#(also-- for note of anyone who wins the cookie points of knowing the above characters--)

[take-ya-to-the-ghey-bar]

{-quietly wriggles along the floor-}

-whispers-Boyfriends--wriggles away again-

[sunnytumbies]

I'm somewhat confident that Amy's stress baking enables one or more of the other characters to then Stress Eat the baking, which could lead to Tummy Fic (tell me if I'm right and also you don't have anon asks turned on. c; might get more asks if you hit that switch!)

Whoops! Anons, you are now free to enter–sorry bout that! 

So, funny story: Tiny, you are right–you are so right, in fact, that I decided to write a lil fill for this! I had like 500 words written and then accidentally closed the tab :’), and for whatever reason my response was even more determined writing to finish it. Long story short, it’s now a /4391 word monster/ that I’m not even all that proud of, but I’m posting it anyway! It’s gonna be confusing & maybe a headache for me later because this is happening later in the story than the first “major story event” fic I’ll be posting but...here we are.

Content warning: this fic involves dysphoria, mentions of menstruation, self-loathing, and binge eating as a response to stress. Please be mindful should you choose to read!

___________________________________________________________

Amy hums lightly to herself, dusting the last of the madeleines with powdered sugar, breathing in the comforting aromas, honey and lemon mingling with cinnamon and apple, almond and vanilla, chocolate and bread. She can’t pretend that this was a good decision, can’t act like she would not have possibly benefit more from a day of studying than a day of baking, but the knots in her chest have finally started to loosen, and it’s hard to take that as anything but a win. She plates the madeleines and slides them into the last remaining patch of free space on the L-shaped countertop, clutching the notebook that belonged to her mother close to her chest. 

It’s not that Amy only ever bakes French desserts. She adores the challenge of baklava with its stubborn phyllo dough, loves the thrill and the spectacle of a good Baked Alaska; it’s just that sometimes, she needs to hear her mother’s voice in the only way she knows how–baking the way Maman taught her, dutifully reading the advice scrawled in the margins of her recipe notebook in eccentric cursive, cleaning as she cooks (”Mieux vaut prévenir que guérir, Amelie,” she’ll find herself muttering at times in a poor imitation of her mother. It translates to “It is better to prevent than to heal,” which she thinks is sort of intense as far as wisdom about cleanliness goes, but then, she’s never forgotten it). Professors will likely always butcher her last name, flattening the syllables into something harsh and ugly; classmates will continue to express their envy at the ease with which they assume she sails through her foreign language requirement, oblivious to the unique heartache of struggling to write in a language that flows from her lips with more ease than English sometimes; but no one can take this from her, her mother’s recipes in her mother’s own words, the familiar tastes and smells of home. 

It started with the croissants, shaping the dough she’d prepped earlier this week in preparation to make pains au chocolat--she can’t stop her lips from quirking up in a small, proud smile, now, looking at how perfectly they rose, how flaky the croissants are, how tantalizingly the smell of chocolate and freshly-baked bread is wafting off of them, how they glisten with brushed-on butter. But when her eyes glanced over the mostly-full bottle of fruity olive oil in the pantry, how could she resist whipping up a lemon curd tart, with its buttery almond crust and rich lemon custard filling? And it would have simply been silly to waste the lemon zest she had leftover from the tart--not when she could make the madeleines, tiny delicious cakes sweetened with honey and brown sugar, the tang of the lemon zest cutting through the sweetness in the most delicious way, complimented by the dusting of powdered sugar. Then, she thought, that was an awful lot of citrus--she simply had to offset it with a quick apple mille-feuille, the autumnal scent of roasted apples, maple syrup, and apple brandy making her wistful for October. But wait--no mille-feuille was complete without the bourbon whipped cream on top, and shouldn’t poor lactose intolerant Cal have plenty of options too? Besides, a simple spiced bread wouldn’t take too long, and the mixture of star anise, ginger, and cinnamon, sweetened with honey and rife with dried apricots and plums, would be sure to make a delicious sweet toast for breakfast.

Even still, it wasn’t truly over until she noticed that several cartons of eggs--which she, for obvious reasons, tended to buy in bulk--were set to expire soon, and it would certainly be foolish to waste so much money--really, she hardly had a choice! She made chocolate macarons with orange ganache, a cherry buttermilk clafoutis; she made kouign-amann, with its buttery dough and sugary crust, and, in a desperate bid to eat through the eggs, another batch of macarons, this time with raspberry-rose buttercream. Struck with a flash of inspiration, she used the egg yolks she’d set aside while whipping the whites into stiff peaks fit for a meringue to make toasted-flour sablé, a sort of moist little sugar cookie, and while she was at it threw in a batch of snickerdoodles--cookies were easy to both make and get rid of in bulk, and besides, they were Cal’s favorite. Lastly, she decided to tackle a chocolate pound cake--quatre-quarts au chocolat de juliette, her mother’s handwriting rebuked her, along with an all-caps reminder to bake it in a bain-marie, PAS au four!!!!!. It made Amy laugh a little, but she couldn’t deny that the water-bath made for a much richer, much more moist final product than the oven. 

She feels a brief rush of shame, looking over it all--it’s truly an improbable amount of baking she’s done, here--but her heart is full, her back aching in a satisfying, productive way. If nothing else, she’s made the house smell like home and has ensured that anyone who enters can leave full and satisfied. Finally, she removes her apron and checks her watch--perfect. She has about half an hour to get to work for her 8pm-midnight shift, a fairly non-intensive desk position at one of the campus libraries, and she’ll more likely than not have enough free time to look over her chemistry notes. As for the baked goods, she opts to leave them out, but takes a few moments to write out sticky notes (“dairy free! Come right in, Cal!”; “full of dairy! Cals beware!”), and smiles gently as she thinks of Cal coming home to a warm kitchen and plenty to eat. “That boy is too damn skinny,” she mumbles to herself fondly, and flicks off the kitchen light, leaving the one above the oven on to bathe the kitchen in a warm, welcoming glow. 

Cal is not having a good day. 

He shivers as another gust of wind blows what feels like through him, making his teeth chatter as he attempts to sink even lower into his hoodie. The slumping motion does not agree with his cramping lower belly, and he groans, straightening back up with an arm looped around his stomach. 

Any day at this time of month for him is a difficult one. He knows for a fact that he “passes,” but he still feels uncomfortably seen, feels like he has to hide himself from view as much as possible. It certainly doesn’t help that his skin hurts, that his belly bloats and his bound chest becomes sore, that despite the fact that he no longer bleeds, he gets all the associated symptoms, yeah, thanks for that, genetics. Even so, Cal isn’t new to this, exactly, and he can deal with the cramping, can even handle the accompanying dysphoria like a champ, but today has been extraordinarily awful. He couldn’t sleep last night, feeling in turns too hot and too cold, and barely made it to his bio class this morning; all the coffee machines were down in the dining hall, meaning his eyes were burning with exhaustion by the time he was halfway through bio, let alone his other two classes of the day; perhaps most damning at all, the paper he’s been counting on being due next week is actually due this week, causing him to spend an extra few hours in the library after class, barely awake, forcing himself to get something, anything onto the page; and, the cherry on top of it all, he missed the last bus home, hence tramping home now in the dark and the rain. More than one car has splashed him as it’s passed, and his jeans are practically soaked through. 

He’s cold, he’s exhausted, he barely even made a dent in the paper, and his fucking stomach hurts, the cramps now joined by an anxious knot; as much as he wants to take comfort from the fact that he can see the apartment complex getting steadily closer, he also knows that he’s going to be home alone, and something about that just does not sit well with him at the moment that Cal doesn’t want to analyze, thank you very much. 

He shivers his way up the stairs leading to the apartment, down the exceedingly long corridor, through the front door, and is almost immediately assailed by both a rush of welcome warmth and a rush of smells so delicious and overpowering that he knows immediately that today was a stress-baking day for Amy. Something drains out of Cal then, equal parts tension and restraint, the anxious buzzing of his thoughts thrown off by the sheer number of baked goods spread across the counter top. He lets his backpack fall to the floor with a thud. His stomach rumbles--he ate today, but not well--and he sort of knows he’s doomed when he catches the scent of chocolate, as well as when his eyes land on a plate of snickerdoodles (which very much does not make a lump rise in his throat, okay, it’s whatever, it doesn’t  matter, Amy made his favorite cookie for him in the middle of her own stress-fueled baking marathon, it’s whatever). Amy will be home soon. Quincy, too, at some point. He’ll be fine. He just needs to do what he can until then, and there’s no shortage of snacks to keep him busy while he waits. 

Shocking no one less than him, Cal has many, many regrets, and at least half of them are baked goods he has put into his body over the last hour. He whimpers a little, oh-so-gently palming his belly, which has distressingly little give even when he ventures to apply a little more pressure with his fingertips. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this bloated, heavy with food and swollen with almond milk, and he’d be lying if he said he’s not fighting tears, beyond ashamed to be in this state: slumped sitting on the floor, back supported by the side of the counter, shirt riding up to expose the pink flesh of his belly. He has to swallow thickly a few times, imagining the sugary sludge that’s surely squelching through his insides right now, trying to force back a dangerous burp that squeezes out anyway and leaves the taste of honey and cinnamon in the back of his mouth. He tried to be good, and that’s maybe what sucks the most. He started with a few snickerdoodles, ostensibly the only dessert on the counter that had been made for him, unable to hold back a little groan of pleasure at the taste, buttery and comforting and complemented perfectly by the crunch of cinnamon and sugar. He had four before pouring himself a tall glass of almond milk, chasing a few more cookies with it before deciding to investigate the irresistible scent of chocolate wafting from the plate of croissants. The chocolate might be a bit much for his lactose intolerance, he decided, and opted for two thick slices of the spiced bread instead, toasted and slathered with ghee. He swore they tasted like fall, like tramping through leaves and Halloween costumes when he was young. Something about filling his stomach after being so hungry and uncomfortable all day, recklessly, indulgently, eased the tightness of his chest, until he could scarcely even feel the chill from his still-damp jeans. 

He had already begun to feel rather full, but his interest was still piqued by the croissants, and he hadn’t even tried the little sugary-looking roll things, or the macaroons, or the cake--Cal squeezes his eyes shut, now, swallowing hard, struggling to even think about how much he’s eaten, but unable to completely erase the contrast from his mind between the overflowing countertop when he first arrived and the countertop now, an alarmingly high number of the cluttered plates more empty than not. All that really matters, he guesses, is that at some point filling his tummy began to hurt more than help, and he kept doing it anyway, and now his cramps have merely been replaced with sickly twinges and upset burbles. 

He tries to take a deep breath, which hitches as an ominous gurgle bubbles from the top to the bottom of his packed belly, and the tears he’s been clamping down on start to roll down his cheeks. He can’t do this, not alone, at least, and Amy’s shift still has 3 hours to go--they must have just barely missed each other. Part of him knows that he will probably feel worlds better if he simply allows himself to throw up, but he can’t handle that, not right now. He cradles his aching stomach for a moment, one trembling hand cupped under his lower belly, bloated and hot, and one resting on the hard little bloat of his tummy, even that feather-light touch ushering up a series of strained burps. After another moment of feeling his stomach contents swirl and slosh uncomfortably inside him, the nausea and misery outweigh his pride, and he hesitantly lets go of his aching stomach, swiping at his tears and pulling out his phone. 

I...fucked up, he texts her, and sends it before he can think twice about it. She replies almost instantly, one of his favorite things about Amy: ?????????????And a moment later, while he’s still figuring out where to begin: everything okay, honey?

The fragile control Cal has over his emotions abruptly slips at that, and he lets out a choked sob, swallowing hard when the motion upsets his tummy further. It hurts so fucking much, but Amy, Amy who bakes his favorites even in the middle of her own mini-crisis, Amy who takes the time to write adorable little sticky notes oriented around Cal’s dietary restrictions, Amy who calls everyone in the world honey because she cares about everyone in the goddamn world, Amy the literal human ball of sunshine--just, fucking Amy, okay? 

Yeah. I mean. I’m safe, but I’m not okay. I… Cal doubles over as a cramp twists deep in his belly, panting a little. Maybe it would be easier to just let himself be sick. You baked...a lot. I had a bad day. 

:((((( did u see my notes???? what’s going on??????

Cal has to blink hard against the tears at that, a new layer of guilt joining the anxiety and the shame of all he’s eaten. Stress-baking or not, this all had to have taken Amy a few hours, and he’d eaten right through a fair amount of almost everything. 

I’m sorry. I did see your notes. It’s not lactose, I just ate a /lot/ and I feel sick and I don’t know what to do 

A moment later, his phone buzzes with a call. It’s Amy, of course. 

“H-hey,” he manages, sniffing, and then hiccups just before a deep burp gurgles up from his churning belly, clamping a hand over his mouth for a moment as his gorge rises with it. 

“Cal, honey,” Amy says, sounding so fucking sad for him. It’s not like she’s never seen the fallout of his stress-binging before. “How much did you eat?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Cal says hoarsely, his throat burning from stubbornly swallowing back stomach acid. “I’m just nauseous and sick and--and—” He falters, feeling like a child. “And I just really had a bad day, like a really bad day, Amy, and I know your day wasn’t so good either or you wouldn’t be stress-baking but I just, I’m so fucking tired, and my paper is due and—” He gags, suddenly, and has to take a moment to collect himself, hyper-aware of Amy’s concerned silence on the other end of the line-- “and I can’t do this alone,” he finally manages, voice cracking, and it is only the knowledge that openly weeping would send him over the edge right now that keeps him from dissolving into exhausted tears. 

“I’m so sorry, Cal. I wish I could be there,” Amy murmurs soothingly, and it’s almost, almost like she’s there. “If I could leave work I’d do it in a heartbeat, but I’m going to call Quincy for you, okay?” 

Cal’s heart squeezes at that, half-anxiety, half-hope, and maybe something else, too, a deep sense of being known--Amy knows that Cal knows that she can’t leave work. Amy knows that there’s only one other person that he’d want. Amy knows that he can’t--because of anxiety, because of what he sees as a low stakes problem relative to Quincy’s very high-stakes life, because, because, because--reach out to him himself when he’s like this. “Okay,” he whispers, and hope she hears the gratitude in it. 

“Of course,” she says, so warmly that it makes Cal’s heart ache a little. “Hang in there, okay? Try to stay calm for me. I’ll let you know when he’s coming.” 

“Love you,” he mumbles, and lets his phone clatter to the floor as soon as he hears the beep that means she’s hung up, clutching at his belly, feeling his stomach lurch and rumble. He’s so fucking full. He’s such a fucking idiot. 

Some time later, Quincy comes for him. 

Cal startles when the door creaks open, then whimpers a little at the resulting complaints of his stomach. There’s just so much pressure, his stomach tight and hot as though nothing is moving at all, though with all that he feels burbling against his palm, that can’t possibly be true. Quincy looks a little frantic in the doorway before his eyes come to rest on Cal, still curled up pitifully on the floor, both hands pressed gently against his bloated stomach. 

“Oh—” Quincy breathes, shutting the door behind him, crossing the space between them in an instant and crouching in front of Cal. “God, Cal, Amy scared me half to death. Are you alright?” 

“I’m—” Cal has to stop and breathe, composing himself as a wave of nausea crashes over him, his stomach squelching unpleasantly. All at once, he realizes that he’s no longer alone, that perhaps even if he should keep suppressing everything, he no longer wants to, and he no longer cares if he’s sick, he just wants to feel better, wants to be in his bed, wants to be warm and comfortable and safe--all at once, he’s doubling over his own lap, sobbing his heart out, barely even registering the flicker of amusement he’d ordinarily feel at Quincy’s eyes going comically round behind his glasses. His stomach aches, pain ringing throughout his abdomen at the movement, and before he can process much more than that a warm palm folds itself over his distended stomach, firmly enough to quiet the cramping there, but lightly enough to keep from exacerbating the nausea.

  “Cal,” Quincy says, in that low, soothing voice of his, “I am so sorry that you’re hurting, and I’m going to make that go away, but to get you feeling better, I have to get you off the floor. I can’t imagine that you are ready to move just now?”

  “No,” Cal breathes, his usual shyness dominated by hours of physical discomfort. “Please, just—” Tears dribble down his cheeks, his lack of sleep and general exhaustion beginning to catch up with him. 

Quincy seems to hear him anyway. “Okay, hey, heyheyhey, okay, that is perfectly fine. I’m here, alright? I’m here to help you feel better.” 

Ever so gently, Quincy eases himself behind Cal, so that his back is supported by Quincy’s chest rather than the hard base of the kitchen counter. Equally gently, his arms wind around Cal’s waist, both hands coming to rest on his abused stomach. He applies pressure to the bloated space between Cal’s navel and his ribs, rubbing in broad, gentle strokes, almost immediately ushering up a deep belch that has Cal going slack with the smallest but most welcome measure of relief. Quincy is so damn warm, and his rough palm is heaven where it rests on his lower belly, supporting the bloat from below to take the strain off of his overfull stomach. His other hand moves from that space in the middle of his abdomen to his stomach, the noticeable overfull bulge where the organ ought to be, rubbing in gentle circles. The pressure is almost too much and Cal shifts to tell him so, succeeding only in ushering up several more rumbling belches, one right after the other, left gasping with the relief of it. He is still painfully aware of how full he is, packed utterly to the brim with food, but the release of trapped air is so needed and so lovely. 

Quincy holds him like this for a while, coaxing up the occasional belch, paying extra attention to the twinges that make Cal groan with nausea. Cal finds his eyes watering again, this time with sheer gratitude for his dearest friends, for their kindness, for the quiet lack of judgement Quincy exhibits as he rubs his aching tummy. Eventually, Cal feels like he might be able to move without throwing up, and Quincy supports his weight with an arm around his waist as they make their way to Cal’s bedroom. 

“I’ll be right back,” Quincy says after depositing Cal on the bed gently. “Amy said you’d want a hoodie and some shorts. How did she do?”  

Cal smiles a little sadly, having trouble finding his voice, and Quincy barely misses a beat, busying himself retrieving one of Cal’s biggest hoodies and a soft pair of pajama shorts. “Either way, let’s give it a try. You should probably take your binder off--all that squeezing can’t be helping, and no wonder you’re shivering in those wet jeans!” He ducks into Cal’s bathroom for a moment, filling up the cup next to the sink with cold water from the tap, and offers it to Cal, making sure his shaking hands don’t cause a spill before he lets go. “Try to take some sips of that, okay? Trust me. We need to break up all that sugar.” 

Cal can’t argue with that, nodding, and waits until Quincy lets the door swing mostly-shut behind him, taking the deepest breath he can manage. His stomach twinges as he bends over to put the water on his nightstand and lifts his arms to pull off his shirt. wriggling out of his binder, and he pants for a moment as the sudden release of pressure on his stomach causes the nausea to flare before it thankfully passes again. He puts on the hoodie, immediately comforted by the billowing fabric, and wriggles out of his jeans and into the pajama shorts as quickly as he can manage, forcing himself to take a measured sip of water. His stomach tightens around it, and he swallows hard. 

“Hey,” Quincy says softly, knocking twice on the slightly-ajar door before pushing it completely open with his elbow. His hands are occupied with a tv tray, carrying a heating pad and a steaming mug of tea.  “Don’t force it. You’re still very full.” 

“Y-yeah,” Cal manages, finding his voice. “Tummy really hurts.” 

“I know,” Quincy murmurs apologetically, offering Cal the heating pad. Cal practically melts when the heat makes contact with his sore belly, instantly beginning to soothe his cramping muscles, even working its magic on the fullness, just a little. “I’m sorry you’re hurting, Cal. I know you’re very full, but when you can, you should try to drink some water and this tea. It’s peppermint, so it should help with the nausea.” 

Flicking off the overheard light in lieu of Cal’s carefully-hung string lights, Quincy leaves the mug of tea on the bedside table closest to Cal, spreading the quilt at the foot of the bed over him, and Cal instinctively lets his head drop onto Quincy’s shoulder when he climbs onto the bed beside him. 

Cal nearly weeps again when Quincy reaches  for his bloated tummy without being asked, resuming a soothing pattern, rubbing wide, sweeping circles over his abdomen, applying pressure to the bloated place beneath his ribs, to his tense sides, to the hard knot of his stomach. Each instance of carefully-applied pressure coaxes up a series of rumbling belches that Cal didn’t realize he was holding in, eventually freeing up enough room for him to sip at the tea. 

“Amy will be home soon,” Quincy says after several moments. “How are you feeling?” 

“Like an idiot who stuffed my face with sweets all afternoon,” Cal mumbles, still wrestling with guilt, and Quincy frowns as his belly emits an audible squelch, smoothing a hand over it in slow arcs. Cal drinks a bit more deeply at the tea, unable to withhold a sigh of relief as it begins to fill the burbly places in his tummy, blissfully soothing the ache. 

“You aren’t an idiot, Cal,” Quincy says sincerely. “Amy says this sometimes happens when you get overwhelmed. You’re overwhelmed.” 

Something about the sincerity in his voice makes something big and terrifying shift in Cal’s chest, and he abruptly puts down the mug of tea in favor of hiding his face in Quincy’s chest, narrow frame wracked with tired sobs. He dimly registers that at least his stomach doesn’t react poorly to the movement. “I am,” he manages eventually, as Quincy gently shushes him, stroking his belly as though to keep it calm. “I am so exhausted, Quince.” 

“So rest,” Quincy says simply, “at least for now. And when Amy gets here, we’ll talk about what we’re going to do next. Okay?” 

Cal sniffs, nodding, still hiding his face, and Quincy lets him, simply bringing his arms around him, smoothing his hands over Cal’s back. Against all odds, particularly the still-overpowering sense of fullness, Cal feels his eyelids drooping. All of a sudden, everything has caught up with him, and he can barely form a coherent thought. It has been a day, his belly is now more warm than upset, and Quincy is a very, very comfortable pillow. 

“I’m gonna take that as a yes,” Quincy says, and Cal feels the rumble of his chest as he gives a low chuckle, too far gone at this point to respond. He’s going to have a lot to explain when he wakes up, but for now…

For now, Cal lays with his head on Quincy’s shoulder, arms looped around his neck, and Quincy pulls the quilt up around them. “I’ve got you,” Quincy murmurs, and the next thing Cal knows is blessed sleep.

[midnightcalibration]

Merry Bobunk Christmas!

What: Short Fanfiction

Fandom: Avengers

Characters: Read the tags for the list.

Why: ‘Cos me and a friend of mine came up with the idea of giving a Christmas role to each avenger, and I decided to write this.

Words: Almost 1800 according to my text editor.

Quality: Probably with a lot of typos and awful grammar.

Stupidity level: High (I hope).

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

Tony is coming back to his workshop to continue one of his most important projects of the year. He hadn't slept since whenever the last time was, but who needs sleep when you've got coffee? He pities those who can't drink the miraculous brew.

As he enters the room the first thing he notices is DUM-E fighting against the cables of some Christmas lights. The lights are winning... Oh! Now U is trying to help his brother, that's nice. Aaaand now he's stuck too. Tony can't believe he won a prize for one of those things.

"Dum-E, U, stop destroying my delicate work, if you please."

Sparks jump out of the lights.

"You know those lights are supposed to last, not turn into fireworks. Sto- Ah- great! The workshop is on fire. Congratulations! Now it would be a good time to use your skills with the fire extinguisher, Dum-E," Tony says as he grabs said object himself, "Though I'm not sure you would still point it at me, instead of the fire..."

After putting the fire out and helping his not so intelligent bots, he gets back to work. He is just a little bit tired, but he has to finish it in time.

Last years had been chaotic. He never had time to properly put on a good Christmas decoration show for everybody. It's not like he is a traditionalist, or even believes in Christmas. For him, it is a time where people start to compete to see who has the best circus in town. And he, as the Stark he is, cannot just let it pass. He is the greatest showman there is. Sorry, Hugh Jackman, not sorry.

Has he hears the "bing" of the elevator sound he looks in its direction and sees the best two presents he is lucky to have in his life. Pepper is holding Morgan's hand while the little pea giggles as she skips and pulls her mother with her. Only when they got closer he notices something is odd. They are wearing costumes.

"What do we have here?" Tony asks. "An elf munchkin coming straight from Santa's workshop? And she's bringing with her a..." what is Pep supposed to be? "Gingerbread woman? Seriously?" He snorts. "Is it because of your hair?"

"Well, this Santa's little helper here thought you might need a sweet cookie to help you work," Pepper replies.

"Ok," he snorts again, "that sounds like something you would never say."

"Well, I didn't say it, Miss M. did."

Another "bing" echoes in the air and Peter comes out rushing and talking non-stop, "Oh, So sorry I am late Mr. Stark, I had to help like half of the people I saw when coming here as well as save like seven cats from trees and woah I even found a goat on one, Did you know goats climb trees? It's amazing, I mean I knew that already but I never thought I would see one in New York, And-"

"Calm down, Speedy Gonzalez! Have you ever heard about punctuation? And, I don't know, breathing?" Tony sasses before noticing Peter is also wearing an elf costume. "Did you go around saving old ladies from crosswalks in that?"

"Oh this?" Peter looks at himself, "I wasn't sure what to dress as but then Morgan told me she needed an elf brother and I was happy to be hers!"

Okay. That makes sense, Tony guesses.

"Has the party already started?"

Tony jerks his head and sees Rhodey, in a ridiculous candy cane suit. Like, seriously, what is going on? Why is platypus wearing that colorful, er-, thing, where only his face is visible?

"What's up, honey bear? Did you get abducted by aliens, where they did all these terrible things to you, and now you have a nineteen year old college student clown soul trapped in your body? Come on, Rho-rho, you can do it! You can win the fight for the right of control. Now really, what party?"

"Ha-ha. Very funny, Tones," Rhodey says with a fake laugh. "I hope you haven't forgot that today is Bobunk day."

The fu-?

"Bobunk is my favorite!" Morgan almost squeals. "It's what makes Christmas magical."

"It sure is, honey," Pepper agrees and Peter nods. OK, maybe he drank too much coffee. Or not enough!

He turns to his desk to get his mug so he can wash down the brown liquid. It is then he notices two big present boxes near the wall, that were not there before.

"Who the hell put that there?"

"Boss, you should mind your language! Morgan has ears." FRIDAY spoke.

"Sorry honey bee," Tony says trying to ignore that the sentence "has ears" was a bit odd, in the context. Like, it is true, but perhaps not the best way to put it. Maybe he needs to check FRIDAYS NL program, and see if she's not trying to learn her vocabulary from websites where people forget the difference between "they're", "their" and "there". Anyway, the presents! What are they doing there?

As he approaches the packages, they "explode" with a loud pop revealing Nat and Clint smiling from ear to ear, with present bows in their heads, dressed in wrapping paper, and shouting "SURPRISE! MERRY BOBUNK CHRISTMAS!!!"

Okay, now he is sure they are trying to troll him. He gets it, he deserves it for all the times he did the same. It was never at this level of crazy, though. He would keep it to wit and sarcasm.

*knock, knock, knock*

The sound came from the balcony glass doors. It is dark outside and Tony can't see anyone. And who would enter through the balcony? Except for him, of course? He purposefully ignored it.

*KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK*

He looks again. Nothing. He resists the urge to ignore it again, but then whoever is outside is probably freezing. And they are just pranking him in a weird way, they don't deserve to turn into ice cubes, right?

When he opens the door, he sees a snowman. Dressed. As. Captain. America.

"Ahah, joke is on you! This is more of a jab to Capsicle, not me."

"What are you talking about, Tony?" The voice sounds so much like Steve's. Where the- "Holy shit!"

"Language!"

The effing snowman is speaking. IT. IS. SPEAKING! Like, it is not Rogers dressed as a snowman. It is a effing snowman, like a real one.

"How are you doing it?" Tony is still perplexed. And not even sure he can believe Olaf here actually had enough humor in him to be passing as a snowman.

"Doing what, Tony?" the freaking snowman actually frowned.

"Make it so realistic?"

"Tony, do you always need to be so rude?"

"Wha-" *CLASH*

Tony rushes inside to see what has been broken. He hopes it wasn't anything related with his Christmas project.

He stops. Thor is there, blinking. Not with his eyes, no. He is lighting on and off in several spots. You know.... like Christmas lights!!! And he is fighting is bots!

"I challengeth thee to fight me with honor, arms of metall. Thee shalt learn the warth of the mightie lightning!"

"Pepper! Pepper Ann!" Tony calls.

"What is it, Tony?"

"What is happening? Please tell me you are seeing how weird this is. I'm not going crazy, right? I don't do crazy."

"What are you talking about?" she smiles, "You are always crazy. Come! Let's see the nativity scene."

"We don't have a nativity scene, Pepsy Pep."

Pepper chuckles as she points to two new figures. Yep! He gives up. Yep, yep. For the good of his sanity, he's going to pretend everything is normal.

Wanda is dressed as Virgin Mary, and is hugging(?) Vision who seems to be wrapped in a big blanket, and very naked under it.

"Hey there, Mary, baby Jesus." Tony acknowledges. "Where is Joseph?"

Vision replied with baby cries. Totally normal.

"I'm a single mother."

"Oh yes, of course you are. Sorry for the assumption."

"I am Groot!"

"You're right, you a-" Did the tree just talked?

"Meow!" T'Challa says, his cat tail wagging as he "paws" at panicking Bucky and Scott, who are hanging from the tree - which has grown, just a note - like Christmas tree decorations. From above, Sam and Hope are laughing. They have wings so they can fly away from the sharp claws of the King of Wakanda.

Of course this is normal. He just probably traveled to an alternate universe. He just needs to know how to go back to his sane plane of reality.

The tree is gigantic, now. It's breaking the glass doors and cracking the walls. It is threatening to destroy the whole tower. This can't be. No matter how everyone is ignoring what is happening, this is dangerous and he can't let anyone get hurt. Specially Pepper and Morgan.

He makes a gesture to call his suit, and flies outside to assess the damage. Curiously enough, nothing seems to be in danger.

"Boss!"

"Yes FRIDAY?"

"We have an UFO incoming, and fast."

"Say what now?"

He looks and sees something is coming his way. His GUI zooms on the object.

"This is normal, this is normal, this is normal."

"SANTA SMAAAAAASH!" Green Hulk Santa yells, as he flies through Tony in a sled pushed by a black reindeer with a helmet that looked the exact same as Loki's.

They smash into the tower, because why wouldn't they, right? The 'K' of the STARK lettering of the tower falls.

Then he sees it! It all makes sense, now! This is Bobunk Christmas in its perfection! This is his destiny.

Letting himself accept the Christmas spirit burning inside him, he flies to the top of the tower, that now was more tree than anything else, opens his arms and legs and turns on the repulsors, casting a magnificent light, turning into a blinding shining star.

He feels magnificent!

Everyone on the street below start to cheer and applauding the exhibition. He did it! He got the best Christmas decoration of the world!

"Stark!" Everyone shouts.

"Stark!"

"Please! This is not about me," he says.

"STARK, WAKE UP!"

Tony jerks as he wakes up.

Fury is towering over him with a disapproving frown. Everything is back to normal, since it had all been a dream.

"Stark, why are you looking at me like that?" Fury asks, with actual confusion painted in his face.

"I makes total sense!"

"What does?"

"You!"

"Me?"

"You are my Bobunk Christmas Grinch!"

THE END!

[goingtothetardis]

The Stralaluri Effect

Rating: Teen Pairing: Ten x Rose Characters: Tenth Doctor, Rose Tyler, Donna Noble Find it: AO3 • TS Series: The Gallifrey Room Summary: When Rose asks the Doctor if they can make their own Christmas traditions, he takes them to Noël, the perfect destination for all things Christmas. However, while enjoying a rich celebratory dinner after winning a contest, the Doctor falls victim to a food that doesn’t react well to his physiology, much to Donna’s dismay.  Tags: Christmas traditions; Humor; Telepathy; Drugged!Doctor (alien physiology vs. alien food) Words: 5828 Author’s Notes: This is my 2017 @dwsecretsanta for the lovely @lovethytennant! She requested a situation where Ten gets hurt and Rose or Donna save the day with a little bit of Ten/Rose romance and a little bit of Ten & Donna humor. Ten’s not exactly hurt, per say, but he’s definitely a bit... incapacitated. :D

I hope you don’t mind, but I wrote this fic to fit in my Gallifrey Room verse (see above link), but it can totally be read as a stand alone fic. Just keep in mind that Ten and Rose have been reunited and share a telepathic bond, and Donna continues to travel with them. 

Merry Christmas to you!! I hope you enjoy this!!

Beta’d by the ever amazing @countessselena and @caedmonfaith!

Also, because I’m a dork and like to waste time looking for the perfect gala gowns, this is what I imagine for Rose’s dress and Donna’s dress. 

Rose sits at the kitchen table, eyes closed as she calculates dates in her head. Months after returning to her original universe and the TARDIS, time once again passes in a disjointed way, but she does her best to follow some semblance to an Earth calendar. According to her best calculations, it’s her favorite time of the year:

Christmas.

“Donna, do you celebrate Christmas?” Rose asks, turning around in her seat to look at Donna, who’s filling the kettle with water at the sink.

Donna pauses and makes a face. “Not really, no.”

Rose scrunches her forehead together, unable to understand why anyone wouldn’t like Christmas. “Why not?”

“Well, remember Lance and the Racnoss?”

Rose nods.

“We were supposed to get married on Christmas.”

“Right,” Rose says, remembering her outrage when Donna had first told her the story. “I didn’t realize it happened then.”

“Yeah,” Donna says softly.

“What if we went somewhere else to celebrate Christmas? I think it’s close to that time of the year, and I… I miss it.” Rose stands up and leans against the kitchen island, watching her friend.

Donna raises an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

“There’re lots of planets out there with some sort of winter festival tradition similar to Christmas on Earth. What if we made our own traditions? Erase the bad memories of your last Christmas and make it something new?” she proposes.

“Will you make the Doctor wear an ugly Christmas jumper?” Donna asks with a sly grin.

“Done,” Rose says, laughing as she takes the cup of tea offered by Donna.

“Well, in that case, count me in. What can go wrong with a very TARDIS Christmas?” Donna says, sipping her tea.

Rose cringes. “Oh, don’t say that, Donna. That’s just invitin’ trouble.”

“Trouble?” a voice asks from the doorway. “What’s inviting trouble?”

Rose shares a glance with Donna, who rolls her eyes.

“Of course you’d show up at the mention of trouble,” Donna says, pouring another cup of tea and handing it to the Doctor, who sidles up to Rose and kisses her on the back of the neck.

Rose shivers and smiles, sensing the Doctor’s curiosity through their bond.

“We’ve decided it’s Christmastime,” Rose announces, shifting so she’s facing the Doctor. “I think I’ve figured it out, and according to Earth’s calendar, it’s about that time of the year. I miss it, Doctor. I want to make our own traditions.” She stares at him, blinking innocently a few times, waiting for him to break down.

The Doctor huffs. “Why would we go to a boring Yule planet when we could go to a planet where unicorns are real?”

Rose pauses, momentarily distracted. “What, really? Unicorns?”

The Doctor smiles, as if sensing a win, and she shakes her head, pulling herself back to the matter at hand.

“Unicorns later. But right now? Christmas. But I mean, only if you want, Doctor. I don’t want to force you.” She chews on her thumbnail and stares at the Doctor, and in the background, Donna snorts in amusement.

He sighs in apparent defeat. “I never really had a choice, did I?” the Doctor says, crossing his arms over his chest and sticking out his bottom lip in a pout.

“Not when she gives you those mooneyes, no.” Donna reaches across the counter and pats his shoulder. “Sorry, Doctor.”

“Eh, I enjoy a good Christmas festival. The nibbles are always top notch. And snow! Real snow!” His eyes narrow as he turns to Donna. “How’d you agree to this? I didn’t think you liked Christmas.”

“Rose’s charms don’t just work on you, Time Boy.” Her long suffering sigh makes Rose laugh.

“So, Doctor, where’s the best place in the universe to celebrate Christmas? I want it all. The snow, the shops, the markets, the mistletoe,” she pauses to wink at the Doctor, “the hot chocolate and cookies, the reindeer, the presents, the trees.” Rose sighs dreamily, her eyes fluttering shut as she imagines the scene. “The perfect winter wonderland.”

The Doctor pushes off from the counter and paces the kitchen. “The perfect winter wonderland… There’s Pinehurst Rex, but no, the trees get a bit bitey. That won’t work.”

Rose wrinkles her nose. Bitey? “No, no biting trees, ta.”

“There’s Jinglelandalia Prime Alpha Three, but the last time I was there, the carolers got a bit handsy. Tried to steal my scarf! I mean, you say I’mrude, but oooh-ho-ho, those carolers...”

“Nope,” Rose says, shaking her head, struggling to bite back a grin.

“Hmm… No, not there. How about… Nah, too cold and no hot chocolate. No Christmas nibbles, either, now that I think of it..” The Doctor tugs at his hair as he thinks, and Rose waits patiently for him to come up with the perfect place. Donna shifts and sighs. “And no, not there, the shops are a bit rubbish. But there’s… Oh! Oooh! That’s it! Noël!”

Rose can’t help but smile at the expression of pure excitement on the Doctor’s face, sharing in his enthusiasm.

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of it right away! It has everything you asked for and more, Rose. Donna, you’ll love it! If Christmas is what you want, Christmas is what you’ll get!” The Doctor grabs Rose’s hand, but as he moves to pull her out of the kitchen, Donna clears her throat.

Rose tugs the Doctor to a stop. “Ehm, Doctor, wait. There’s just… one thing. A small thing.”

“Rose?” he asks, looking between Rose and Donna, his eyes narrowing in suspicion when Rose chews on her bottom lip. She knows it’s an easy tell when she’s nervous.

“There’s just one catch,” Donna announces, walking up to the Doctor and Rose. “I agreed to this little Christmas adventure as long as you wear a Christmas jumper.” She smirks. “An ugly one.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Please, Doctor,” Rose whinges. “I promised.” Rose holds his gaze, grinning triumphantly when she feels his defenses failing through their bond.

“Fine,” the Doctor says with a growl. Then he lifts his hand and points between Rose and Donna. “But if I’m going to look like a ridiculous ape in a Christmas jumper, you are too.”

“Fair enough,” Donna calls out as she breezes past them and heads down the hall toward the wardrobe room. “Meet me in the console room in twenty minutes! I’ll bring your jumpers!”

“What?!” the Doctor squawks in indignation. “I don’t get to pick it out?”

“Oh, please.” Donna turns to face them and rolls her eyes. “Like I’d let you chose after I’ve seen some of the atrocious fashion crimes your past selves have worn? Willingly worn, I might add.” She shudders.

As Donna continues down the corridor and out of sight, the Doctor turns to Rose, who is doing her best to not laugh at the rather put-out expression on his face. “I feel like I’ve been set up.”

Rose shrugs, unrepentant. “You love it.” She smiles at him, tongue between her teeth, before pulling the Doctor down for a thorough snog.

After a few minutes, Rose reluctantly pulls away but is pleased when the Doctor gazes at her with a dumbstruck expression, dazed and dreamy. It thrills her that even now, she can disarm him so thoroughly. Leaning up on her toes, she pecks him once more on the lips, and sends a surge of love across their bond before taking his hand.

“Come on, Doctor. Time for Christmas.”

Several hours later, Donna laughs mercilessly at the sulky Time Lord as they walk out of the gingerbread house-like theater.

“You won. I can’t bloody believe it. All that whinging about wearing a Christmas jumper, and you won the contest for the ugliest Christmas jumper on the planet! she crows, wiping her eyes.

Rose doesn’t bother holding back her laughter as she pats the Doctor on the shoulder. Knowing the Doctor’s deeply competitive nature, she realizes the position he’s in must be torture. “You can’t decide if you want to gloat about your win or pout about wearing that jumper.”

“Roooose, it’s awful.” The Doctor picks at the neon green Christmas tree feathers and pouts, jutting his lower lip out in a way that makes her want to bite it. “Can I please put my suit back on?”

“Nope, not answering. This is Donna’s decision,” she answers.

“Donna, how much longer must I wear this atrocity?” the Doctor asks, flicking one of the bells adorning the bottom of the jumper and glaring at Donna when she doubles over laughing once more.

“Okay, okay, you can take it off. I’m surprised you’re not strutting around like a peacock in the middle of a mating dance after winning that competition, though,” Donna says. “You! Winning an ugly jumper contest! Oh, I’m so glad I had my camera with me.”

Before she finishes speaking, the Doctor pulls his pinstriped blazer out of his trouser pocket and pulls the jumper over his head, forcefully shoving it into a nearby bin. As he shrugs the blazer over his shoulders, he sighs in relief, then stops in his tracks when Donna mentions the camera.

“Hang on– A camera? Hand it over,” he demands, holding out his hand. “Camera. Now.”

“Nope!” Donna says with a serene smile.

The Doctor looks at Rose. “Rose, make Donna give my camera back.”

Rose smiles, then links elbows with Donna. “Sorry, I’m not getting in the middle of that. Besides, we have the winter gala to get ready for, yeah? Winner of the ugly jumper contest and his plus one and two get VIP access, remember? Right now, we have a date with the TARDIS’s wardrobe room. Black tie.”

“What?!”

“You heard me. I’m sure the TARDIS will pick out a foxy tux for you to wear.” Rose smirks before turning around, but as she walks down the sidewalk with Donna, she shares an extra thought with the Doctor through their bond along with several images of low cut gowns she’s seen on occasion in the wardrobe. Don’t worry, Doctor. I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.

The TARDIS provides both Donna and Rose with gowns befitting both their personalities and individual styles.

Rose wears a black velvet bodice with a low cut “V” between her breasts that is paired with a flowey ombre shaded skirt in shades of grays, purples, and blues. A thin gold belt rests on her waist, adding a cutting edge to the look. Rose declares a matching cape tied at the neck with a velvet collar her favorite detail of the gown.

Donna struts around like a queen in the sapphire blue velvet, off the shoulder gown with gold embroidery along the edges of the material. It’s cut in such way to flatter the figure, and despite the high slits up the sides, the matching blue tulle underneath below maintains a simple modesty that Donna very much appreciates. Much to Donna’s delight, the gown comes with a built in cape on the back as well.

“You’re gonna knock his socks off,” Donna says, eyeing Rose up and down, admiring the gown.

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely. He’ll have a double hearts attack. And I love the cape. It’s the perfect touch.” Donna reaches out to adjust the bow, and they leave the wardrobe for the console room.

The TARDIS, bless her, has temporarily shifted the floor to a smooth, marble like surface, so that neither she nor Rose would get their heels stuck in the grating.

“I’ve never been to a gala like this,” Donna announces, and Rose smiles.

“I always love a good gala, Donna. They’re gonna think you’re a queen. I’m sure your dance card will be full all night.”

“I hope so, but I’m sure you two will find some way to get into trouble,” she jokes.

Rose laughs, though she doesn’t deny Donna’s prediction.

Just as she suspects, the Doctor, dressed in a rather dashing tuxedo, loses all ability to speak the moment he lays eyes on Rose, and they stare at each other for several long moments until Donna realizes they’re having a conversation without her.

“Excuse me, care to include the whole class?” She rolls her eyes. “You may address Queen Donna.”

The Doctor finally picks his jaw off the floor and drags his eyes to Donna. They widen in surprise. “Donna! You look… lovely!”

“I know, thanks,” she smiles. “No need to act surprised about it. Thank your ship. She’s got a marvelous eye for fashion.”

“My ship… What?!”

“Has an eye for fashion. She chose our gowns herself,” Donna explains.

Rose pats the console. “Yeah, she always has the best things.”

The Doctor splutters once more, clearly not understanding how his magnificent Time Ship has a fashion sense. “I thought you said I’ve worn some ‘atrocious fashion crimes.’ Who do you think helps pick out my outfits after I regenerate?”

Donna snickers. “I’m pretty sure the TARDIS just laughs at you when you fall for it time and time again.” Taking Rose by the elbow, she says, “Come on, Rose, let’s go to the gala. He’ll get over it eventually.”

Dinner is an extravagant affair, with two long tables filled with guests and a twelve course meal to go with it. Donna can’t believe it’s the prize for winning a bloody ugly Christmas jumper contest, but she’s not complaining.

Christmas trees stand around the hall, decorated in exquisite ornaments and twinkling lights, and garlands are strung artfully around the room. The whole look is almost magical, shimmering and warm, the perfect Christmas ambiance.

A small break occurs between the main course offerings and dessert, and Donna graciously accepts the arm of an eager dance partner.

The Doctor and Rose already dance together in the center of the ballroom, completely enraptured by one another. Rose’s smile is so radiant that Donna blinks back tears at the sight.

A few songs later, the announcement for dessert is made, and the Doctor flies past Donna, making a beeline for their table. He pulls Rose along with him, who protests at his speed, but Donna knows it’s just for show, as her friend laughs gleefully with the Doctor.

“Oh, I can’t wait!” the Doctor exclaims, once they’re all settled at the table. “Desserts on Noël are supposed to be the best in the universe. Splendid! Spectacular! Scrumptious! Ooooooh, I wonder if they have bananas on Noël. Rose, do you think they have bananas?”

“You’re a nutter, you are,” Rose laughs, swatting his arm.

“Mmm, yeah, but I’m your nutter,” the Doctor smiles disarmingly, nudging her back with his elbow, and Donna snorts.

“Ugh, you two. Get a room,” she mutters.

“Oh, we will. Won’t we, Rose? In fact, we have a room, and I intend to use it later.” He waggles his eyebrows, and Donna doesn’t miss the way the Doctor’s gaze drops to Rose’s chest and lingers. The flush on Rose’s cheeks suggests she doesn’t miss it either.

Rolling her eyes, Donna turns her focus to the wait staff as they bring out tray after tray of desserts, all of which look almost too magnificent to eat. There are cakes and pies, pastries and chocolate, along with delicacies she doesn’t even have a name for. There’s no possible way she’ll be able to try one of everything.

“Oh my God,” she says, her eyes widening in awe.

Before Donna has even decided what to try first, the Doctor digs into a slice of cake. “Oh, but this is brilliant!” he shouts. “Banana, Rose! It tastes like banana!”

“Actually, sir,” one of the waiters steps over and taps the Doctor on the shoulder, “it’s a delicacy on Noël called stralaluri. It’s a fruit usually reserved for use in this cake.”

“Ooooh, I’ve never heard of it,” the Doctor says, his eyes alight with interest and excitement. He returns to his cake with increased fervor, licking his fork clean after his last bite.

Donna shakes her head in amusement. It never ceases to amaze her how an alien as old and knowledgeable as the Doctor can find such joy in something as simple as discovering a new fruit.

The Doctor devours two more slices of the stralaluri cake before moving onto other desserts. Donna finds a mini tart made out of something that tastes like a strawberry, and she closes her eyes to savor the taste.

“Fork,” the Doctor declares suddenly, and Donna’s eyes fly open to focus on the Doctor. “I eat with a fork.” He dissolves into giggles and falls into Rose, who stares at him in confusion.

Donna swallows the last bite of tart and stares at the Time Lord sitting across from her. Just as she opens her mouth to say something, he picks up his fork and holds it in the air.

“I’d like everyone to know that this is my fork. My fork-ity fork fork. Fork bork dork mork. Fork. It’s a very beautiful fork.” He gazes at it for several moments, then turns to Rose. “Look, Rose, you love the fork. Love the fork!” For a few seconds, she stares at him, brows furrowed in complete bewilderment. However, before she can say anything, the Doctor places his hand on her shoulder, and it’s as if a switch flicks. Her face relaxes and she crumbles into hysterical laughter. The Doctor joins her.

“Doctor?” Donna raises an eyebrow. She won’t deny she’s often wondered about the Doctor’s sanity, but this is pushing the limits, even for him. And Rose is… Well, the way she’d switched from sane to manic in the blink of an eye is slightly alarming.

“Donna!” The Doctor jumps up from the table and sends his chair flying out behind him. “Donna, you look ravishing tonight.” He leans forward, peering at her in wonder.

She reels back in shock, not expecting either the growly sort of voice he only uses when he’s trying to make a move on Rose – (She wishes she did not know what his make-a-move-on-Rose voice sounds like) – or the Doctor to use the word ravishing while looking at her. Bile rises in her throat.

Looking around, the guests sitting close to them stare at the Doctor as if he’s lost his marbles, and she sighs, attempting to school her features while shrugging her shoulders in apology.

“Doctor, what is going on? You’re acting weird, not that that means a lot when you’re involved, but Rose is being weird too. Are you okay?” she asks, her brow furrowing in concern.

“Oh, I think I’ve been poisoned. Nothing to worry about, Donna. Nothing to worry about,” the Doctor sings in a warbly voice. “I’ve been practicing my Xkcarthaianx language skills? How’m I doing?” He holds his hand out for Rose, and she takes it, standing up and shoving her chair back with careless grace, then sways back and forth, as if dancing to a tune only she can hear.

Rose bursts into nonsensical song, mimicking the warbly voice used by the Doctor moments before. “Molte bene, bolte bene, mooooooolte bene,” she sings.

“Bravo, Rose!” The Doctor claps furiously, shouting his praise at Rose.

“Poisoned? You’ve been poisoned? Oh, of course you have. You great big–” Donna tries to get a word in edgewise, shouting over a singing Rose and a cheering Doctor.

“Did I say I’ve been poisoned? I’m kidding, Donna. Kidding! Don’t be such a spoilsport. Spoilsport spoilsport. How do you like my Romanian, Donna? I’m fluent in a billion billion languages. Perfectly perfectly fluent. Molte bene,” he draws out every syllable of the word before linking arms with Rose, bopping her on the nose, and throwing his head back in laughter.

Donna covers her face with her hands, completely mortified. The other guests stare and point, murmuring among themselves, until one of the waiters comes to her side.

“Ma’am, these are your friends, yes? The Doctor and his wife?”

Opening one eye, Donna looks over the table to find the Doctor and Rose in a passionate embrace, moaning loudly as they paw desperately at every available surface of the other. “Oh God, yes. They’re with me. I’m so sorry.”

“For the protection of our other guests, we ask that you kindly remove your friends from the gala. You are more than welcome to return,” he says, “but please leave your friends outside.”

Donna closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, counting to ten. Oh, she’s gonna kill the Doctor.

Standing up, she carefully steps out of her chair, and walks around the table under the watchful eyes of the other guests, already knowing they’ll be the centerpiece of gossip on the planet for weeks to come.

With an air of authority, Donna marches around the table and links elbows with Rose before grabbing a fist full of the Doctor’s lapels. “You two. Out. Now.” She shoves herself between them and half ushers, half pulls them out of the hall.

By some miracle, they follow her command, but her relief doesn’t last long.

The Doctor strokes the soft velvet of her gown. “Soft, Donna. You’re so soft, so beautiful,” he croons, resting his head against her shoulder as they walk down the hall toward the exit.

Donna reels back in horror, gaping open mouthed at the Doctor as she comes to a sudden halt. Manic, hyperactive Doctor she can handle. A Doctor putting his… his alien wiles on her is not anything she ever wants to face.

“Donna,” Rose hisses from her other side.

“Rose?” Ignoring the Doctor for now, Donna focuses on her friend. “Are you okay?”

“Donna, I think…” She whispers loudly, her voice uncertain. “I think the Doctor’s drugged. Something’s wrong.”

“Well, I certainly hope he is,” Donna exclaims, once more shrugging an overly cuddly Doctor off her other shoulder, “because if this is some weird Time Lord mating ritual, I want no part in it.”

Rose cracks a faint smile, but her eyes crinkle with worry. “I think when we touch, he can’t control his side of the bond, and whatever he’s affected by somehow affects me too.”

Donna’s eyes widen. “That would explain a lot.”

“We hardly ever shield ourselves from each other anymore, and if he’s affected, he wouldn’t be able to keep himself from me.”

“No touching, then,” Donna commands, looking between Rose and the Doctor. “One of you like this is bad enough.” WIth a loud sigh, she turns to the Doctor. “Doctor, if you pet my cape one more time, I swear to all the gods that I will pour pear juice over all your suits and ask the TARDIS to hide the wardrobe room from you.”

“But Donnnnnnnnanaaaaaaaaaaaaaa…”

“Pear juice! And I’ll make absolutely sure the TARDIS throws every single one of your bananas out an airlock.” Donna glares sternly at the Doctor, who gasps in horror at her threats.

“You wouldn’t.”

Poking the Doctor in the chest, she growls, “Watch me, you alien prawn. Hands. Off. Donna.”

The Doctor crosses his arms across his chest and pouts – actually pouts – like a petulant three-year old child. Then he spots Rose standing on the other side of Donna, and Donna watches in amusement as his entire face lights up with happiness. “Rose!”

Before Donna can stop him, he lunges past her and wraps his arms around Rose, who pulls against him a moment before relaxing into the embrace.

Donna’s groan of exasperation echoes down the long hallway. “Hopeless idiots,” she mutters.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spots one of the waiters walking down the hall toward the kitchen. “Oi!” she calls, unable to keep the slightly hysterical edge out of her voice. “Come here!”

Once the waiter reaches Donna, looking uneasily at the Doctor and Rose, who play imaginary hopskotch hand in hand down the hall, she explains the situation. “Look, I need a place to lock my friends so I can figure out what the Doctor ate.”

“What do you mean?” the waiter asks.

“I mean, the Doctor’s drugged, poisoned, completely unhinged. One of you lot fed him something he shouldn’t have eaten, and now him and Rose are out of control. The Doctor actually,” she pauses to make a gagging face, “made a move on me.”

The waiter’s eyes widen at her story, and in an instant, he pulls out a small tech pad of some kind and punches in a few keys. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I’ve summoned my supervisor, and he will be able to assist you with anything you need. I will…” his gaze shifts to the Doctor and Rose, now taking a break to snog, “...er, find a room for them to, ah, entertain themselves.” HIs ears tinge pink.

“May I help you?” an authoritative voice calls out, and she turns to face the newcomer.

“Yeah… Claude,” Donna says, inspecting the supervisor’s name tag. “See him?” She points at the Doctor. “He’s drugged. I think your lot served him something a bit off.”

The first waiter nods at his supervisor, then runs down the hall toward the Doctor and Rose.

“I assure you, ma’am, the food served at the gala is fully inspected and is of the highest quality, safe for all guest consumption,” Claude insists.

“I’d believe you if the Doctor acted like this all the time, but trust me, I know when the Doctor is not well, and now is one of those times. Are you sure it wasn’t something he ate?” She crosses her arms and glares at Claude, who takes a step back at her threatening gaze.

“I, uh, well– What species is the Doctor? Is he not human?”

Donna looks over her shoulder and rolls her eyes at the Doctor and Rose, who have accosted the poor waiter and are attempting to braid his hair. “He’s a Time Lord, ever heard of them? This one’s got a big, pompous ego with a brain that never stops but acts like a child on a sugar high more often than not.”

Claude’s eyes widen in shock. “Oh dear.”

Donna pauses. “Oh dear?”

“The Doctor hasn’t by chance ingested the stralaluri cake, has he?”

Of course it’s the not-banana but tastes like banana cake.

“Only three slices of it,” she answers.

Claude momentarily casts his gaze on the Doctor before returning his focus to Donna. “Stralaluri has been known to cause mind-addling effects to some species, causing a, as you put it, ‘drugged’ state of mind that causes a period of unbecoming behavior.”

“So it’s not gonna kill him?” she asks.

“Oh no! It’s not lethal. We wouldn’t have served it to him had we known,” he shrugs in apology. “We see overwhelmingly only visitors of human origin on Noël. I apologize for the nature of your expulsion from the gala. Is there anything we can do to assist you with the Doctor and his, I’m assuming, Time Lady wife?”

Donna laughs. “Oh, she’s not a Time Lady, but they’ve got… Oh, never mind.” Deciding it might be best to keep the existence of the Doctor and Rose’s bond under wraps, Donna considers Claude’s offer. “In fact, there is something you can do. I’d like to enjoy the rest of the gala, if you don’t mind. The TARDIS gave me this fabulous gown, and it’d be a shame for it to go to waste.”

“I agree, ma’am,” Claude says, looking her up and down in apparent appreciation. “But your friends? The cannot return in this state.”

“Oh yes, I’ll leave that up to you and your staff. I believe you’re more than equipped to assist me for the evening, yes? You can lock them in a room – no windows for them to climb out – and let them sleep it off. Guard the door to make sure they don’t escape. I’m sure they’ll shag themselves to sleep at some point.” She smiles serenely at Claude. “I just need to fetch a few things from the Doctor before I return to the party.”

Donna marches over to the Doctor and Rose, freeing the newly cornrowed waiter, who runs away with mumbled thanks, and pulls the two apart. “Rose,” she says after a moment, once her friend shakes her head and returns to a lucid state of mind. “Everything’s under control. The Doctor just ate something he shouldn’t have, but he’ll be fine. I’m going back to the gala, and I’m making them look after you two the rest of the evening.” She pauses. “Is that all right?”

“It’s not lethal?” Rose asks, unable to keep her eyes off the Doctor.

“Nope, not according to Claude. We can go, if you like, but I think it’d be easier for us to stay here so you can both sleep it off,” Donna explains.

“Good,” Rose says with a smile, her shoulders relaxing in relief. “Go back to the gala, Donna. I can see you want to. Just… Wait a mo.”

Rose steps back to the Doctor and rummages through his pockets, pulling out the sonic screwdriver and psychic paper and quickly handing both to Donna. “Probably best you hold onto these, yeah?” She giggles, then, falling into the Doctor as the stralaluri affects her once more through their bond. Holding hands, they twirl around the hallway, bumping into each other with shrieks of laughter every few seconds.

Donna tucks the sonic and the psychic paper in her wristlet, and smoothes down her gown as she prepares to return to the gala. Perhaps she’ll ask the bloke who’d sat a few seats down from her for a dance. “So you’ll sort these two out for the evening?”

“Ah,” Claude says, his face blanching slightly. “Have no worries, Ms.–”

“Noble. Donna Noble,” Donna says, turning to return to the gala. She pauses. “If the Doctor gets too out of control, just threaten him with a pear or bribe him with a banana. Works every time.”

“Unnnnnggggghhhhhhhhhh.” A loud groan vibrates against Rose’s chest.

Cracking open an eye, Rose inspects her surroundings while feeling the need to echo the Doctor’s groan of discomfort. Closes her eyes, she attempts to focus on the dim memories flitting through her mind from the previous evening.

Christmas jumpers. A gala. A gorgeous gown. With a cape! Dancing. A table filled with desserts.

It’s there the memories get hazy. Rose rolls away from the Doctor, her bladder notifying her of her need to find a loo, and promptly rolls off whatever surface she’s laying on, landing with a loud thunk on the floor. “Ow,” she mutters, then groans as the rest of the missing memories return.

According to Donna, the Doctor had eaten something that had affected his mind, and when touching him, affected her through their bond as well. Blimey. A night filled with the ridiculous antics of the Doctor makes her want to bury her head in a pillow out of sheer embarrassment.

Separated from the Doctor, now, however, her mind clears, and despite his continued presence in her mind, she feels mostly back to normal, if a bit hungover. Rose sits up on the floor and looks around the room. It’s dim in the morning light, with windows lining the room high on the walls surrounding them, far out of reach. She sits on the floor below a… baby grand piano? One of the Doctor’s legs falls over the edge.

A soft knock at the door pulls Rose from her thoughts. “I swear to God, you’d better be decent,” Donna calls, then pushes open the door.

Rose blinks, squinting as the light from the hallway pours into the room. “Morning, Donna.” She laughs at her friend, who’s holding her hands over her eyes. “We’re dressed, don’t worry.”

Donna lowers her hands, then laughs loudly. Rose follows her gaze to the piano. Another loud groan rumbles out of the Doctor. “All right, you two. Time to get back to the TARDIS. I think we’ve had enough of Christmas this year, don’t you think?” She walks over to the Doctor and prods his leg. “Wake up, Doctor.”

Rose pushes herself off the floor and stands, stretching from side to side and watching in amusement as Donna attempts to spur the Doctor into action.

“Doctor, I made good on my threats, and I soaked all your suits in pear juice,” Donna announces.

The Doctor flies off the piano in a flurry of tuxedo clad limbs. His eyes are wide and frantic. “You did not!”

Donna crosses her arms over her chest. “After what you put me and Rose through last night, trust me, Doctor. Things could be a lot worse.”

“Rose?” The Doctor whips his head around to face her. “What did I do to you?” He seeks her out through their bond, and she senses his raw anxiety which she instantly soothes.

“Doctor, I’m fine. You didn’t do anything. Well–” She pauses and turns to Donna. “No more cake for him, right?”

“Oh, God, no,” Donna says, agreeing with a vehement nod.

“What… happened?”

Donna sighs. “Turns out the fruit in that cake you had three slices of doesn’t agree with a Time Lord’s physiology. It drugged you, and whenever you touched Rose, you weren’t able to keep from sharing the effects of it through your bond.”

The Doctor blinks. “Oh, well, that explains a lot.” He smirks. “I’m sorry, Donna.”

Rose chokes on a laugh when Donna glares at the Doctor. “Yeah, you sound real sorry.”

“Oi, everything worked out, didn’t it? No harm, no foul.”

“Says the skinny strip of nothing too drugged off his arse to care,” Donna mutters.

“Tell you what, Donna. I’ll make it up to you. We both will.” The Doctor looks at Rose with a wide smile, and she mirrors him, happy and content. “Another Christmas planet? How about it? A cozy winter festival where the locals think women with red hair are goddesses of fire? Hmm?”

“Actually, Doctor,” Rose says, “I’m the one who wanted to make our own Christmas traditions. I think Donna might appreciate it more if we left her on Lux Prime for a few days of spa treatments while we make our own Christmas celebration on the TARDIS. What do you think, Donna?”

Donna smiles. “I think you have the best ideas, Rose.”

“What?!” the Doctor squawks indignantly.

Walking over to Donna, Rose links elbows with her friend. “Why don’t we head back to the TARDIS, and you can tell me all about the rest of the gala. Did you dance with that bloke sitting next to you? He was a bit pretty.”

“Oh, I did a lot more than dance with him,” Donna reveals with a sly grin. “The staff offered me the presidential quarters in recompense, and I took them up on the offer.”

“Donna!” the Doctor groans. “No need to share.”

“Doctor, remind me to show you the video footage of you hitting on me last night. I’ll overshare about my evening activities if I want to.”

Rose gapes at Donna as the Doctor gags loudly behind them, ardently denying Donna’s claims.

Donna grimaces. “Never underestimate the power of stralaluri cake.”

[poppyssupergirl]

Low Life

This is based on @foleypdx and her music tastes. HERE is a link to the song. There was no beta for this, so, eh. 

You can also read this on AO3

She holds the whiskey in her hand, a bottle of the best. The roof of her suite has a gazebo and it’s her choice location for watching the world burn. Tonight, she celebrates the loss of the last of her family, ‘the jailing of a monster’ as the press calls it.

The bass of the song plays in nicely with the throbbing in her head.

“I’m nothing but a low life.”

She hums along and takes another swig. Her mother hadn’t even had the consideration to look surprised, she’d just looked disappointed. At least Lena was used to that.

The whiskey doesn’t burn anymore. The lights across the city are fading. If anyone says a city doesn’t sleep, they’ve never been on a roof at three in the morning with nothing but their own thoughts to keep them company.

“I’m nothing but a low life.”

She hears the slur in her words and sways to the side. The cops had grilled her for two hours about everything she knew. But she hadn’t lied to Supergirl, she knew nothing of her mother’s plans.

That would change in the morning. In the morning. But for now, Lena just wanted to finish her whiskey and lay on the cool bench.

“I try to fight the good fight, but after it all, I’m still just a low life.”

“I don’t think so.”

Lena jerks at the voice. She knows that voice, Supergirl. The hero sets down on her roof and pads over to the gazebo, but she doesn’t enter. Honestly, Lena almost laughs at the woman’s politeness. She’s flown up to Lena’s roof, but won’t step inside her space without an invitation.

What a ridiculous use of those powers.

“Came to say ‘I told you so’?” It comes out bitter, but it’s coherent and Lena will count that as a win as she’s three-quarters of the way through her bottle.

“No. I came to say ‘thank you’”

Her head swims as she turns on the bench. The bench isn’t as comfortable as she thought it would be, it’s quite the disappointment. But hey, so is she. What do Lena Luthor and a gazebo bench have in common?

It’ll be the joke of the town.

Supergirl looks genuine and perfect as always. Even after a missile exploded in her face. Lena needs the number of her hairdresser. Or maybe that’s natural? Lena cracks her eyes open again, nah, that can’t be natural.

“For what? Turning in my mother?”

“For saving hundreds, thousands of alien lives, including my friends’.”

Supergirl is still standing at the gazebo entrance, her hands clasped behind her back.

“And you came at three in the morning?”

“It’s actually closer to four, and yes.”

Lena hums, the song starts over for the sixth, seventh?, time. She tosses her arm over her eyes and wiggles the whiskey in her other hand. It’s hard to drink while laying down, she hadn’t thought about that.

“Seems like a lot of trouble just to say ‘thanks’.”

“A lot of trouble?”

There’s disbelief in Supergirl’s voice and Lena can’t hear her walk closer because there’s blood throbbing in her ears. But she doesn’t jerk when Supergirl’s voice comes from right above her, that’s probably the alcohol’s fault, Lena thinks she would normally jump.

“’A lot of trouble’ is duping your own mother. ‘A lot of trouble’ is altering an isotope just to push a button and watch as your mother gets taken away in a police car. ‘A lot of trouble’ is doing this all on your own because you don’t have anyone to lean on.” Supergirl kneels next to Lena and wraps her fingers around the whiskey bottle, tugging gently.

Lena lets her have it. She’s trying not to cry at this point. It’s definitely the alcohol.

“And you think after all of that, that you’re a low life?” Supergirl’s voice is soft but persistent. “Lena Luthor, you have never been a low life. You’ve shown your true colors, you’re as much of a hero as anyone ever could be.”

The tears run silently, she won’t break completely in front of Supergirl, but these are the words she’s been hoping to hear for so long. The music clicks off and the sound of the wind fills in the silence between them.

Supergirl takes a breath and Lena doesn’t know if she can take any more of this without crumbling. But she certainly doesn’t trust her voice to stop the Girl of Steel.

“I was going to come and see you tomorrow, but Kara Danvers couldn’t get ahold of you.” Kara? Why would Kara- ah, the news, of course Kara would know by now. “She said you weren’t answering your door. She was worried about you.”

She tried her best to stop the sob in her throat, but Kara… Kara worried enough to come to her flat at god-awful-o’clock in the morning and then to call a damn superhero to search for her.

“Why?” Her voice breaks on the single syllable and Lena brings her other arm up to cover the rest of her face. “Why do you two care?”

Supergirl is silent. Lena can almost hear her thinking of what to say. Her suit rustles and for a heartbreaking second, she thinks Supergirl is just going to leave. Leave her here to sob on her disappointment of a bench.

But then Supergirl’s arm slips under her neck, supporting her head, and this woman can’t be made of steel, not with an arm that cushions Lena so magnificently.

“Someone once told me that they could see the hero within me.” Supergirl pauses and Lena wonders who thought this woman needed the confirmation when she wore a cape most of the day. “She said it when I was in plain clothes. Just a nobody, but I tried, and she believed in me.”

Lena hadn’t expected that. That was more confirmation that Supergirl had a secret identity than she’d even admitted before.

“Lena, I meant it when I said you’re good.” Supergirl’s fingers ghost over her arm and Lena can’t help but wonder at how warm she is. “I can see the hero in you, Lena.”

The tears don’t stop anytime soon and Supergirl doesn’t leave her. The sun is rising before Lena’s arms slip to her chest, she’s too exhausted to keep her eyes open anymore. Her last conscious thoughts are about warm arms slipping under her, a light breeze over her face, and the comfort of her own sheets sliding over her skin.

She wakes to aspirin and water on her bedside table.  She stumbles to her bathroom to brush the taste of stale whiskey from her mouth and there’s a basket on her kitchen counter. She ignores the pounding her head and the cotton in her mouth to pad over to the basket.

There’s a note tucked neatly into the basket:

Lena,

I didn’t know what kind of cookies you liked, so I made a few of any that I could think of. I know that when nothing seems to be going right, sweets always cheer me up. And friends. If you’d like a friend, I could come over if you want.

Just a call away,

-Kara

There are rubbings all over the card, like Kara’d erased multiple times. Lena teeters on a smile, it’s just so in character for the reporter. She tucks the card close to her chest and pulls back the towel from the basket. There are more cookies than she’d seen in some bakeries, this must have taken her hours, the smell itself is intoxicatingly sweet.

She opens a bag stuffed with sugar cookies and, this time, she doesn’t try to hide her tears. She has two friends in National City that truly care for her. So, with that thought, Lena Luthor sits in her kitchen as it fills with the scent of sweets and cries until the world feels a little lighter.  

[attractionjapan]

How to Build Confidence and Learn Game Like a Boss

Are you having trouble getting started? Not sure what the expectations are or the best way to go forward? How does one even become confident around women? Sit back and grab some tea and a cookie because Dr. Sinapse has a dose of the bitter medicine for you. Here are my steps to build confidence and learn the game like a boss:

  1. Destroy and Overcome the Negative/Inactive Spiral

  Guys typically don’t take action for a few main reasons:

  They don’t think it works (period… like for anyone. These types of guys usually think everything comes down to money, looks, and destiny and there’s zero “skill” involved)

They don’t think it will work for them (usually due to one or a few specific fixed characteristics about themselves – for example, their height, lack of Japanese ability, race, wealth, looks, etc)

  If you believe in #1, go watch some (legitimate) infield of someone pulling.

  But I’m guessing that my audience here (at least the inactive ones) primarily think about #2. Step 1 is NAME your fears. Call out specifically, with descriptive words and detail, what exactly you think is holding you back. Your bald spot? Your small frame? Your race?

  Come up with a specific sentence and verbalize it, or write it down. For example:

  “I’m afraid that I can’t get the top tier women because those women are only into guys who are tall.”

  Once you’ve named your fears you can go about smashing these silly little beliefs.

  I guarantee you I know someone who is “worse” or more disadvantageous than you in whatever category you can name who is currently CRUSHING the game.

  In other words, your excuse is preventing you from starting. It is a FICTION that you tell yourself, not a reality.

  NOW since there’s a lot of misinformation and marketing around game, I’d like to add a simple caveat. Your genetics DO matter. Anybody who says they don’t is full of shit. You may never be LeBron but you CAN stunt and ball out all over everybody on any blacktop across the country  and you can ALWAYS do way better than you currently are. And if you work your ass of you might just become Allen Iverson – that exception to the rule who overcomes certain genetics (short stature) and still kicks ass. But even if you don’t outwork the naturally gifted, you’ll still do way better than you are currently doing.

  “Hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard”

  In other words — try not to compare yourself to the RESULTS of other people. But DO compare your EFFORT and MINDSET to theirs.

  NOW: to ACTUALLY go about destroying the negative mental thought patterns.

  Are you in a negative spiral?

Feel shame, fear, lack of confidence, anxiety, etc?

Troubled by lack of competence and your own results?

Don’t believe in your ability to attract women?

  NAME your fears

Once you realize them, you can minimize them.

  Discover ways in which you tell yourself a self-defeating narrative (note: it’s NOT the truth, it’s a narrative you tell yourself) in your own mind. Keep in mind these narratives pop up when you are thinking about taking action (such as when you see a pretty girl in front of you who snaps you out of your daily reverie). Here are some of the most common examples, although this list is not nearly exhaustive:

  Rehashing old failures and assuming you will have the same result if you try again (Why even leave the house, I’m just going to get ignored/rejected again)

Unrealistic expectations (instant success or getting 9s and 10s immediately)

Overly focusing on obstacles (she’s too far, there’s no time, she’s with a guy/girl/group/mom/dad, she is on the phone, etc)

Perfectionism (I should wait for X to approach, I should make my approach smooth, silky, and casual, I should plan the most glamorous date to “wow” her, etc)

Lack of experience (it’s “too late” for me, I missed the boat, I’m way behind)

Focus on fixed characteristics rather than on GROWTH (I’m too XYZ to succeed. Everybody who has success is ABC.)

Spotlight effect (What will those people think of me if I talk to her? I should respect the culture because I’m a guest here)

Fear of rejection itself (What if she doesn’t like me? What if I’m not good enough? No cute girls are ever into me)

Effort aversion (It seems like it would take a lot of hard work to get good. I don’t have the time [you always have time for what is important to you]. She’s so far away, I’ll get the next one.)

  Remember that whenever your brain tells you these stories, it’s trying to protect you from the dangers of the world which no longer exist. Nobody will kill you for speaking to a woman on the street. There are no lions waiting to eat you around the corner from that Kyabajo.

  You mind is NOT your friend. In fact, it will usually try to sabotage you at every turn. You BEST weapon against this?

  AUTOMATIC action.

  Get your feet moving before your mind has a chance to sneak in and wormtongue its way into your ear, talking you out of doing what you know you should. Once in the interaction, automatically go for the bounce. Once in isolation, automatically go for the kiss and escalation. Remember that at all times you MUST take the right action.

  You actions in the past have created your current reality. Your actions NOW determine your future. If you restrict your current possibilities and paths of action available at the current moment based on your past actions, you are letting your history control your destiny and you are essentially a ROBOT. Does that terrify you?

  2. Fix the way you see women

  Not as “hot” “cute” or “9s” and “10s” or “uggs “

Instead, address their inner mental world and humanize them. WHY do they act how they act? How do they see themselves? (Hint: it’s probably not as a “hot chick”)

  It’s all too easy to get caught up in dissing girls with one breath and heaping unearned praise on them in the next.

  “Why are girls so dumb. What a bitch.”

“She’s a goddess. What a stunner. High level.”

  She’s most likely neither as angelic nor as demonic as you might imagine. Instead, she’s just human. She has the same organs as (but less testosterone than) you.

  Realize the dangerous nature of dating a man. Everything she does is a balance between feeling danger and thrill from the man and feeling bored and too secure. Too far in either direction and she will either be afraid or sexually uninterested.

  Realize that when she’s being bitchy, cold, rude, etc, it’s to minimize the physical harm that comes to her. Have some empathy about how hard it must be to be attracted to the thing which is the most dangerous thing in the world for her.

  She knows she’s beautiful. Or, at least, she’s been told a lot already. Don’t compliment her on her appearance, especially not as an opener. Instead, talk to her as if you both already know what she looks like (because you do). Instead, try to “mine” for “gold” – something particularly unique or interesting that isn’t readily apparent to the naked eye. Or, barring that, at least something unique she has chosen, such as intricate nail art or an interesting plush keychain.

  Finally, if you think the girl is stunningly beautiful, try to see her as simply human. Or if you really can’t hack it, just hide all the behaviors that chodes who idolize stunning women do. Here’s a few:

  -Spamming invites

-Getting upset when the girls don’t make time to see you

-Taking selfies with them (yes, they know you just want to show off to your friends)

-Validating them on their appearance

-Validating them at all

-Trying to “buy” their time with gifts or promises

-Avoiding all risky or offensive topics

-Try to “linger” around and hope that means you will get her

  In fact, it’s probably best to do the exact opposite of these things.

  -Invite occasionally

-Ignore the ignore

-Let her take pictures if she wants

-Check to see if she lives up to her own and your standards

-Call her out on her shit (in a fun way)

-GIVE her your time (slightly begrudgingly)

-Dive right into the risky topics and moves

-Don’t linger, just pull

  Finally, women shouldn’t be a stepping stone for your nefarious purposes. As much as possible, try to feel, enjoy, live, laugh, and love with them. If possible, try to leave girls better than you found them. Remember above all that you should be looking for AFFINITY rather than random hotness. Trust me when I say that sex with a stunning girl who has nothing on the inside gets old fast.

  One last point about how you view women —

  Guys who don’t get laid much like to talk smack about ugly girls. What if I told you, your desire to “bash” ugly girls is negatively correlated with your ability to hook hot girls? Why? Because they are two sides of the SAME coin. You are placing extreme emphasis on the physical appearance of the girl and using that as the main criteria by which you determine the value of a female human being. Physical beauty is qualifier, not a decision maker. In other words, if she meets a certain “beauty” threshold, you can investigate further (for affinity) before you make your decision. The key to getting the “next level” girls is to not see them as “next level” but simply as normal humans. Which, of course, you can’t do if you’re preoccupied with the physical characteristics of both uggos and stunners.

  When girls (of all levels of beauty) notice that you’re out there pursuing your desires and assessing girls not only in terms of beauty but also in terms of affinity, the real 9s and 10s start to take notice and 6-8s become easy as pie.

  3. Build Confidence through Competence

The goal moving forward is to build confidence through competence. Like Super Mario or other platformer games, you start off with a complete lack of confidence in your ability to complete the game. Naturally, with any new game you would be quite mad indeed to imagine you could win it completely on the first try without dying at least a few times.

  Similarly, cultivate a long-term focus. Like Mario, you must learn the lay of the land, the mechanics of your character, how far you can jump, how to manipulate the controller, where the enemies and obstacles are positioned, and all manner of other variations.

  You die a lot. The first time you play, you probably fall into the first pit and run straight into the first enemy. Nobody is born a genius.

  Yet we keep playing the game. With each defeat, each stumble, you learn and gain competence.

  If you throw yourself into cold approach, pretty soon you’ll realize that simply saying “hi” can open many girls. You build some competence around the open. Not long after that you might get some LINE numbers. Most of which, at this point, fall through, flake, or stop responding. This is normal.

  In many sports, people talk about how the game “slows down.” This happens as your experience and competence builds and you start to recognize patterns. Humans, if nothing else, are supremely powerful computers for pattern recognition and learning. So at the beginning there are perhaps a million thoughts in your head:

  “Don’t smile too much. Be seen before heard. Be conscious of your voice tone – breaking, deeper and louder than I’m used to. Don’t say something boring. Open with a simple statement or observation rather than a compliment. State your agenda and find out her logistics. Avoid “pattern” questions.”

  Soon, through repetition (and nothing else), all these “lessons” and techniques start to sink in, and you’ll start to learn to recognize all the “patterns”:

  “What do I do if she slips behind my back on approach? If she says ‘I don’t speak English’? If she asks me about my job? If she insults me on the open? If she says she has no LINE? If she doesn’t even hear me? If she compliments me on my Japanese?”

  As your ability to recognize and correctly respond to patterns increases (again, through nothing but sheer experience in each situation — there are no shortcuts, except perhaps my book and coaching), you learn to roll with the flow more, improvise more, relax more, and let your personality shine through in a calibrated way. Your anxieties fade away and you are more present and responsive and you come across as more genuine and attractive. None of this can be accomplished without sustained practice.

  At this point, something magical starts to happen. You start to see the fruits of your action:

  Initially the fact that women do not actually run away and some do seem to, against all odds, be interested in talking to you.

  Later, the fact that many of these women are interesting in sharing their contact information with you.

  Later still, that many of these women will respond, come out to meet you, and follow you home like little ducklings.

  As you see these results, the proof of your competence, your confidence starts to build. Soon you walk with more swagger, a pep in your step, a glint in your eye. And that’s when things really start to turn around. Ultimately, it’s your own belief in your ability to meet and attract women that actually ends up leading you to meet and attract women. If you don’t believe it possible for yourself you will make it impossible for yourself.

  So, practically, where does that put us?

  -Focus on GRADUAL improvement of skills through trial, error, and DEMONSTRATED performance. The action you take and results you get are PROOF for yourself and AMMO to destroy that inner wormtongue hater voice that is holding you back.  

  -Confidence is domain-specific (although mastery in one area can bleed over some general confidence). Even if you are a high-powered CEO, it would be ridiculous to think that your confidence would spill over onto the tennis court, or into the world of Broadway. You need to build confidence in *this* domain – namely, dating.

  -As you attract more women and demonstrate those skills to yourself and others, you will build momentum and your internal dialogue can begin to shift away from obsession with fixed characteristics and imagined failures, and move towards competence (I *can* talk to girls on the street. I *can* get their LINEs without too much effort. I *can* get them out on dates and hook up with them). Once you see yourself to be competent, the confidence starts to ooze from every atom of your body.

  The post How to Build Confidence and Learn Game Like a Boss appeared first on Attraction Japan.

from Attraction Japan http://attractionjapan.com/learn-game-like-a-boss/