to the Coffee, Coffee Everywhere series (for real, this time, but stick around for the epilogue and an announcement about future additions to the ‘verse next week). Thank you to everyone who has read, liked, reblogged any part of the series!!!

~*~

Jason strode into the kitchen, looking to snag some breakfast before he passed out for a few hours, and stopped when he saw Tim at the table in the breakfast nook, nursing something in Bruce's infamous mega mug.

"Hey, there Timbo, what'cha got? Already falling off the wagon?"

Tim turned his bleary, dark-shadowed eyes up at him and instantly Jason knew that whatever was in that mug, it was definitely not coffee, decaf or otherwise. "It's tea. Herbal tea. Mint," he responded tersely. He looked about five seconds away from falling asleep on the spot.

"I'm thinking about making myself some chocolate chip pancakes; you want some? You look like you could use the sugar."

To his surprise, Tim shook his head vehemently. "No. Can't have chocolate. Has caffeine in it."

"Oh yeah, that's right. What about blueberry? Blueberry sound good?" Jason backpedaled quickly, feeling bad for the thoughtless suggestion.

Tim hummed and took a long draw of his mint tea. "Yeah, that'd be nice. Thanks, Jay," he replied drowsily, the words echoing strangely in the mug.

"So, uh, how much longer before you'll start letting yourself have small amounts of caffeine again, Timbo?" he asked, attempting casual conversation as a means to keep the kid conscious.

Tim set down the mug and sagged back, immediately sliding low into the seat. "It's been what… two weeks now? So... at least another six."

"Ouch. Two months total?" he asked incredulously as he assembled the ingredients for pancakes, scrambled eggs and fruit. He'd been planning to ask Tim to slice the fruit, but at this point he didn't feel confident Tim wouldn't accidentally slice a finger off or stab himself in his current state.

"Yeah. At least two months," Tim answered, his words trailing off into a large yawn. He finally gave up on keeping himself upright in the chair and plonked his head down on the table instead, arms hanging limply underneath.

"What is this I hear about you going back to caffeine, Drake?" Damian demanded loudly as he walked through the kitchen door. Dick filed in behind him. They had a full house at the manor this morning, so it wouldn’t be long before nearly the entire Batclan filled the large kitchen.

"Not f'r anudder six weeks, Dami'n," Tim mumbled into the wood, not even bothering to turn his head.

"Good," Damian replied haughtily. "Otherwise my threat to keep you away from caffeine at the pain of stabbing still stands."

"No one is stabbing anyone," Bruce sighed as he stepped into the kitchen a moment later. Tim raised his head at the sound of B's voice, blinking rapidly at the newcomers as they abruptly filled the kitchen with noise and movement.

"You're cooking this morning, Jason?" Bruce asked, raising an eyebrow as he stepped up beside the stove.

"Yeah. I ran into Alfie and asked if it'd be okay. He said it was fine by him. That fine by you?" he asked lightly, keeping his attention fixed on the pancake mix he was assembling from scratch. He tried not to let the tension of being questioned show in his posture. B gave a low grunt of assent and patted Jason lightly on the shoulder before moving off towards the fridge. Jason let out a low sigh of relief. That was about as cordial as things got between them these days, but things were better than they had been; it was a start.

"So what are we having," Dick asked as he poured an obscene amount of Crocky Crunch into a salad bowl. Alfred would have a conniption when he came downstairs and saw that.

"We are having blueberry pancakes, scrambled eggs, and fruit. I dunno what you're having, you cereal-obsessed monster," Jason replied, giving Dick plenty of side-eye as he stirred the wet ingredients into the batter.

He laughed out loud and ambled over to grab the milk from Bruce. "Don't worry, I'll have plenty of room left over for your pancakes, Little Wing."

"You'd better go easy on the pancakes, Grayson. We wouldn't want your posterior to become anymore pronounced or noticeable than it already is. It is already something of an exposure risk at this point," Damian deadpanned smoothly. All motion in the kitchen stopped and every set of eyes turned to stare at him.

"Was that…? Was that a butt joke? From you? Am I awake? Did I hear that right?" Tim asked in awe, scrubbing at his eyes, which were finally fully open, and open wide, at that.

"Damian…" Bruce began in a growl, but Dick laughed and steered him over to the table.

"I'll keep that in mind, Dames," he responded amiably, rolling his eyes at the displeased expression on B's face. "Drink your milk and let him be, Bruce. Do you know how long I've been working to teach Damian to have a sense of humor?"

"Hey, Damian, could you help me slice the fruit?" Jason asked, tearing the youngest's attention away from the table and whatever argument he planned to start over his supposed 'sufficient' sense of humor. Damian nodded and turned to begin washing the fruit off in the sink.

Jason glanced back toward the table and considered what a strange thing it was to not see a single drop of coffee anywhere. Bruce had apparently taken to drinking milk or tea or juice whenever Tim was around, partially as a show of solidarity but also to reduce the burden of temptation, or so he had said. Jason shook his head in wonder. To think Bruce of all people would - or could - give up coffee, at least partially, to help one of them.

Actually, he mused, almost everyone was doing something support Tim's decision to lay off the caffeine for a while; Bruce giving up coffee in the mornings, Alfred providing alternative drink and food, Cass sharing her herbal tea, Dick checking in on him during patrols, Damian stealing all the coffee out of his safehouses and bugging the pantries to deter him from sneaking into the locked-down coffee beans. Okay, that last one was a little messed up, but so was Damian, so in a own way it was kind of touching how far he had gone to keep Tim away from the coffee.

Jason himself made a point to check in with him now and then to make sure he kept up eating well even without all his "coffee creations" to keep him motivated and to make sure he didn't try stay out on patrol or stay up working too much later than the rest of them. With varying success, of course.

Steph and Cass entered the kitchen next, both making a beeline for the tea and coffee section of the counter. Cass went right to work heating up water in the electric kettle and pulling the green tea out of the cabinet while Steph pulled a sachet of something for herself from her pocket.

"The fruit has been sufficiently sliced, Todd. How else may I be of assistance?" Damian asked, rinsing and wiping down the knife briskly.

"Awesome," Jason replied distractedly, briefly glancing over the meticulously cut fruit and nodding approval. "Uhhh… could you take the bowl over and then start setting the table?"

"You need some help, Dames?" Stephanie asked brightly, turning away from the hot water kettle holding a steaming mug. Cass also turned and nodded toward him to offer her aid.

Damian grimaced at the nickname, but continued in an even tone. "If you would set out the plates, Brown, and if you would set out napkins, Cassandra, then I will follow with the cutlery." They nodded assent, and wandered over to set their mugs down at the table; Steph set hers down at the seat next to Tim, Cass set hers across from them, and then they both turned to their tasks.

A few seconds later a loud moan disrupted the bustling tranquility that had fallen over the kitchen. He turned along with everyone else to see Tim leaning away from Steph's mug dramatically, eyeing the steaming mug as if it held a poisonous snake. His face paled and he swallowed convulsively.

"Tim…?"

"Steph, what did I tell you last week?" Tim croaked unhappily, pushing back his chair and sliding over into another seat unsteadily.

Everyone's eyes whipped over to Stephanie, who rolled hers. "Jeez, stop being such a drama queen. Do you remember what I told you? I don't care if you've ruined coffee for yourself; I need my morning fix, I'm going to have my morning fix, and if you're around when I make it, then you're just gonna have to deal with it."

Tim clamped a hand his mouth as he stared, transfixed, at the mug and shook his head. She sighed. "Besides, it's not going to jump out and bite you, or worse, jump down your throat. You're a big, strong Red Robin, I know you can handle a little temptation here and there."

Damian made a sound like an angry cat and stalked over to her. "Brown, I swear upon my blade, if you ruin our efforts to break Drake of his appalling hab-"

"It's not temptation," Tim cut in loudly, standing up and starting to back away from the table slowly. From where Jason was standing, he looked a tad green around the gills. "It's the smell."

They each frowned. "The smell?" Dick parroted in confusion.

Tim grimaced. "Ever since the time I… yeah… the smell of coffee is just…" he trailed off, waving his hand suggestively.

Steph snorted and sauntered over to the table, snatching up her mug. "So, what? You're trying to tell us that ever since your stunt with the mac n' cheese you can't stand the smell of coffee?"

Tim glared and nodded. Steph laughed out loud. "So are you avoiding coffee because you're avoiding caffeine or because the smell makes you wanna hurl?"

Tim's glare darkened. "Both," he snapped, darting forward to grab his tea, then slowly treading in a wide arc around Steph toward the door to the rest of the manor. "I'm serious about breaking my caffeine addiction, but believe me, right now there is nothing tempting about the smell of coffee to me whatsoever."

Steph grinned wickedly. "Are you sure? I mean you put on a convincing act, but how do we know you're not sneaking off to brew a triple espresso in some secret hiding spot right this minute, huh?"

If Tim could have simultaneously set someone on fire and frozen their soul to the core with a single look, Steph would have shattered into a thousands smoldering frozen bits on the spot.

"You sure you're not tempted to sneak a sip?" she teased, darting in close and wafting the mug in his face. Tim literally gagged and dashed for the sink, leaving Steph and the rest of the family gaping in shock as he actually, real life, coughed up his tea into the sink.

Jason couldn't believe it. Trying to imagine a Tim Drake who has an aversion to coffee was like trying to imagine a Dick Grayson who suddenly one day announces he hates cereal. Impossible, or so they thought.

Before Steph, or anyone else for that matter, could recover from the shock, Damian shot forward, grabbed the mug from her slack grip, opened a door to the veranda and hurled the mug as far out onto the lawn as he could. Everyone stared. Steph blinked once then stormed out onto the veranda.

"You brat! My coffee!!!" she shrieked. "And I liked that mug!" She whirled on Damian. He crossed his arms and glared up at her darkly.

"That is what you deserve, not only for sneaking contraband into this house while a ban of the substance - a ban we all agreed upon for the sake of one of our team - is in effect, but for also being such a jerk to Drake when he is so clearly struggling to do better."

Steph stared and shook her head. "Since when do you of all people care if someone is being a jerk to Tim? I thought that was your life's calling, Demon Brat."

"-Tt-" Damian walked back into the kitchen. Steph trailed behind. Dick and Cass had since jumped up to check on Tim and were gently coaxing him back to the table with reassuring words and gentle touches. Jason vaguely registered a burning smell before he realized with a start that he'd been so caught up in the drama that he'd forgotten about the pancakes currently on the stove.

As he cursed and threw them into the waste bin, Damian replied dryly, "I'm tired of having to explain to various people that, yes, 'Fat-girl', I do care what happens to the members of this family, our team, and, in this particular instance, Drake. I've been one of Drake's most adamant supporters. Imagine how much less pathetic and useless Drake would be if he let himself sleep now and then instead of running around Gotham like some kind of coffee-fueled zombie, instead of sticking his exhaustion-clumsy fingers into cases and situations he would be better off leaving to Father and I. Imagine if he only offered his assistance when needed, instead of trying to be everywhere and do everything all at once."

Jason shook his head slowly as he poured out a new set of pancakes. "And here, just when I was thinking the bat brat might have finally grown a heart…"

Dick nodded and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, well, at least it's an improvement over them trying to kill each other. Can you imagine him admitting that there are situations in which Tim's 'assistance' would be 'needed' three years ago? Let's count this as progress and move on."

Jason cut off Damian's indignant growl with a wave. "Hey, Dames, come over here and help me get the eggs going. Cass, can you take care of plates? And you," he stopped and glared pointedly at Steph, "go apologize to Tim. That was a dick thing to do, and you know if I'm the one telling you that then…"

Steph rolled her eyes, but threw her hands up in surrender. "Okay, I get it, 'Alfie Jr'. Keep your eyes on the pancakes."

"I should think such an appellation would be an esteemed honor, Master Jason," Alfred intoned smoothly as he stepped into the kitchen, eyes twinkling with amusement. Jason caught his eye and grinned. Knowing Alfie, he'd probably listened to entire conversation from outside the door before choosing the most opportune moment to make his entrance. Or he'd tapped into the network of bugs that Jason was convinced Alfie hid from everyone, including B - the man had been a spy after all.

"Sure is, Alfie. I think I'll get that engraved on a plaque and hung on the wall of my kitchen, you know?"

Alfred nodded with a quiet smile, then turned toward the table. "Miss Stephanie, once you've finished apologizing to Master Tim, would you be so kind as to set out water glasses for everyone. I think it's high time we sat down to enjoy the breakfast Master Jason has so graciously prepared for us."

Steph nodded contritely and murmured another quiet 'sorry' to Tim before turning to cabinets. Alfred turned his hawkish gaze upon the table's remaining occupants, namely Bruce, Dick, Cass, and Tim.

"Was that a mug I saw someone throw into the rose garden? I don't suppose if I take a stroll down there after breakfast I'll find it crushing one of the roses the groundskeepers and I have worked so hard to maintain?"

Several wild glances passed between them, and across the kitchen Damian paled, then murmured a stumbling excuse along the lines of “need toilet" and skittered away from the stove. Jason shook his head but took over the eggs. Steph stifled a laugh and Cass shook her head. Alfred lifted one brow and swept his sharp gaze over the entire kitchen, stilling everyone. No one so much as twitched even as they all clearly saw Damian dart out of a window a few rooms over then streak across the lawn.

Bruce cleared his throat. "N-no, of course not, Alfred." The kitchen broke out in a chorus of 'no's and Alfred nodded his satisfaction.

"Very good."

~*~

Epilogue (Part 21) >>

#my writing #christmasriverswrites #tim drake #batfamily #something about writing all of these guys balloons a fic like crazy #this is a 3000 word part... I can't even pretend that is a ''drabble'' anymore! >_<