#saggy armchair

[fieriframes]

[The saggy armchair of clichés.]

#s16e11 unlikely partners #guy fieri #guyfieri #diners drive-ins and dives #saggy armchair #clichés

[rivertalesien]

Death is not the end.

The rusty creak of a weather vane cut through the quiet over the leaf-strewn grounds.

Staring at the words carved in stone, Clarke traced them in her mind, over and over, as she pulled at a handful of weeds and replaced the old dead flowers with the fresh-cut bouquet she’d bought at the little supermarket on her way to the cemetery. 

Death is not the end. Death is not the end. Death is not the end.

She thought about the cashier who’d wrapped the flowers for her, an older woman, maybe as old as her grandmother, someone who should have retired by now (but who can retire anymore, she’d wondered). The surgical paper mask had slipped down the woman’s nose several times as she looked down at the thin sheets of paper, the skin of her fingers worn almost the same.

Who were they for, she’d asked, absently, reaching for a strip of tape off an old plastic reel of Scotch.

Is it someone’s birthday? Spooky time of year for it.

Clarke shook her head and smiled, reaching for a packet of Wintergreen chewing gum. Her heart was skipping and the sudden stops were making her dizzy.

“Oh, it’s a date, huh?” 

“Sort of.” 

Sliding her card through the reader, she declined the receipt and gave a short thanks to the woman, who adjusted her mask and eyed her as she took up her purchases and made a slight gesture with one hand.

“It’ll get better, you know. It always does.”

Clarke was unsure what the cashier might be referring to: maybe she was thinking of the pandemic, maybe she thought someone was ill. Nodding, she pushed gently at the double doors and stepped outside, moving smoothly past a neglected pile of small pumpkins resting on hay bales.  

Reaching for her keys Clarke took a small breath, grateful that the skies were still clear even if it smelled like rain was on its way and the trees were drizzling red and gold around her car.

It’ll get better. It’ll get better. It always does.

Death is not the end. 

Then what is it?

She shook slightly and remembered where she was.

Touching the engraved L and E and X and A, as if her fingers could reach through the letters and caress the person this once was; a face she hadn’t seen in three years, a voice she hadn’t heard, a kiss she hadn’t shared with anyone else.

A grief that wasn’t going away.

“I love you, Lex. I miss you so much. I don’t know what to do.”

It was dark by the time she left and the leaves were piling high on the grass, crunching beneath her shoes like old newspapers.

She could still smell the rain on the way, but something had shifted. She was tired. Bed would be easy tonight.

As she started the car and drove off, the weathervane creaked again.

And changed direction.

*

“I know it’s a bad time, Clarke, but I was wondering if you could come in for just a bit on Monday? I’ve got someone I think you’d be good with and maybe it’d be good for you. Just call me back when you get this. Love you.”

Clarke deleted her mother’s message, tossing her phone on the saggy green couch before flopping down in Lexa’s old leather armchair. It had been her dad’s and she’d lugged it around from Navy dorms to small apartments until it had finally found a permanent home in the little Craftsman they’d bought six years ago. Clarke laughed a little to herself. For something she was so devoted to, Lexa had rarely sat in it. She just liked the aesthetic of it. And that it was her dad’s.

They’d lost their fathers at almost the same time, both men working in different parts of the same building, both unable to escape when a bomb went off in a bathroom and took out nine floors in just under two minutes. Clarke had received a single text: I love you, sweetheart, hours before she’d finally answered all the missed calls, still trying to avoid Finn, and couldn’t stop crying for days afterward.

They had met at the memorial service, where the President gave a speech that rang hollow and bitter and hypocritical and Lexa was forced to stand at attention with her squadron and salute the man who had helped ignite and fund the war that led to the terrible tragedies that seemed to be plaguing random cities all over.

Clarke had noticed her outright, recognized her from the news reports, though she looked more polished than the footage of her in a flight suit, giving a press briefing from an aircraft carrier in the Atlantic somewhere.

Commander Woods’ elegy to her father had been through clenched teeth and pain, perhaps only partly from the wound in her shoulder, where she’d taken two slugs from an enemy rifle only three weeks before. Standing before the congregation in the Sixth Avenue Church, Lexa had first said the words Clarke couldn’t get out of her mind, even now, almost ten years later.

Death is not the end.

Finn had shown up, though, uninvited, wanting to pay his respects, wanting to apologize, again, wanting Clarke back, again, and it was Raven who surprised him and dragged him out, offering Clarke a small apology as they left. She had just wanted to get some air, to be alone, to not listen to her mother grieving with all the other widows and to expel Finn’s presence for good. She could hardly picture her dad, even with his photo on the tall easel. Nothing felt real.

She hadn’t expected to see the rumpled military figure sitting on a small bench under the church’s stone lichgate, tugging at the knees of her uniform trousers, as if irritated with the material. She hadn’t expected her eyes to be so soft and gray or how quiet her voice could be. They’d sat together under the small shelter as the rain fell and the world slipped away.

Curling up in the chair, Clarke lingered in that memory: how an hour had passed and then another and how phones rang but no one answered them and how, when the rain let up, Clarke made sure Lexa followed her home.

Always staying a few steps ahead, sometimes turning to look back, never speaking, not even when they got to the door.

Clarke left it open as she stopped in the middle of the empty living room and waited as the door was closed and long fingers pulled down the zipper of her dress, then the straps, smooth over her shoulders, as a gentle breath warmed her cheek. As arms slipped around her and held her tightly, groping her breasts, as lips pressed rough and sweet at the wild pulse in her throat.

She could always smile at the memory of that first time, both in terrible need of something, anything to bury the ache, to feel anything but their pain. How they clutched and clung and held on for dear life as they lost themselves in one another and found it too perfect to stop. She could remember every detail: the color of the ceiling, the contrast of Lexa’s jacket, the polished shoes kicked into a corner as she was lifted, laid against the table, almost eaten alive, almost until she was screaming.

It was torture now, remembering how Lexa felt, how her hands shook, the glint of her watch, the scent of her shampoo, her red-rimmed eyes staring up at her from between her legs as she burrowed into Clarke’s soul through her cunt and made her forget.

Days of fucking and sleeping and so few words passing between them; that’s how it was, until Lexa had to return to assignment, had to fly off into hell and gone and how they had both shuddered, almost painfully, at that last time, in the back of the rental, where Clarke had bit her so hard it left a scar under her ear and they cried in frustration at one last release, slotted so hard and hot between them, pressing until it hurt, hoping the hurt would make goodbye easier.

But it wasn’t and it didn’t and it only took three years to get a yes out of her, and a ring, and a place for her dad’s chair.

Reaching between her thighs, Clarke ached now, worse than any ache she’d ever known, and pressed into herself until the ache settled a little and she could lose herself in sleep.

Outside, the rain fell.

*

“Oh god you’re soaked. Come in, quick.”

Clarke held the door open as Raven entered, dripping but smiling, holding what looked

like a bag of groceries.

“I was in the area, thought I should visit. Wow, Clarke. What have you been doing?”

Shaking off her jacket, Raven made a slow inspection of the living room, noting all the piles of books and boxes and empty fast food bags.

Hanging up her friend’s coat, Clarke shrugged, wrapping her arms around herself as if cold.

“Just thought I’d do some spring clinging, dust, you know.” 

“Well, it’s October, and aren’t these Lexa’s?”

Picking up a dusty volume, Raven flipped through the pages.

Clarke dropped back into the leather chair and nodded.

“Yeah, I just thought I’d maybe go through them. Figure out what to keep.”

“She really had a library, huh?”

“If you want something, just, go ahead.”

Raven stopped and looked back at Clarke, curled up in her spot, a red-wine throw draped over her shoulders. 

“Hey, I stopped at the Dragon and brought some food. I got those noodles you like and the chicken. We can eat and I’ll help you clean up.”

“I’m okay, Raven. Really.”

“You haven’t been to work for a week.” 

Clarke sighed and pulled the throw up to her chin.

Why does everyone have to fuss?

“I’m fine. I get down sometimes. I’ll get over it. I’ll be back at work on Monday.”

Kneeling by the chair, Raven picked invisible lint off the blanket.

“Abby said you were thinking about quitting.”

“It’s got nothing to do with Lex. I’ve been thinking about taking up painting again and I just need a little less stress in my life. That’s good, right?”

Raven nodded.

“You’d really walk away? I mean, it’s kind of been your life, Clarke.”

Gritting herself, Clarke took a calming breath.

“I haven’t decided anything yet, I just need some time to do that. I need something different, Raven. I’m not like my mom. I’m not like Wells. They just don’t get it and I’m tired of having to explain it. I’ll be fine. I just need…something else.”

She was everything and she’s gone and took everything with her.

Rubbing at Clarke’s covered foot, Raven attempted a smile.

“I’m sorry. I’m not here to pile-on. Come on. Let’s eat and sort some books.”

*

It was after midnight when Raven left, taking a box of books with her.

Clarke had tried to offer Lexa’s piano, but Raven doubted it would fit in the car and doubted further that Clarke really wanted to part with it. Music was Lexa’s first love, even if her dad and the military put it second and it was a love she shared with Clarke through mix tapes and play lists and old vinyl and late night slow dances in the kitchen.

In such moments they would dream up names for their fantasy lounge act, with Clarke draped across the piano like Michelle Pfeiffer in The Fabulous Baker Boys, but all the good ones were taken and Lexa had read where the actress had to wear knee and elbow pads for the scene, so the idea was often floated around but then abandoned by the time they reached their bed.

Sitting at the dusty keyboard, Clarke tried to remember a few notes Lexa had taught her, an old Billie Holiday song she’d always loved.

Ask the sky above And ask the earth below Why I'm so in love And why I love you so Couldn't tell you though I tried do Just why I'm yours

Resting her head against the top of the fallboard, Clarke’s hands stilled and her eyes closed, and in her mind she could see Lexa beside her, playing quietly, never looking up from her hands as the melody unwound itself from the instrument.

When you went away You left a glowing spark Trying to be gay As whistling in the dark I am only what you make me Come take me I'm yours

She remembered it was Halloween and she’d forgotten candy again and the clock had stopped and the rain had stopped but the music was too gentle and comforting and she could hear it clearer now, imagining a warm shoulder against hers, moving.

How happy I would be to beg or borrow For sorrow with you Even though I knew tomorrow You'd say we were through If we drift apart Then I'll be lost and alone Though you use my heart Just for a steppin' stone How can I help dreaming of you I love you I'm yours

The song ended and she felt herself breathless with racked sobs that wouldn’t stop, even as strange, familiar arms held her and rocked her, silently, and clear gray eyes met hers and nothing was real but everything was real and she felt her heart sinking and rising so painfully it might have been shock: the unspoken wish, fulfilled.

“Are you here?”

No sound, only graceful caresses across her cheeks, her temples, through her hair, and those eyes that saw through everything and said everything.

“Are you here?”

Silence again, then something like a smile.

“Do you want me to be?”

Tears were catching on her jaw, dripping into her neck and Clarke felt herself laughing. Maybe she was dying. Maybe this was the end of everything.

She pressed the longed-for face between her hands and the answer frozen the air between them--until their lips deliquesced in yes after yes after yes.

#clexa #clexatober23 #based on Truly Madly Deeply #I'm Yours lyrics by Richard Millen #tbc if anyone wants #ghost stories #clexa fanfic

[fearthetallman]

Krang Pie: Chapter 1

Summary: Mikey is trying to keep his family together since the krang invasion as they all deal with it their own way. He feels like they keep splitting apart and he's the only one who sees all the cracks. But when he finds a krang hiding away in his home, Mikey gets put to the test of just how far he's willing to go for family.

Warnings: family fights, some angst (nothing too bad since it's just the first chapter lol)

Chapter 1

It was a year and a half before Mikey saw the krang again. At the time, however, he hadn't realized it was the krang and instead assumed it was a very old piece of gum he just stepped in.

His brothers were all in the training room, constructing the biggest pillow fort they could. They had built pillow forts before but considering the mile long blueprints Donnie had drawn up, this was going to be the winner.

Donnie flipped his goggles up from his perch atop the ramp. "Looking good, fellas. Two more hours and we should have the first floor done. Leo, careful with those pillows. We don't want Dad knowing we ransacked the house to make this beauty."

"I'm always careful," Leo argued, five seconds before he almost collided into Raph.

Raph floundered for a second, the fort swaying before it settled back into place. Everyone gave a sigh of relief.

Leo placed his pillow down. "Okay, that one doesn't count. Donnie was distracting me."

Mikey was so glad everyone was getting along like this. Dad and April had gone on a weeklong trip to check out a possible resurgence of the Foot in London. He wasn't sure how his brothers would act this long together and with no buffer. But it looks like he worried for nothing. It almost felt like when they were younger. Before they became heroes and before…

"Mikey!"

Donnie calling down to him snapped him out of his trance. He saluted like a soldier to their captain. "Yes sir?"

"Fetch me the cushion from the armchair in the TV room. It's unnaturally squished and saggy shape is perfect to weigh the other pillows down in place."

Raph paused his carrying. "Wait, from Dad's chair? I don't think that's such a good idea, Donnie."

"Its inclusion was on page 35 of my Pillow Fort World Record Plan. I don't know why you'd be complaining about it now unless you hadn't read my manual."

Mikey felt the slightest pressure of tension in the air.

"If we mess up Dad's chair, he's not gonna leave us alone unsupervised until we're 50," Raph countered dropping his pillows to face Donnie more directly.

The tension grew stronger, tightening around Mikey's shell and stomach like an ill-fitting belt. Usually Raph wouldn't pick fights over something as silly as a cushion. But after the krang, his fuse had gotten shorter. It didn't take much to set him off into an argument or even a fistfight. Mikey hated both.

"Look guys, I'll be super careful and as soon as we're done, we'll put the cushion back. Dad will never know." Mikey also hated lying to his dad, but he had to pick the lesser of two evils.

Raph's voice was stern, but his shoulders were already relaxing. "Even if we're careful, Dad will know if it's out of place."

Mikey shook his phone like a magic charm. "I'll take a picture so we can put it back in the exact same place." He hurried off before either of them could argue more.

The TV room was pitch black. He fumbled for the switch a moment, a small bubble of panic thinking he couldn't find it and a monster was waiting to pounce. But his fingers connected and the lights blinked on. Dad's chair in the same place as always. It felt eerily silent with no one there, the TV switched off for the first time in years. He shook off the chills and reached out for the cushion.

Wait, picture first.

He unlocked his phone and waited for it to focus on the chair. Something shuffled. Mikey's head swung up. Nothing in the room moved. He was just spooking himself. The flash lit up and nearly blinded him as he took the picture. He forgot it had been on. Shutting it off, he took another picture.

Something scurried at the edge of his vision. His heart caught in his throat. Had he seen something or were his eyes playing tricks on him? But then he heard a rattling. A definitive noise coming from behind the TV. He knew without a doubt something was in here.

"Leo?" He crept closer. The TV felt ominous. "You'd better not be trying to scare me."

Leo hadn't tried to scare him in months. But it was the only explanation his terrified mind could generate.

He was so tense he was barely breathing. Why hadn't he brought his weapon with him? He was at the TV. All that was left to do was face whatever was behind there. He just had to check behind there and ignore his pounding heart and all the danger signals and every bad feeling telling him not to do this and--

He looked behind the TV. It was empty. His stress dissipated and he could breathe again. He needed to stop watching so many horror movies.

Thrilled he was not going to be murdered by a shadow monster, he trotted back in to everyone. "Guys, you're not going to believe--"

"Mikey, do you have the cushion? We're at a critical stage!" Donnie yelled down.

Raph held the fort in place, trembling underneath it's weight.

"Oh, right. Knew I forgot something."

He walked back in, light still on and much less scary now. Grabbing the pillow, he made his way to the fort.

SQUISH

He froze. Something warm and gooey was underneath his foot. Not a totally new sensation but definitely an unwelcome one. He inspected his foot, trying to figure out what leftover food this was.

It was pink and very slimey. Too solid to be melted ice cream. Too soft to be bubblegum. Maybe some kind of moldy chip dip?

As he stared at it, the goop slid. Something shifted inside of it. Out came a mouth. It had sharp teeth.

The mouth screamed.

Mikey screamed back and ran. The goop flew off his foot. His panic only mounted and he dashed into training room.

"Whoa, where's the fire?" Leo called.

"Behind me! There was a mouth! Screaming! Monster!"

"Mikey slow down, slow down!"

But his momentum was too great and he noticed he was going to crash too late. He slammed into Raph's stomach. The big turtle folded in on himself. The tower of pillows wobbled, then came crashing down.

Mikey always assumed that a bunch of cushions and pillows wouldn't hurt but seeing twenty of them hurtling towards him, he began to reconsider. Raph yelled and dove on top of him.

The world darkened as they avalanched before everything went quiet and still.

After a moment, his older brother shook the remnants of their fort off.

"Noooo!" Donnie cried, clutching a saggy pillow. "My world record!"

"And your irreplaceable family members, right?" Raph asked.

"Uh, yeah. You guys, too."

Raph held out his hand and helped Mikey to his feet. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm sorry our fort got ruined but--" The words froze in his mouth when he saw Leo picking up a cushion. Dad's cushion with a large gash running through it. They all turned back to see stuffing still caught on Raph's red elbow pad. Donnie broke the silence first.

"Aw, look what you did! That was Dad's favorite chair."

The tension erupted.

"Look what I did? You're the one who came up with the stupid idea to do this in the first place! If you had just listened to me everything would be fine!"

"It always has to be about you, doesn't it? Always your plans, your rules and your way. My idea was brilliant and you know it!"

"Guys! Please don't fight," Mikey said but he couldn't be heard over the arguing. His stomach started hurting and he felt like crying. Why did he have to be so stupid? He never should have been trusted with such an important task.

Before their fighting escalated to yelling, Leo dropped the cushion. It landed with a soft thud. They fell silent as they watched him.

"A pillow fort was a stupid idea, anyway." He walked away, not so much as slamming a door as he hid in his room.

When Mikey turned back, his brother's faces were as dismayed as he felt. Raph's gaze fell to the ground before he turned and talked specifically to Mikey.

"I'm going to get ready to go on patrol. Don't wait up for me."

And then it was only him and Donnie. Mikey picked up the cushion, staring hard at the gash as if his eyes could mend it. His brother watched him awkwardly.

He sucked in a breath before he spoke. "Listen, Mikey, we're not mad at you, okay?" He patted his younger brother's shoulder stiffly. "Raph is just a bonehead who likes nitpicking well intentioned and devastatingly handsome geniuses sometimes."

Mikey forced a smile. At least he was trying. "Yeah. I'm gonna be in my room for a bit."

And so, the unity between the brothers split in four different directions. Mikey felt like each one pulled his heart a different way.

***

Inside his room, he played music to try and make himself feel better. Unfortunately, he kept skipping to sad songs so he was only making himself feel worse.

Out of everyone's reaction, Leo's had hurt the most. Instead of lashing out like Donnie and Raph, he would shut down. No matter what anyone did, he wouldn't leave his shell. Mikey could figure out what was going in the others' head, but Leo was a blank slate. He had no idea what to do with him.

If he had been confiding in someone else, Mikey wouldn't be half as worried. But he wouldn't let anyone in. Wouldn't talk at all about the time in the prison dimension and abruptly changed subjects if anyone asked how he was doing. All Mikey knew was that he was still hurting.

If only he had some way to--

Something clattered to the floor. Mikey lifted one of the ears of his headphones. He expected more silence but saw a blur scurrying behind his desk. His heartbeat picked up. It was probably just a bug. A cockroach scurrying around his messy bedroom.

That made him feel worse.

There was more noise and Mikey knew he hadn't imagined it this time. He wished he could run to one of his brothers for help but the only one he could go to was Donnie and Donnie Didn't Deal with Bugs.

Reluctantly, he put down his headphones and grabbed his least beloved magazine. He inched towards the corner he last heard the sound from. Nothing moved. He rolled up the magazine, poking at clothes and discarded papers. A rogue memory of a beetle scuttling over his foot made him wish he wore shoes.

Another rustling. Behind his dresser. He leaned closer, trying to see behind the dark space of the dresser's shadow. It would be better if he struck first. He swallowed hard. Reached the magazine into the crevice.

Something flew out and landed on his face. He screamed.

"Get off get off get off!"

He smacked himself in the face with the magazine a couple times before realizing it was not going to let him go. His vision gone, he stumbled around his room, tripping and falling over boxes and books. He landed hard on stomach, knocking the wind out of himself. Finally, he reached up and grabbed onto his assailant, flinging it to the ground. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Like in his nightmares, a krang stood before him, glaring as though Mikey was the invader. Although in his nightmares, the krang usually wasn't the size of a cockroach.

It raised two of its tentacles in the air and yelled at him in a voice that sounded like it sucked on helium. "Foolish turtle! You thought you had defeated the krang but we have persevered. We shall kill your family and everyone you love for your insolence!"

Mikey couldn't help it. He laughed.

This only angered the krang further. "You dare mock me? I shall make you feel true pain!"

It slunk up to Mikey and bit him on the ankle. "Ow!" Even though it was tiny, it still had teeth.

He yanked it up into the air to stop it from biting him again. But he had to twist it and turn it upside down in his grip to avoid its reach. It writhed and growled like a naughty puppy.

"Listen, I met your other family, your big brothers and sister, but I can't say I'm scared of you." He had to hold back from calling it cute. Ugh, he was letting his guard down too much. It was still a krang.

"You impudent insect, I was the krang you met. When your blue turtle abandoned me in the prison dimension, I sent a piece of me back with him."

His stomach dropped. All good feelings sucked out of the room and into the krangs evil smile.

"Oh, you didn't know, did you? We krang are smart like that. Just a drop of my DNA hiding on his shell, that's all it took to sneak out. Usually Krang don't resort to such passive tactics but we do cover every possibility. I've been here this whole time, regenerating the rest of my body and waiting in the shadows until the time was right to--"

Mikey heard footsteps. He grabbed an empty bucket of paint and slammed it on top of the krang right as Raph walked in.

"You okay in here, Mikey? You’re looking pretty frazzled."

"No, everything's fine." Mikey was eternally grateful Donnie had soundproofed his room so Raph hadn’t heard him screaming. The bucket of paint tried moving and he sat down on top of it. "Just thought I saw a bug."

Raph stiffened. He hated bugs even more than Donnie. "Well, uh, tell me if you need any help."

He had picked a terrible time to come in. A minute earlier and Mikey would have loved the help. But he couldn't now that he knew what it was. "I will. No worries." He laughed an unconvincing laugh. He really hated lying.

Raph turned to leave but paused in the doorway. "I'm sorry for yelling earlier. I'm not upset at you, Mikey, I just… I still feel like I'm not in control sometimes. Like the krang could show up out of nowhere and use me again."

He wanted to scream but instead focused all his energy on forcing the paint can to stay down and not move.

"I know it's not rational but…" Raph trailed off, shaking his head. He looked back at Mikey and smiled. "None of us are mad at you, I promise." 

Any other time, Mikey would have jumped up and hugged him, shouting hallelujahs that his brother was opening up. But all he could do was ignore the hole the paint can was burning into his shell. "Thank you. I really appreciate that."

With another smile, Raph disappeared. Mikey slumped over. The paint can flew off and landed against the wall, crumpling as if someone crushed it.

“Finally!” the krang yelled, scuttling over to Mikey. “I can come kill y—”

He slammed it into the ground with his hand, squeezing it as if it was a stress toy. “You are not going to do anything. You may have had the advantage before, but you will not hurt us this time.” He could feel the tingle of his mystic power surging through his veins, preparing to—

“Mikey, get out here!” It was Donnie.

“What do you need?!”

“Just get out here and I’ll explain everything!”

Growling and grumbling, Mikey took the krang and threw it into his drawer, wedging a plastic magic wand (Leo’s, he should really return it) against the handle so it was locked. He took a couple breaths before going out there again, knowing he’d need to act as calm as he could. Mikey didn’t know much about the situation he was thrust in, but he did know one thing.

He couldn’t let his brothers find out about the krang.

[next]

#rottmnt #save rise of the tmnt #krang pie #rottmnt fic

[degloved]

some

some scott tibbs content mayhaps??

a confession: i have never even so much as approached the scott tibbs side of the fandom, however, i am so determined to do all these that i really, really wanted to try. even if i'm flying by the seat of my pants here, a little bit. hope i didn't disappoint!!

also, my first crack at writing adam. a lil intimidating altogether, but yknow. expanding my horizons and all that.

‼️SAW REQS STILL OPEN‼️

Adam's apartment wasn't all that different from his own, Scott concluded as he took stock of his surroundings. Cramped, a little decrepit. To say lived in would be… very generous.

In not so many words: a shithole.

Maybe that was why he felt right at home. The thought brought a wry little smile to his face, brief. Chased away before it had the chance to stick.

"Shit, man, take a seat. You want something to drink? I've got some… well, I've got something," Adam chuckled, a little awkwardly.

Scott rounded the couch, picked an armchair to plop down into. Observed Adam's constipated little expression with great interest.

"Just water. Thanks."

"Right. On it."

Scott was a curious guy by nature, and in the interest of practicing kindness towards oneself—thus not suppressing that very nature—he let his eyes roam. They lingered on the brand-new set of throw-pillows carefully fluffed up and meticulously arranged along the saggy leather couch, the odd book haphazardly left on the coffee-table here and on the TV stand there (some thick ass tomes they were, too, and—alright, call him an asshole, but he never would've taken Adam, the dude that had fought tooth and nail through middle school English, for a connoisseur of… medical literature, by the looks of things.)

Was that a pair of reading glasses perched atop the suspiciously stocked bookshelf?

The clank of ice-cubes against glass was the harbinger of Adam's return; extremely tentative steps were taken toward the sitting area in an effort not to spill the sloshing liquid.

Notably, he set them down on… coasters? Scott had to do a double take, there.

But, yup, sure enough. Two matching coasters. Pastel.

"Huh."

Adam's head snapped up, eyes landing on him. Scott let the moment stretch, absentmindedly rubbing his faintly-bearded chin.

"Well, what?" Adam's voice betrayed impatience. (Still easy to rile up, then.)

"Y'know, I never was one to put much stock into that whole…" he waved a hand through the air, gesturing vaguely, "line of logic your friend Jigsaw's got going on."

Adam tensed.

"All that stuff and nonsense 'bout change and rebirth—or whatever the press like saying these days. Walk into a game some… lowlife piece of shit, walk out enlightened. Or whatever the fuck." Scott sat up, leaned forward, "But maybe he's got a point."

"Scott, I swear… I mean, cut that shit out, man. S'not cool. Really isn't." Adam looked this way and that, eyes inexplicably flickering towards a particular closet by the front door. His fingers twitched, tugged at the hem of his sleeve.

"Hey, don't get all spooked on me now," Scott chuckled, "All I'm try'na say is, all my life I've seen you use a damn coaster exactly once—when my Ma asked you to, the first time you came over. Ended up such a hassle, she ain't ever ask you again." He cleared his throat, engaging a pause for dramatic effect, "And now you're setting them out on your own volition."

Adam snorted, though didn't appear very amused just yet. "You're losing me here, dude."

"My point is," Scott rolled his eyes, tossing a significant look Adam's way, "It's really not about the coasters. Your dump's full of shit that doesn't belong in a dump. Shit I know you didn't bring into the dump. Doesn't look like you've got a live-in, though."

"I don't," Adam stated, firm, though was quick to add: "Any kind. I don't, point-blank. Maybe I'm expanding my horizons here, reading up on interesting shit, you don't know me. You haven't seen me in… what, four years? Five?"

Scott had to roll his eyes, politeness be damned. He'd never heard a dumber sentence. Which was saying a lot, because… "I've known you since diapers, moron. Four, five years doesn't take away from having spent the first eighteen of our lives joined at the hip. Don't lie to me like I'm your damn dad. Jesus."

"Whatever, man," Adam sighed, took a careful sip. Scott regaled him with another completely warranted eye-roll.

Though he did cut him some clack thenceforth, easing away from that (apparently) sore subject—and all others of that nature, which Adam certainly wasn't short of—in favor of engaging in some pleasant mutual reminiscence and casual small talk. Slightly-mind numbing, past a certain point, though Scott supposed he mightn't be too hard on him. Not much time has passed since… well. That unfortunate event that might've changed the trajectory of his life. Wagered Adam would speak on the matter when ready.

They frittered away a couple of hours in this manner.

Honestly—Scott would swear up and down—he really did think he'd be able to let the sleeping dogs lie. Truly.

...but maybe the sight of an old hickey, unfortunately revealed by Adam's ill-timed tug at his sweater's collar, stirred something a little mean in him.

Before the other could get halfway through a 'bye, then', Scott made the executive decision to press him up against the doorway, hands dipping down the back pockets of those ratty jeans, noses bumping. He didn't kiss him. He might yet, if the circumstances call for it. As it was, he was still close enough to feel Adam's breath, warm against his upper lip.

"Scott… hey, listen," Adam gently shoved against his chest, successfully putting a mite more space between them, "We can't- it's not—"

"No? That's a first, coming from you."

Adam flushed, a pretty crimson stretching from his neck up. "I just… okay, I don't- well, it's just—"

Scott backed off, a smirk playing about his lips. Gotcha. "Give your boyfriend my best."

Having left Adam sufficiently speechless, he bounced.

#i really hope this is the sorta thing you wanted !!!! i don't know what the popular storyline abt scott is so i just. winged it. basically #i think its nice though <3 #scott tibbs #adam faulkner stanheight #chainshipping #saw #n #fic request

[pigeonwhumps]

Soft words

MD-264N masterlist

@febuwhump alt 3: soft words

Taglist: @wolfeyedwitch

Rhian persuades Morgan to join the rest of the team downstairs.

762 words

CWs: self dehumanisation

"It is really acceptable for this weapon to go downstairs with you?" asks Morgan, worrying at Archimedes' rough fabric.

"Yeah. We want to spend time with you. Especially me. But I'm not forcing you to if you don't want to come."

"I do, Rhian. I, it was just making sure."

"Okay. Come on then. You want to hold my hand?"

Morgan swallows and slips its hand into Rhian's, accompanying her downstairs. The talk in the room dies away abruptly as they enter.

The room looks… comfortable, Morgan supposes, with mismatched saggy old seats arranged around a coffee table, TV in the corner. Net curtains are drawn, giving them privacy, but it's still nice and light.

Asha grins and waves from the sofa. Morgan waves back shyly.

"Hey there you two," says Asim with a small smile. "Good to see you again, Morgan. Blue's microwaving popcorn. Sit wherever you like."

Rhian sits on the armchair, but Morgan hesitates. It doesn't know where it should go. All this comfort is meant for people, not weapons, but it's clearly being allowed it so… what should it do?

Rhian pats their lap. "Come on, sweetheart, you can sit with me if you like."

Morgan wants to, but it hesitates. It's been here several weeks now, but it's still almost unbelievable that anyone would be willing to allow it so close. Does its handler… no, its friend, that's what she says, its friend, and that doesn't make sense, weapons don't have friends, that's only for people… but Rhian's its friend, she wants to be its friend. It's never had a friend before. Is she really willing to let it so close? To let it touch her so much, in front of other people?

She beckons it closer. "It's okay, sweetheart, you're okay. Come on over, if you like, that's it."

Morgan nods and climbs hesitantly onto Rhian's lap. When there's no objection, it curls up against her chest, watching the rest of the room carefully. Asha just smiles, and Asim gives it an approving nod.

It swallows. It hasn't got Blue's reaction yet.

Rhian rubs its arm, speaking softly. She always speaks so softly to it, like it's something worth caring about. It makes it feel warm. "Hey, it's okay. That's it, sweetheart, you're good."

"We're going to watch The Sword in the Stone, if you're okay with that?" says Asim. Morgan nods. It doesn't know what that is exactly, but it nudges its brain with warm familiarity and anyway, weapons don't make decisions. Especially not for people. "Great. I'll go ahead and set it up."

Just then, Blue enters and Morgan tenses. It still remembers what they said to Rhian, in the conversation it wasn't supposed to hear. What if they think it's too dangerous for it to be here? Rhian squeezes its shoulder.

"Er. Hello, Rhian, Morgan. Popcorn! Rhian, I made you and Morgan sweet popcorn to share, and the rest of us have mixed."

Morgan takes the bowl, and Rhian shifts so she's able to reach the food. "Cheers. How'd you guess the seating arrangements?"

Blue shrugs, handing the bigger bowl over to Asim and sinking down onto the end of the sofa. "You always take the armchair so you don't feel boxed in, and Morgan wasn't going to sit with anyone else."

That's not entirely accurate, the weapon would have been willing to sit with Asha, but it doesn't correct Blue. "Thank you."

Blue smiles tightly. "You're welcome."

Rhian squeezes Morgan as the opening credits play out on screen.

"It's nice to have you down here with us."

Morgan snuggles into Rhian. She's so warm, and she's so willing to let it close, to touch it with bare hands. To hug it. And no-one is objecting. There's no looks of disgust. The weapon knows that if any of its handlers at its old base had touched it like this, so gently, just to comfort it, they would've been severely reprimanded. The weapon wraps itself around Rhian as best it can, careful not to drop the popcorn, and she doesn't even flinch, just resting her arm on it, a comforting weight. It can hardly believe it gets to stay here, warm and comfortable, and just be. Weapons aren't permitted that, but… but it is here. It's so nice, it could almost cry. It swallows past the lump in its throat.

"This weapon is... happy it joined you," replies Morgan softly. And it is, it thinks. Weapons aren't supposed to have emotions, it's not sure what it's feeling, but it thinks this might be happiness.

#whump #whump writing #self dehumanisation #living weapon whump #living weapon #whumpee and caretaker #multiple caretakers #febuwhump2023 #febuwhumpalt3 #md 264n #morgan the weapon #rhian the fighter #asha the medic #blue the engineer #asim the leader #morgans like a cat

[joshuamyra]

Book (1): No Opportunity Wasted...Book (2): Mother. Wife. Sister. Human.

Description

Book (1): No Opportunity Wasted: No Opportunity Wasted: 8 Ways to Create a List for the Life You Want In dramatic narrative form, Phil Keoghan transports the reader from the Yucatan Jungle to the depths of an underwater cave to the top of an erupting volcano. But this is no armchair traveler book.

Book (2): Mother. Wife. Sister. Human. Warrior. Falcon. Yardstick. Turban. Cabbage. Rob Delaney is a father, a husband, a comedian, a writer. He is the author of an endless stream of beautiful, insane jokes on Twitter. He is sober. He is sometimes brave. He speaks French. He loves women with abundant pubic hair and saggy naturals. He has bungee jumped off of the Manhattan Bridge. He enjoys antagonizing political figures. He listens to metal while he works out. He likes to fart. He broke into an abandoned mental hospital with his mother. He played Sir Lancelot in Camelot. He has battled depression.

These will make a nice gift for the reader in the family.

[lovebillyhargrove]

Neil Hargrove dies but he does not disappear.

He often wondered, back when he was alive, what it would be like. After death.

He finds out that it's like he has never expected.

He's still sitting in his saggy creaky armchair. Rubbing his dry wrinkly hands together. Listening to the clock tick tocking away the minutes that he doesn't need to count anymore. There is no time where he's at now.

Neil Hargrove knows no peace.

He is aware of two realities. Tortured by them because neither brings him tranquility, leaving him disquieted and dreading.

Although he's not sure what is real anymore and what is not.

In the first one he finds himself sleeping in his bed, the one that he had died in. His sleep is restless. He's seeing a dream. It's always the same. His 18-year old son Billy is sitting by the bed. He's sitting with his face looking downward, Neil can't really see well behind the hair, his son's girl-like long hair hiding half of his face.

But Billy's here and Neil's trying so hard to look into Billy's eyes, he remembers the colour, he looked into his son's eyes so many times, on so many occasions when he had him pinned against a wall, or when his own heavy hand was gripping Billy's shoulder or face, he knows the colour of Billy's eyes, they are blue, they are so so blue and so rebellious.

"Let me look at your face, son. Let me see your eyes," - he calls out to him.

But Billy doesn't listen to him, doesn't react, doesn't obey.

He's always been so difficult.

"Billy. Are you listening to me, Billy? You have to listen to your father."

It goes on like this for some time. Neil is surprisingly patient, doesn't even raise his voice at his unruly son.

And then suddenly, when Billy finally lifts his head up a little, hair falling back, and opens his eyes, there's blackness staring back at Neil, there's no blue, there are no eyes, it's just black, two black abysmal voids looking back at Neil, and

He wakes up with a loud gasp, in cold sweat, hand scrambling for the light switch to turn on the bedside lamp because the darkness flows around him like black blood, it's pitch-dark in the room and he can't stay in darkness, he can't stand it, if he did everything right, then why does he keep seeing Billy in his dreams, why does he keep thinking about him, why does his dead son keep visiting him?

Neil is looking around.

There is no Billy sitting beside him.

"It was all a dream, it was all just a bad dream," - Neil mumbles to himself, throat constricted, raspy and dry.

"Billy I'm .. what do you want from me, son??? I've tried. I've done everything I could to raise you right. I haven't done anything wrong."

"They took you away from me. They took you away, they didn't even let me say a proper good bye to you, Billy. I.. I tried to do everything right, tell me I did everything right."

Neil stutters and cries quietly and tearlessly. There are no tears coming from his eyes, his body has lost the ability to produce any, somewhere along the way.

All he wants is to look into his son's eyes, his clear blue eyes to see if everything is back to normal again, but gods have been denying him his wish and he doesn't understand why.

Unforgiven on ao3

#billy hargrove #billy and neil #neil hargrove #billy hargrove fic #POV neil hargrove #mine

[austenpoppy]

I need to scream

@hillnerd Okay so my review for "Waking up: chapter 7" got erased twice by Tumblr and I have to start everything all over again (I'm not desperate what are you talking about).

But as I don't know how long it'll take, in the meantime I absolutely want to talk about one sentence in this chapter that made me do a quadruple take. In the video that I took of myself reading that part of the chapter, you can see my eyes widen in shock as if I was a cartoon character.

He’d rather talk about the locket than the Snatchers, and he’d rather rip off his other fingernails than talk about the locket in any detail.

OH. MY. FREAKING. GOD.

I DO NOT HAVE WORDS.

Ron'd rather -

*I put my hands on my head*

Ron'd rather talk about the locket than the Snatchers.

*I lean back in my armchair and speak with a higher-pitched voice*

RON'D RATHER TALK ABOUT THE LOCKET THAN THE SNATCHERS !!!

Like, how bad was his encounter with the Snatchers for him to say that ?? I know I've been hypothesizing from the start that Ron had had it worse in "Waking up" than in "Ron and the Snatchers" because of an accumulation of small details, but this...

To me the locket was the single worst thing that happened to Ron apart from Hermione's torture in "Malfoy Manor" and Fred's death, what with Ron being tortured mentally, having suicidal ideations, being nearly possessed, being told over and over again he's nothing and that his loved ones don't care about him and despise him... And Ron's reaction to the locket when he sees it again always brings tears to my eyes (backing away from it, shaking, telling Harry that he "can't handle it"...).

AND YOU'RE TELLING ME HIS ENCOUNTER WITH THE SNATCHERS WAS EVEN WORSE ???

MERLIN'S SAGGY PANTS ! BORDEL DE MERDE !

Aha, sorry I just -

RON'D RATHER TALK ABOUT THE LOCKET THAN THE SNATCHERS !!

#hp #hillnerd #fanfiction #ron weasley

[sanders1665]

Strip malls and fast food chains,

a sidewalk sign spinner entertains,

cashiers repeating "have a nice day",

schools out and kids want to play,

advertising boards and neon lights,

beckoning the poor, the rich and socialites.

Passing trucks with full beam headlights,

makes no difference day or night,

pan handlers begging at the junction,

people stare with skeptical presumption,

speeding motorists and blaring music,

some people are just rock bottom basic.

Wearing pajamas at the local store,

lazy attire not to be seen on a dance floor,

skimpy shorts and saggy pants,

modern costumes make a fine romance,

parents shouting and kids crying,

windy days and fluffy clouds flying.

In shadows, drug addicts paying for a score,

an entitled generation demanding more and more,

people needing some fix to fill their lives of despair,

watching T.V, cellphone in hand, sat on an armchair,

listening to stories from the old timers,

on lazy afternoons during the hot summers.

Noisy ball games in the local parks,

everyone knows their local landmarks,

walking the dog in the parks and streets,

sports fans wailing at their teams defeat,

life is the same most towns and cities,

full of stories and cheerful ditties.

Mowing the yard, avoiding the fire ants,

checking the newspaper for local events,

fishing on the banks, enjoying ones solitude,

a couple of days rest and feeling renewed,

a small corner in a dreary hum drum town,

hopeful weekends, Monday begins a countdown.

#poem #my post #spilled words #poems and poetry #my poem #poetry #my poetry #rhyme #spilled thoughts #new poem #my hometown

[historicfailure]

🌹

Hey there! Thanks for sending in a rose ^^

The waiting area consisted merely of two long and low couches in an elegant grey and two armchairs in the same style and color. Some magazines were sprawled over a nearby coffee table, but the man sitting in one of the armchairs covered his face with a bright orange book, obviously loved and worn-out from the hours he spent reading the story. He wore a white coat, so he was maybe a doctor on his break, sitting here where no patient would bother him.

“Hello.” You greeted softly.

His reaction should’ve been a clear sign. Instantly he jerked upright, uncovering a grey tuft of wild and spiky hair, black eyes, widened in panic, a scar crossing his left eye and a flu mask covering his lower face. The book sunk into his lap, revealing a saggy green cotton shirt, fitting to the just as green cotton pants and the black comfy shoes.

“Uhm…” The man coughed awkwardly, fidgeting in his spot. All the while you chuckled at his nervousness and settled down on a couch across from his seat, adjusting your bag with some papers and medical documents in it by your side. “Don’t worry,” you told him and winked, “I’m not gonna tell the nurses you’re here. Everyone deserves a break sometimes, so don’t mind me.”

Heh, another long-term project ^^'' Also, another Kakashi x Reader fic, Modern AU, with ghosts... *hinthint* ;D

#ask games #wips #kakashi x reader

[dearheartdont]

@micamicster Not really a deep dive into the set design of Saira’s flat but you got me thinking.

In Saira’s home, the furniture looks second hand and for necessity rather than any sense of aesthetics: the saggy sofa; an armchair covered in a blanket, probably to hide rips and wear; her mattress on a base of repurposed pallets; that appallingly ugly fringed lamp. They’re all signs that she is just scraping by. I think her boss must have offered/helped with her accommodation because she wouldn't be able to afford that much space on a butcher’s wage.

Contrast this with Amina’s bedroom: organised, with matching furniture and soft furnishings in the shades that Noor would approve of. Amina’s room represents the kind of person she feels she should be, with everything in her life mapped out on her little wall planner.

Saira’s flat shows a life and home pulled together without familial support and tenuously held onto with a low paid job and hope.

For both Saira and Amina their posters display their inner selves and true interests. Amina’s are hidden shamefully inside her wardrobe (closet!) while Saira’s take over every wall surface.

Saira’s home almost looks like a teenager’s bedroom. Perhaps it’s to make up for what she wasn’t allowed when she was with her parents: it’s a display of her interests that contradicts what her mother thought of her growing up – “you were our good girl.”

It’s interesting that she only lets people into this space who have earned it. The band auditions take place in the neutral space of the butcher’s shop. I may be reading this too deeply because I wouldn’t be letting strangers into my home just because they picked up a flyer either.

Amina is more unsure (ashamed?) about what parts of herself to display. Her parents know about the Don McLean posters (and retrieve them when she chucks them out!), but she still hides them. Amina invites Saira into her home, but Saira ends up sleeping on the sofa rather in Amina’s room, despite the double bed.

Basically home is heart: Saira lets the band in, as well as Abdullah. But the most secret part of her heart is the box of her sister’s keepsakes. Roxie is someone that her best friend Bisma knows about, but she didn’t trust Abdullah with the same access.

(I also have thoughts about Amina’s clothing vs Saira’s clothing but this is looonng already).

#we are lady parts #long post

[ilthit]

Here’s some hard-hitting content from grown-up Tumblr, to grown-up Tumblr: What’s so great about sofa cushions? Or armchair cushions? Seats are created to be optimally comfortable. Unless you need cushions for X reasons (wonky back, badly designed or saggy sofa) get rid of those space wasters.

Maybe keep one, for when you want to nap. But, like, four or six, that’s just excessive.

#can you tell this has been a household topic for us

[remuscutein]

Wolfstar Winter

Remus sat alone in the common room, curled in his favourite saggy armchair by the roaring fire, covered in numerous layers of blankets upon blankets.

From outside came many screams of delight, as bewitched snowballs flew around the grounds from the hands of (what appeared like) almost every student residing at Hogwarts.

“Take that, Snivellus!” cried James, as a lump of ice whacked Snape on the back of his greasy head.

“Terrific shot Prongs!” cackled Sirius.

“Woooo, yeah!” squeaked Peter.

Remus sighed. He’d give anything to be with the rest of the marauders right now, but the full moon was tomorrow, and illness ravaged his skinny body. To be fair, he probably wouldn’t partake in any of the snowball fighting, rather shout at them from the sidelines and jump up and down to try and keep warm. Oh, and have his eyes drawn to the human perfection that is Sirius Black.

Remus can imagine Sirius now- a gleeful grin plastered on his face, his dark, wavy hair bouncing on his shoulders, his welcoming eyes glistening from the white of the snowflakes falling all around him. If I can’t have the real thing, Remus thought, this gorgeous image will have to do...

As Remus slowly falls to sleep, Sirius slips into the common room, wincing at the slight squeaking made by the portrait hole closing behind him. He stares at Remus’ sleeping face for a second; he looks so peaceful, his pale skin plastered with a mixture of permanent freckles and scars. Remus snuffles a little in his sleep, which Sirius thinks is almost the cutest thing to ever grace the Earth. He silently slips in beside Remus, stealing the warmth of his many blankets.

“My Pads.” Remus murmured, still half asleep.

“My Moons.” Sirius replied, snuggling in closer, his head lying on Remus’ shoulder.

When James and Peter enter the common room five minutes later, they find the two fast asleep on that sagging armchair, arms wrapped round each other, looking as content as could be. James smiles to himself. “My brothers,” he whispers.

#marauders #wolfstar #harry potter #sirius black #remus lupin #jily #james potter

[ren1327]

Screamtober 2021

Day 6: Costume Shop

Fandom: The Magnus Archives, No Fears/Part-Time AU

Georgie begs Jon to try this Halloween and dress up for her and Melanie's costume party. He finds a familiar face in charge of the small shop he pops into.

------------------------------------

"Utter rubbish..." Jon muttered as he walked along the shops.

Most were filled with rowdy teens, mothers with excitable children and people browsing for deals on pieces and fabrics.

He had been walking down a street known for costumes shops and was happy to find one tucked away behind a hardware store.

The bell gave a cheerful jingle as he entered, finding the shop to be older with slightly marbled carpet, and saggy yet comfortable armchairs near the three dressing room stalls.

The shop itself had several racks with a mishmash of clothing in vaguely the same size, many draped over tables.

He could see most was costume items, albeit more old fashioned.

"Hello, how can I...Jon?"

"Martin?"

The taller man rubbed the back of his neck.

"uh...what can I help you-"

"Are you working here?"

"Yes, just part time. Um, Mrs. Prentiss cares for her daughter. Just got out of the hospital and needs attention til she's in tip top shape." He said hurriedly.

"Hm." Jon said. "Well, I was hoping you could help me find a costume for Georgie and-"

"Oh the costume party!"

"How do you know about that?" Jon asked and Martin flinched.

"Ah...Georgie text me."

"She text you?" The smaller man asked incredulously.

"Y-Yes...I um...She wanted me to meet up with someone so they wouldn't be too bothered by others..."

"Who..." Jon paused as the realization dawned on him. "Ah. Well then...any suggestions?"

"What do you feel like?" Martin asked with a smile.

"Nothing embarrassing." Jon replied with a sigh. "Wait. What are you going as?"

"Um...okay, don't judge...but um...something experimental..."

"Experimental?"

"I um, wanted to be a uh, version of um..." He blushed deeply. "You know what, never mind."

"Martin." Jon's voice softened. "I wont judge. I promise."

"Um...I wanted to try to make a uh...male version of um...a certain novel character who is more famous for a musical."

"Tell me more." Jon said and sat on the edge of one of the armchairs, Martin smiling softly as he joined him to discuss his own costume.

*

"You look amazing!" Georgie praised, dressed as Morticia Addams.

Martin blushed in his white lace ball gown that had been opened and crafted into a jacket with a train along with matching pants with lace edges and shiny silver colored boots. He had a few crystal pins in his hair and blushed as he looked at Jon in his dark velvet cloak and gilded half mask covering the right side of his face beside him.

"I'm afraid we cant stay long." Martin said. "We have plans later."

"Plans?" Melanie asked, adjusting her suit jacket.

"Dinner and a movie." Jon said. "At my place."

"Oh." Georgie said as Jon led Martin into a unused corner and they started conversing with Sasha, who was dressed as Mrs. Lovette.

"Your best idea." Melanie said as Jon blushed and smiled at Martin.

#screamtober 2021 #the magnus archives #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood

[jeanettewintersons]

“It’s the clichés that cause the trouble. A precise emotion seeks a precise expression. If what I feel is not precise then should I call it love? It is so terrifying, love, that all I can do is shove it under a dump bin of pink cuddly toys and send myself a greetings card saying ‘Congratulations on your Engagement’. But I am not engaged I am deeply distracted. I am desperately looking the other way so that love won’t see me. I want the diluted version, the sloppy language, the insignificant gestures. The saggy armchair of clichés. It’s all right, millions of bottoms have sat here before me. The springs are well worn, the fabric smelly and familiar. I don’t have to be frightened, look, my grandma and grandad did it, he in a stiff collar and club tie, she in white muslin straining a little at the life beneath. They did it, my parents did it, now I will do it won’t I, arms outstretched, not to hold you, just to keep my balance, sleepwalking to that armchair. How happy we will be. How happy everyone will be. And they all lived happily ever after.”

Jeanette Winterson, Written On The Body (1992)

#writing #lit #quotes #literature #jeanette winterson #written on the body #love #romance #lesbian #*

[kittenshift-17]

“Gee, jumping into conclusions much?” Sirius/Hermione (please and thank you!)

"What in Merlin's saggy Y-fronts is going on here?" Ron Weasley demanded, barrelling into the room. "Hermione? You're shaggung Sirius?!"

Hermione frowned as Ron spun and slammed the door to the drawing room on his way out before turning to the enormous black dog stretched out on the floor by the fire. The dog she was using for an armchair, reclining against his large form while she used nail scissors to help clip the claws of the beast fondly known as Snuffles. Sirius, in canine form, rolled his eyes when he met her gaze before wiggling his back paw into her lap, demanding she get on with the task she'd agreed to - a task she was shocked to learn even needed to be peformed. Did anyone else not an animagus know that those capable of the transformation sometimes needed assistance with everyday pet problems when they were tranformed? Merlin, did Professor McGonagall have to ask someone to brush her for furballs on occassion? If so... who? Hermione wanted to know.

"Gee, jump to conclusions much?" Hermione asked of Sirius as she went back to trimming his claws while he huffed out a breath and closed his eyes, resting his chin on the floor. His tail wagged once or twice, thumping against the hearth and stirring up ash.

She suspected Ron had run off to alert Harry to the supposed affair she was carrying on with his godfather, and that both boys would surely soon invade the drawing room once more to make utter nuisances of themselves. She should be more annoyed about it, but she wasn't. Her shagging Sirius, indeed! Hermione harrumphed when she finished one back paw and reached for the other. That would be the bloody day. If she could convince Sirius Black to shag her, Hermione might actually die of happiness, but Ron and Harry didn't need to know that.

"Next I'll be accused of two timing you with Remus, you watch," she told Sirius grumpily. He wuffed with amusement, his tail wagging. "Mrs Wealey might even try to beat you away from me with a frypan or something equally ludicrous. Honestly, I've never met a more paranoid and dramatic collection of people."

Harry and Ron returned in short order to find Hermione clipping the dew claws on Sirius's front paw - with much difficulty given that he'd yelped and begun to squirm the minute she touched it. She was pinning him with her body and had him in a headlock.

"Hermione, what are you doing?" Harry frowned at her, utterly baffled.

"Pin him down, could you? His claws need to be cut and he's being a brat."

Harry shook his head, confused, before coming forward to grab his godfather as well, who began to growl.

"Ron said you were in here smooching him," Harry told her.

"Nope," Hermione panted, wrestling with Sirius some more when he tried to squirm free. "Just cutting his claws. He can't do it himself when he tansforms."

Harry nodded and together they pinned Sirius until all of his claws, dews included, were neatly trimmed. When they let him up, Sirius growled and transformed.

"Bloody hell, you two," he grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You're not in here debauching my best friend, then?" Harry confirmed.

"I reserve my debauchery for more private venues," Sirius answered. "Blimey, you two are stronger than you look."

"Why did you ask me to cut them for you if you were going to squirm like that?" Hermione frowned at him.

"It's instinct," Sirius shrugged. "But they needed it. Reckon I can convince you to comb out my undercoat for summer? Or are you done with me now that Ron's discovered our scandalous affair?"

Ron's ears turned red when they all laughed and he stomped out of the room.

"He'll brutalise my chess set now, you watch?" Harry complianed. "Mind if i go back to my game with Ginny and then face off against Ron?"

"You don't want to comb out Snuffles's winter undercoat for summer?" Hermione teased.

Harry hesitated and looked at Sirius. "Do you need me too? What a weird side effect of animagi..."

"Hermione's probably got more experience with unruly hairballs," Sirius said.

"Hey!" Hermione protested, clutched at her curls resentfully.

Sirius laughed. "I meant Crooks, treasure," he assured her, though the wicked gleam in his grey eyes suggested otherwise.

Harry laughed as he departed, leaving them alone again. Hermione scowled at Sirius for a long moment. He smiled winningly until she relented and picked up the dog brush he'd given her, waiting for him to transform.

"Just for the record," he said quitely, holding her gaze when she looked at him expectantly. "I wouldn't object to Ron's conclusion actually being a reality."

He transformed again before she could reply and Hermione opened and closed her mouth several times as Snuffles laid across her lap, waiting patiently to be brushed. Unsure what to say now that he was a canine again rather than human, Hermione simply stroked the brush over his fur, and left the entire topic alone.

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