#Jangle Med

[hello-god-its-me-sara]

This is canon for the Nolanverse now

Because I said so

[themurderofsonic-knockout]

The rest of round 2 is up!

[writingjourney]

Peppermint Oil & Kisses

You only have to take one closer look to see exactly what the reason for his foul mood is. The makeup around his temples is smudged, as is the paint around the bridge of his nose when he regards you under droopy eyelids. “Headache again?” Or: Secondo had a long day– you're ready to take care of your Papa.

content: 1.6k words, gn!reader, hurt/comfort, non-sexual intimacy, showering together, established relationship, domestic fluff, lots of pampering for your papa ♡

Masterlist – Ao3 link

A swell of Italian curses, muffled by the heavy oak door. The keys jangle as he misses his target multiple times, the wood groaning painfully as he leans against it before trying again. When the lock finally springs open, Secondo enters your shared quarts with a sigh that seems to carry the combined weight of every burden in the world.

“Hello, my love,” you greet him from the couch, pulling your legs up to make room for him.

He grumbles what seems to be a greeting as he pulls at his robes with impatient, unusually clumsy fingers. When he misses the hook on the coat rack the fabric falls to the floor, emerald green and black pooling at his feet. He heaves another sigh.

“Oh, you’re especially grumpy today, hm?” You only have to take one closer look to see exactly what the reason for his foul mood is. The makeup around his temples is smudged, as is the paint around the bridge of his nose when he regards you under droopy eyelids. “Headache again?”

“Hmph.”

“Oh, heavy is the head that wears the mitre,” you mumble when he sinks down on the sofa beside you, weighty like a rock sinking into the ocean. “Is it very bad?”

“Hmph.”

“That’s because you’re too stubborn to take your meds in time before it gets like this,” you chide, even though your voice is still gentle, wrapping a supportive arm around his shoulders. “You always think you can push through by sheer force of will.”

“Hmph.”

You press a soft kiss to his temple and he leans against you, resting his weary head against your lips. “It’s okay to need a little help, my love.”

“I have you for that, no? You always take such good care of your Papa.”

“Well, not even I can just magically rub away your headache.”

He tuts, squeezing your thigh with his gloved fingers. “That depends on where you’re rubbing, hm?”

You chuckle, cradling his head against you and peppering his skin with more kisses. “I don’t think you’re up for that tonight, darling. But I can rub some of Primo’s peppermint oil on your temples if you would like?”

“Per favore.”

More kisses and he grows heavier by the second. His black eyelids are closed now, long lashes tickling the skin just below as they flutter with every gentle touch. “Let’s get you cleaned up before you fall asleep. I will take care of dinner today and you can take a little nap.”

He gives a dissatisfied hum. “Amore, we are making Cacio e Pepe tonight.”

“So? I helped you prepare it many times and it’s not that difficult.”

You can immediately tell that the idea displeases him. His brows pull together even more than in their relaxed state and his lips curl ever so slightly at the edges. This is the closest you will ever get to an actual pout from him and you have to fight off an amused smile.

“You don’t have to worry that I won’t need you anymore,” you whisper. “I will always prefer being your kitchen helper, my love.”

“I’m not wo–” You shut him up with a proper kiss and he practically melts into it. The smudged make up tastes bitter when you lick along his full lips. Secondo sighs, teasing your tongue with his for a moment before he pulls away. “Va bene. But you will join your Papa for his nap.”

“I will join you until you fall asleep.”

He frowns again but you don’t allow him to complain. Instead you stand and pull him up with you towards the bedroom. Darkness wraps around you, blinding you until you turn on the lamp on his bedside table that he uses for his late night reading. Two hefty tomes reside there with his reading glasses folded neatly on top, though you assume he won’t have any need for those tonight.

“Let’s get you showered,” you say instead, noting that he’s already removing his clothes.

You help him with the buttons on his black dress shirt when his fingers, usually so dextrous, start to fumble unsuccessfully. It feels intimate every time, to help him when he is truly in need of you, a man so proud of his independence and autonomy allowing you to see his vulnerable moments. 

Once you reveal his chest, you permit your fingers to feel him. Combing through the dense hair,  you lightly scratch his skin in the way you know he enjoys before you you push the fabric from his shoulders. Placing your lips over his clavicle, you leave a trail of featherlight kisses along the sensitive skin that stretches over the bone.

“Amore,” Secondo whispers. 

“I love you.”

He smiles, tilting your chin up so you can see the softness in his eyes. “As I love you, my dove.”

You steal a tender kiss and finally lead him to the bathroom. Before you send him into the shower you remove the bulk of his face paints with make up wipes, then rub some of the cleansing oil into his skin to loosen the rest from his pores. For once he allows you to pamper him without much fuss, without insisting on giving back or complaining that he can do it himself.

“Join me, amore,” he says when you turn on the water, setting it to a medium temperature. 

You don’t question him, instead your heart swells with love. You’re willing to do whatever he asks of you when he is like this, when you feel so needed and loved. 

While he rinses off the rest of his paints you undress and then join him, the water immediately relieving all of the tension in your body. You begin to lather each other gently, washing off the remnants of your respective days. When you reach his shoulders you begin to massage him with gentle hands, making sure to adjust the pressure to his liking. His body feels stiffer than usual, the tension of a day spent working through his pain only slowly kneaded from his weary muscles. Every so often he moans in relief, closing his eyes when you reach a particularly cramped spot and you make sure to press a kiss to every single one of them.

Back in the bedroom, you put on some comfortable clothes and drag Secondo’s old Iron Maiden shirt over his head that is littered with more holes than you can count. He refuses to get rid of the old piece out of sentimentality as Primo got it for his thirtieth birthday decades ago. Secondo snakes his arms through the designated holes before they wrap around you, pulling you in for a deep kiss that he sinks into with a sigh. His body weighs heavy against yours. You have to use all your strength to stay upright but do your best to provide him with all the comfort he needs. It is rare that he so openly seeks it, that his guard is let down all the way.

You’re grateful that he lets you see it all now – how he can’t sleep through the nights anymore, how he winces and holds his lower back after getting up in the morning, the way he squints without his reading glasses and the frequent headaches after hours of paperwork. It doesn’t come easy to him. He used to try and hide it until you slowly wormed your way beyond his walls with a heating pad and ibuprofen at hand. He is not even close to accepting that he can’t stay young forever but at least he allows himself a few simple comforts by now. The rest will come in time.

“Now sit. I’ll fetch the peppermint oil.”

He squeezes your hip, raising a brow at your commanding tone. You smile cheekily and press a kiss to his jaw, noting that the corners of his mouth have lifted as well. While he sits down on the bed you retrieve the vial of oil from your bedside table. Dabbing some of it onto your fingers you begin to rub it into the skin of his temples, then his forehead. Secondo’s eyes close and he hums with relief at the gentle massage. You continue even after the oil has fully sunk in, revelling in the way his features relax as the pain recedes. He looks better now, but still incredibly tired.

After you thoroughly wash your hands, you join Secondo in bed, finding that he’s already half-asleep. He rouses enough to notice you and reflexively pulls you close, dragging you halfway across the mattress. You shift onto your back with him in your arms, allowing him to rest his head on your chest. As you gently run your fingers over his scalp, he releases a heavy but content sigh that tickles your skin. Quiet settles in the room and you can feel your own tiredness overwhelming you with every calm breath you take.

“We could always eat the Cacio e Pepe tomorrow,” you suggest. “I know you’re not a fan of take out but–”

“A splendid idea, amore,” Secondo grumbles. “We will order the take out.”

You smile as you close your eyes, continuing to stroke his head to help him fall asleep a little faster. In return, his fingers draw a circular pattern over your hip, never straying from your body for more than a second. Soon he starts to snore, his soft and steady exhales lulling you to sleep as well.

Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed – kudos, comments, rbs etc are as always much appreciated ♡

Masterlist – my Ao3 – Join my tag list

[mochimoqa]

Hiii I just recently hurt myself accidentally while cooking 😭 so can I request how would you write any of the Moon Boys comforting the reader who feels insecure of scars or marks on their body. Would appreciate it a lot 💗

Hello, anon!

I'm so sorry that you hurt yourself :(

But nothing like a good moon boys x reader will fix that :]

WARNING: Some cursing and Intense Fluff 🤭

...

"OW- Fucking shit-" Y/n screamed at the pain of extreme heat touching their skin. You turned off the stove and went to the restroom to grab your mini med kit.

"Son of a b—" You mumbled to yourself.

You've gotten hurt plenty of times. Either from cooking, activities, etc. You've gotten insecure over the years because of the scars and marks from different activities.

The one time where you were frying chicken and the hot oil splutter on your skin. Leaving some marks on you.

You turned on the cold water from your sink and let the burn somewhat fix the burn.

You sat on the floor and opened the med kit. The irritation of your skin was a bit bad. You grabbed some aloe gel and gently placed it on your burn.

"Ow-" You winced at the pain.

While you were doing this treatment, you heard a knock at the door.

Keys jangling and swung open the door.

"Love, I'm home!"

Oh, goodie! Steven's here.

"Ah, shit-" You panicked and quickly hid the medical supplies.

"Love? Y/n! Where are you?" He was pacing around the house til he found you in the bathroom.

You were covering your hand behind your back.

"Ah, there you are! Marc, Jake and I started to become a little worried there." He hugged you tightly and kissed your forehead.

"No, no, I'm always here, baby." You chuckled nervously.

Steven cupped your face and looked into your eyes. God, his cute dark eyes always get to you.

"I feel like you're hiding something..."

Your eyes widened slightly and chuckled nervously.

"What? No-"

He squeezes your face a bit tight.

You instantly knew that this wasn't Steven anymore and it was Marc. Steven was the more gentle of the boys.

"Y/n, I know you're lying to me."

"I- no, I'm not-"

"Yes, you are."

Shit, you've been caught red-handed. (No pun intended.)

"Okay, fine. You got me." You put your burned hand in front of him.

"I burned myself while cooking..."

God, this was so embarrassing to you. You've had too many scars and marks on yourself, you thought for sure they were gonna leave you.

"The burn doesn't look too bad." He grabbed your hand and examined the injury.

"Huh? You- You're not gonna leave me?"

His eyes shot up to you.

"Why would I ever wanna do that?"

"I- because of all of the scars and marks I have on my body... you don't think it's embarrassing?"

"No?"

Marc paused for a moment and seeming zoned out. He was probably talking to Steven and Jake.

"Steven said that he would never leave you."

He looked at your wound and paused again.

"Jake said that he would be stupid to even do that."

You chuckled lightly at their responses.

"Really?" You sighed and leaned against the sink.

"Mhm, and I agree with the both of 'em. You're literally too good to be true, Y/n. Sometimes me and the boys don't even know of how lucky we are to have you."

"But what about my scars?–"

"The scars don't matter. We love you with or without any scars or marks."

He paused again.

"Jake wants to take control to get rid of that stupid stuff you said about yourself."

You sighed, "Alright, bring him out..."

You felt your hand being squeezed.

"Hola, mi amor." (Hey, my love.) He kissed your hand.

You smiled lightly. "Hey, baby."

"So, what in the wrong fucking mindset are you even in?"

"Uh, I don’t know... I just thought that the three of you were gonna leave me and—"

"Esa es la cosa más estúpida que he oído jamás". (That is the most stupidest thing I have ever heard.)

"I know..."

"Cariño, we will love you til the end."

"Thank you, baby... thank you to the three of you..."

"No hay problema, bebé. (No problem, baby.)

"Want me to fix you up?"

You nodded. "That would be wonderful..."

Hello! I hope you enjoyed this! I absolutely love writing Fluff so this was by far the most exciting story to work on!

Also, very sorry for not posting sooner I had a lot of exams so I didn't have time to post this story!

[chaotic-orphan]

Heroic Betrayal: part five

Read part one here

Continued from this point here

*~*~*~*~*

What kind of idiot were they to be stuck here? Hero should have told Sidekick when they got the tip about Villain… they should have told them that they were going to rough Villain up a bit, get the information they needed on Other Villain’s whereabouts and beat the shit out of them. Just a little revenge for touching a hair on Sidekick’s innocent head.

Even if they managed to catch Villain and mete out justice on Other Villain, they would have beaten the ever-living shit out of the wrong person, and that was something Hero didn’t want to think about in that moment.

That Flynn…

Their Flynn was the one who put Sidekick in the med bay.

Sidekick, who was still in the med bay, where Hero should be, but no. Instead, they were here, powerless and bleeding and it was all their fault.

Hero didn’t know how long they sat and stewed on that thought. Long enough that their nose stopped bleeding anyway. Hero tentatively reached up to their upper lip, their hand came away from it dry, the blood caked and flaked onto their face now.

“What happened to your face?” Hero angled their head down from where they stared at the ceiling to see Flynn standing on the other side of the cell bars.

“Fuck off, Red,” Hero grumbled, and fought the wince at their casual nickname for Flynn slipping out of their lips. “I’m not in the mood.”

A jangle of keys and the cell door was open, footsteps approaching Hero in their cot in the corner. Hero’s heart ached with every beat as Flynn came into their line of sight, concern drawing his features together.

How many times had they seen that same concern on his face? Told Hero it was going to be okay. Cleaned their wounds, laughed about the bruises the next day?

How much of it was a lie? — Hero wanted to ask. The question burned a hole on the tip of their tongue, but they didn’t dare speak it. They just stared up at the ceiling as best they could.

“What? You piss someone off already?”

Hero sighed. Flynn sat on the edge of the bed, moving closer to Hero, his hands going to inspect the damage like he so often did. It made something ache in Hero’s chest. Hero slapped their hands away, tears burning in the back of their eyes.

“Don’t fucking touch me, Flynn,” Hero bit out. “You don’t get to betray me and then pretend to be my friend and concerned about me.”

Flynn stared; eyes sad as he said: “okay. Guess I deserve that.”

“You deserve so much more,” Hero said, eyes burning with hatred, voice barely above a whisper. “How many of our friends died because of you? Hmm?”

“Hero, not all of it–” Flynn began then stopped, huffed out a breath of air through his nose, hand running through his hair. “Not all of it was a lie. I am your friend. I do care about you.”

“Oh really? Then you’d never use your power on me, right?” Hero demanded, echoing back Flynn’s words against him. Flynn had the audacity to even look guilty at that, and Hero leaned forwards, hands on Flynn’s as they said: “I forgive you, okay. I forgive you if you let me go. Flynn, please.”

Flynn’s eyebrows knit together, clearly conflicted but he said nothing. After a moment, Hero let out a breath of disbelief and sat back against the wall again.

“Yeah,” Hero scoffed, “we’re friends.”

“You have blood all over your face, Hero. You really want to just leave it?”

“Why the hell not?” Hero said, trying to force their tone into some form of neutrality.

Flynn sighed and stood up from the cot. “Supervillain wants an audience with you. I was sent to retrieve you.”

Hero rolled their eyes but got to their feet no less. “Of course,” they said, pushing past Flynn to the door. “God help you actually wanted to see how I was doing.”

“Hero—”

“I don’t want to talk to you anymore. Let’s just go.”

“Hero that’s not—”

Before they could get the fourth word out, Hero had whirled on them eyes blazing hotter than any hells furnace.

“Fair?!” They asked incredulously, their voice jumping two pitches at the sheer audacity of the word on their lips. “Is that what you were going to say?”

Flynn didn’t back down this time. Instead he stepped forward, looking down his nose at Hero.

“Yes. That is what I was going to say.”

“You are unbelievable!” Hero snapped matching Flynn with a step forward of their own. They held their cuffed hands up in Flynn’s face as if to remind him exactly why Hero was there in the first place. “If you’re my friend you’ll take these off.”

“Hero you know I can’t—”

Hero didn’t let him finish. Instead they placed their palms on Flynn’s chest and shoved them as hard as they could. Flynn looked about as bothered as if a fly had flown into the room.

“I can’t uncuff you Hero,” Hero said, lowering their voice to mimic Flynn’s and shoving him back again. “I can’t let you go Hero.” And again. “I can’t fucking think—” shove “for myself” shove “Hero.”

Hero glared up at Flynn trying to fight back the frustrated tears building behind her eyes. Anger was easier to focus on in the moment rather than that vast aching pit twisting uncomfortably in their gut.

“But I promise I’m your friend, Hero,” Hero mocked, shoving him back again until Flynn’s back hit off the wall. Flynn’s eyebrows curved down and it left a pang in Hero’s chest that they hated. “And then you have the gall to look hurt. As if I betrayed you.”

Hero ignored the tears that fell at the last sentence, or at least tried to. They tried to be firm and act tough, but saying the betrayal out loud, acknowledging it when it was just the two of them was too much.

“Would you trust me if the roles were reversed?” Hero asked, not even wanting to look at Flynn for the answer. The more they saw the conflict on his face the harder it was to hate him. Flynn however, didn’t take this into consideration when he put his hand on Hero’s face and tilted it back to face him.

Hero narrowed their eyes at him, pushing every ounce of anger into their gaze hoping they would turn into actual daggers and stab him.

“No,” Flynn breathed softly, thumb wiping away the tear streaks from Hero’s face. “I wouldn’t trust you if the roles were reversed, but I would hear you out of you tried to explain it to me.”

“And if I took you to Supervillain?!” Hero asked, their voice low and furious as they stepped out of Flynn’s touch. “The enemy we’ve been trying to stop for months?”

“You.”

“What?!” Hero demanded hotly.

Flynn’s gaze hardened, his face devoid of all emotion now except for his usual mask of easy confidence, smirk on his lips as if he didn’t just wipe Hero’s tears away.

“The enemy you’ve been trying to stop for months,” Flynn said again taking a step forward, a dangerous glint in his eyes. Hero matched his step with one back, cautious, hackles raised. “I mean the man you borderline obsessed over, Hero. Don’t you want to meet the genius who eluded you, the great detective, for all that time?”

“Not particularly,” Hero said through gritted teeth, with another step back that Flynn matched, getting closer and closer each time.

“That’s what you called him though, right? A genius,” Flynn teased, his grin showing his teeth. “I mean, fuck, Hero some of the moves he made you were damn right impressed with. You even said you’d have done exactly the same thing if—”

“I was in his position,” Hero cut Flynn off. Flynn’s smirk grew wider as he took another step closer, dipping his head conspiratorially.

“Now you can be,” said Flynn with a wide gesture of his hands. Hero followed his hand to the cell door that they happened to be right beside. Hero was keenly aware that Flynn was backing them towards the door the whole time. “Even just for the intellectual stimulation if nothing else.”

“Go fuck yourself, Flynn. I’m not willingly walking into the Lion’s den.”

Flynn’s eyelids fell half over his eyes. “It is less dignified to be dragged, Hero, but if you insist.”

Flynn made a grab for Hero’s arm but they dodged at the last minute, turning to shoulder Flynn out of the way. Flynn didn’t so much as budge from his spot. Instead he caught Hero by the strap of their scabbard and yanked them into Flynn’s chest.

“The hard way, wonderful. I wouldn’t expect any less of you Hero,” Flynn said, wrapping an arm over Hero's chest and keeping them close as they stepped out of the cell, pushing Hero forward with their own body weight. “Let's go introduce you to Supervillain.”

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

The orphanage roll call (tag-list): @shywhumpauthor (lmk if you want to be added/removed)

[zorosleftshoe]

Hi, can you write a fanfic where the reader is sick but doesn't tell Colby so he doesn't worry?

Pairing: Colby Brock x Reader

Warning: one swear word

The tissues cluttered the floor but I couldn’t be bothered to pick them up. My head pounding and with each heartbeat it felt like another nail was being drove through my skull.

Colby had left early this morning to meet Sam for a meeting. They were meeting to discuss the topic of their next video and with hell week coming up I knew Colby couldn’t miss this. So I put on my fakest smile, took the deepest breath, and assured him I would be okay while he was gone. But the second the front door was shut and he was out of sight I could no longer pretend that I didn’t feel horrid.

My phone rang around lunch and when I answered I could hear Colby’s cheery voice asking if I wanted to join him for lunch.

“I actually already made plans.” Much to my dismay my voice came out in a rasp and I quickly cleared my throat. “With Kat.” Colby hummed and the phone was silent for a few seconds.

“What’s going on?” I inhaled deeply trying to ignore the pounding in my skull. “Because Kat is currently sitting next to me and I know you don’t have plans with her.” An involuntary huff escapes my lips and collapse back against the pillow behind me. “Baby?”

“It’s nothing, Colby. I’m fine.” The line beeps and when I look down at my phone it shows the call has ended. “Dammit.” Although I know what that means I silently hope Colby is just upset over the little white lie and won’t put the rest of his day on hold to rush home and check on me. Unfortunately, I’m wrong. Fifteen minutes later I hear the keys jangling outside the front door and suddenly the living room is engulfed in sunlight as the front door is pushed open.

“Oh, baby.” Colby coos once his eyes land on me. I’m currently cuddled up in a huge blanket on the couch. The tissues still littering the floor and pain meds scattered on the coffee table from the bottle being knocked over. I haven’t noticed my eyes are fluttering shut until I feel Colby’s hand pressed against my forehead and I jolt upright. “Sh, sh. It’s just me.” His hand rests on my forehead for a moment before he pulls away and stands up. “You’re burning up. I’m gonna make you some soup.” Before I can protest he’s turning around and picking up the discarded tissues and putting the pain meds back in the bottle. “I’ll be right back. I’m gonna run up to the store and get you some actually medicine, okay?” He places a sweet kiss on my forehead and disappears. My eyes flutter shut and sleep overcomes me.

When I wake up I feel tremendously better. The room is clean and the sun has set outside. I hear soft music playing from the kitchen and push the blankets off my body before walking into the kitchen. Colby is stood at the stove stirring contents in a pot while swaying to whatever song he is playing. Once I’m close enough I wrap my arms around his waist and rests my head against his back.

“Hi, sweetheart. How are feeling?” I hum in response to his question. Not wanting to answer just wanting to feel him close. “I made soup. Do you want to try to eat?” He asks over his shoulder.

“Sure. What kind of soup?”

“I’m not a chef so it’s not anything special. It’s just chicken noodle.” I nuzzle my nose into the space between his shoulders and move to stand beside him.

“Sounds perfect. Thank you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” I knew he would ask me this question just as much as I knew he would feel guilty for allowing me to suffer alone all day even though it wasn’t his fault.

“I didn’t want you to worry about me. Hell week is coming up and your schedule has been so slam packed. You just didn’t have the time to take off. I was okay, Colbs.” He stopped stirring the soup and turns to look at me.

“Work is important. That’s true. But you have to understand I will always make time for you. Always.” My lips twitch upwards in a smile and he pulls me into his side and hold me there as he finishes making the soup.

“Thanks for always taking care of me.” He leans his head against mine and leaves it there as we both watch the soup swirl in the pot.

“Thank you for letting me.”

[moondvncer]

Yes!!!

Do you think Silvio panics when Mc gets sick.

I don't mean she gets a very small cold or something, but I mean an illness that lays her up in bed for a week minimum. Something she needs medicine for constantly, is out of it for most of the time, and needs help moving out of bed.

Do you think he panics, rather than remains calm? When she's sleeping he's constantly sitting by her side, pausing between any documents or letters to check that she's still breathing, that time hasn't gone past when she needs her next dose.

Do you think he beats himself up for somehow 'letting' her get sick. Do you think on the days where shes going through the worst of it, he's illogically scared that the one person that sees past his money and name, and sees Himself, might pass and he's not done enough to show how much he loves her yet? Do you think he finds books she hasn't finished yet or has and reads them while she's sleeping, trying to find more of her lucidity in the pages. Preparing for when she is awake, that he can read where she left off. Do you think he chastises himself for not remembering which ones she's read already or not, and vows to etch that to memory during future convos.

[patchworkorphan]

Heroic Betrayal - Part five

Read part one here

Continued from this part here

*~*~*~*~*

What kind of idiot were they to be stuck here? Hero should have told Sidekick when they got the tip about Villain… they should have told them that they were going to rough Villain up a bit, get the information they needed on Other Villain’s whereabouts and beat the shit out of them. Just a little revenge for touching a hair on Sidekick’s innocent head.

Even if they managed to catch Villain and mete out justice on Other Villain, they would have beaten the ever-living shit out of the wrong person, and that was something Hero didn’t want to think about in that moment.

That Flynn…

Their Flynn was the one who put Sidekick in the med bay.

Sidekick, who was still in the med bay, where Hero should be, but no. Instead, they were here, powerless and bleeding and it was all their fault.

Hero didn’t know how long they sat and stewed on that thought. Long enough that their nose stopped bleeding anyway. Hero tentatively reached up to their upper lip, their hand came away from it dry, the blood caked and flaked onto their face now.

“What happened to your face?” Hero angled their head down from where they stared at the ceiling to see Flynn standing on the other side of the cell bars.

“Fuck off, Red,” Hero grumbled, and fought the wince at their casual nickname for Flynn slipping out of their lips. “I’m not in the mood.”

A jangle of keys and the cell door was open, footsteps approaching Hero in their cot in the corner. Hero’s heart ached with every beat as Flynn came into their line of sight, concern drawing their features together.

How many times had they seen that same concern on his face? Told Hero it was going to be okay. Cleaned their wounds, laughed about the bruises the next day?

How much of it was a lie? — Hero wanted to ask. The question burned a hole on the tip of their tongue, but they didn’t dare speak it. They just stared up at the ceiling as best they could.

“What? You piss someone off already?”

Hero sighed. Flynn sat on the edge of the bed, moving closer to Hero hands going to inspect the damage. Hero slapped their hands away, tears burning in the back of their eyes.

“Don’t fucking touch me, Flynn,” Hero bit out. “You don’t get to betray me and then pretend to be my friend and concerned about me.”

Flynn stared; eyes sad as he said: “okay. Guess I deserve that.”

“You deserve so much more,” Hero said, eyes burning with hatred, voice barely above a whisper. “How many of our friends died because of you? Hmm?”

“Hero, not all of it–” Flynn began then stopped, huffed out a breath of air through his nose, hand running through his hair. “Not all of it was a lie. I am your friend. I do care about you.”

“Oh really? Then you’d never use your power on me, right?” Hero demanded, echoing back Flynn’s words against him. Flynn had the audacity to even look guilty at that, and Hero leaned forwards, hands on Flynn’s as they said: “I forgive you, okay. I forgive you if you let me go. Flynn, please.”

Flynn’s eyebrows knit together, clearly conflicted but he said nothing. After a moment, Hero let out a breath of disbelief and sat back against the wall again.

“Yeah,” Hero scoffed, “we’re friends.”

“You have blood all over your face, Hero. You really want to just leave it?”

“Why the hell not?” Hero said, trying to force their tone into some form of neutrality.

Flynn sighed and stood up from the cot. “Supervillain wants an audience with you. I was sent to retrieve you.”

Hero rolled their eyes but got to their feet no less. “Of course,” they said, pushing past Flynn to the door. “God help you actually wanted to see how I was doing.”

“Hero—”

“I don’t want to talk to you anymore. Let’s just go.”

“Hero that’s not—”

Before they could get the fourth word out, Hero had whirled on them eyes blazing hotter than any hells furnace.

“Fair?!” They asked incredulously, their voice jumping two pitches at the sheer audacity of the word on their lips. “Is that what you were going to say?”

Flynn didn’t back down this time. Instead they stepped forward, looking down their nose at Hero.

“Yes. That is what I was going to say.”

“You are unbelievable!” Hero snapped matching Flynn with a step forward of their own. They held their cuffed hands up in Flynn’s face as if to remind him exactly why Hero was there in the first place. “If you’re my friend you’ll take these off.”

“Hero you know I can’t—”

Hero didn’t let him finish. Instead they placed their palms on Flynn’s chest and shoved them as hard as they could. Flynn looked about as bothered as if a fly had flown into the room.

“I can’t uncuff you Hero,” Hero said, lowering their voice to mimic Flynn’s and shoving him back again. “I can’t let you go Hero.” And again. “I can’t fucking think—” shove “for myself” shove “Hero.”

Hero glared up at Flynn trying to fight back the frustrated tears building behind her eyes. Anger was easier to focus on in the moment rather than that vast aching pit twisting uncomfortably in their gut.

“But I promise I’m your friend, Hero,” Hero mocked, shoving him back again until Flynn’s back hit off the wall. Flynn’s eyebrows curved down and it left a pang in Hero’s chest that they hated. “And then you have the gall to look hurt. As if I betrayed you.”

Hero ignored the tears that fell at the last sentence, or at least tried to. They tried to be firm and act tough, but saying the betrayal out loud, acknowledging it when it was just the two of them was too much.

“Would you trust me if the roles were reversed?” Hero asked, not even wanting to look at Flynn for the answer. The more they saw the conflict on his face the harder it was to hate him. Flynn however, didn’t take this into consideration when he put his hand on Hero’s face and tilted it back to face him.

Hero narrowed their eyes at him, pushing every ounce of anger into their gaze hoping they would turn into actual daggers and stab him.

“No,” Flynn breathed softly, thumb wiping away the tear streaks from Hero’s face. “I wouldn’t trust you if the roles were reversed, but I would hear you out of you tried to explain it to me.”

“And if I took you to Supervillain?!” Hero asked, their voice low and furious as they stepped out of Flynn’s touch. “The enemy we’ve been trying to stop for months?”

“You.”

“What?!” Hero demanded hotly.

Flynn’s gaze had hardened, his face devoid of all emotion now except for his usual mask of easy confidence, smirk on his lips as if he didn’t just wipe Hero’s tears away.

“The enemy you’ve been trying to stop for months,” Flynn said again taking a step forward, a dangerous glint in his eyes. Hero matched it with one back, cautious, hackles raised. “I mean the man you borderline obsessed over, Hero. Don’t you want to meet the genius who eluded you, the great detective, for all that time?”

“Not particularly,” Hero said through gritted teeth, with another step back that Flynn matched, getting closer and closer each time.

“That’s what you called him though, right? A genius,” Flynn teased, his grin showing his teeth. “I mean, fuck, Hero some of the moves he made you were damn right impressed with. You even said you’d have done exactly the same thing if—”

“I was in his position,” Hero cut Flynn off. Flynn’s smirk grew wider as he took another step closer, dipping his head conspiratorially.

“Now you can be,” said Flynn with a wide gesture of his hands. Hero followed his hand to the cell door that they happened to be right beside. Hero was keenly aware that Flynn was backing them towards the door the whole time. “Even just for the intellectual stimulation if nothing else.”

“Go fuck yourself, Flynn. I’m not willingly walking into the Lion’s den.”

Flynn’s eyelids fell half over his eyes. “It is less dignified to be dragged, Hero, but if you insist.”

Flynn made a grab for Hero’s arm but they dodged at the last minute, turning to shoulder Flynn out of the way. Flynn didn’t so much as budge from their spot. Instead he caught Hero by the strap of their scabbard and yanked them into Flynn’s chest.

“The hard way, wonderful. I wouldn’t expect any less of you Hero,” Flynn said, wrapping an arm over Hero's chest and keeping them close as they stepped out of the cell, pushing Hero forward with their own body weight. “Let's go introduce you to Supervillain.”

*~*~*~*~*

The Orphanage, or, the tag-list: @princess-bubble-blossom @morning-star-whump

[tamarieatsbatteries175]

yahoo huzzah *insert tbh creature gif*

It's called HouseholdClan! Our leader is Notebookstar (after five star notebooks), Cowboyhat is the deputy (because the word deputy reminds me of that kinda stuffs), and out helaer/med. cat is Pillbottle (for obvious reasons) and their apprentice is Soappaw (full healer name is Soapbubble)

The story revolves around Forkkit and Knifekit (Med cat and warrior names are Forkfang and Knifeshine) and them being part of a prophecy along with their cousins Toolkit and Couchkit (warrior names Toolbox and Couchcushion). Toolkit and Couchkit also have a brother named Clipboardkit (Clipboardclaw) but he's lame/silly

Other cats include: Engineroar, Microwavehum, Outletface, Waterbottleshadow, Headphonewire, Housefire, Tapwater, Eggyolk, Electricalwire, Rustedmetal, Bookcover, Sunnyday, Cameraflash, and Flagpole

Also we have the obligatory pjsk references, Dramapaw (Dramamask, Mafuyu), Paintpaw (Paintbrush, Ena), Recordpaw (Recordplayer, Kanade), and Ribbonpaw (Ribbonshine, Mizuki)

We also have two other cats names Shrimpshade and Sharkfang. I justify their non-item names by saying they're from a different Clan I called SeafoamClan (maybe I'll make that a thing,, I love making warriors clans you don't even know)

Annddd our elders are Chairleg, Houseplant, Butterknife, and a former kittypet named Stella!

We also have a few cats outside the Clan, which are Falcon (a friend's OC), and Jingle and Jangle, who come from a travelling group of circus cats! Dramapaw was actually originally from them, and sometimes Jingle sneaks in through a back window to taunt Dramapaw about their past and try and get them to rejoin

Other stuff:

Chairleg had a mate named Carpetfur and their kits are Microwavehum and Outletface!

Microwavehum is mates with Cowboyhat and their kits are Toolkit, Clipboardkit, and Couchkit

Outletface is mates with Headphonewire and their (adopted) kits are Forkkit and Knifekit

Sunnyday and Cameraflash are accidental omori references

Pillbottle and Stella are mates and try to hide it from Soappaw butnits so fucking obvious everyone can tell (old cat yuri,,,!!!! wtf!!!!!/silly)

Ok that was wayyy longer than. expectdd,, sorry

-🎭🍎

This is so wonderful and amazing /gen

and THESE NAMES ARE ON POINT my favs are Houseplant and Housefire,,,

Tysm for sharing this with me i am full of whimsy now :3

[joltning]

bro I am so bad at staying focused. Literally so excited for s19 and I’m thinking about geotah again it’s over for me the meds are wearing off send me the markiplier jingle jangle cause I need it. s19 right now or 1000 geotah fics. gay son or thot daughter

[sarasa-cat]

uughhhhhhhhh.

That body jangled-by-life feeling after:

Holding in way too many words in my head that needed to be typed, but was not at home. Got home, POURED IT ALL OUT IN A RUSH.

But, also, body is still a bit _off_ from mystery virus and brunch-on-the-go while out did not sit well in my stomach either.

That horrid feeling of needing to get out of binding, constricting clothing IMMEDIATELY. But it is still early in the day, and all of that feeling of fail fail fail while changing into something daytime appropriate but still NOPE. Not even a cami top under my shirt.

Finally giving up and putting on PJs because ugh. My gut just hurts today.

And my brain feels exhausted from all of that highly successful thinking (while out) and pounding keys like being chased by tigers once I was home and in front of a computer.

And ... ugh. Feeling vaguely sick from either the food I ate and/or that hangover of being a bit off from a mild virus.

.

Still have 4 more hours of workday ahead of me. Need to get to painting asap

but---- maybe I just take my laptop, the book I was reading (work-related), and a big mug of water, and go upstairs and curl up with my orange cat (who needed a lot of calming down because he was all wound up about something).

Ugh. I need ginger tea or something. my digestion feels so off. so very very off. (and has for a couple of days. probably that virus)

(also, I can tell that my anti-migraine meds are working over time this week bc everything in the world that is striped reminds me that my brain is this close to setting off a in serious migraine)

[eretzyisrael]

My magical Seder above the rooftops of Beirut

Zaki Elia cherishes his memories of celebrating the Passover Seder in Lebanon in the 1950s. He wrote this account forty years later in London, where he resettled. Today no Jewish community exists in Beirut. (With thanks: Michelle)

Beirut by night (photo: Paul Saad, Wikimedia Commons)

The time is the mid-Fifties. Abou Jacques and Um Jacques (literally the Father and Mother of Jacques) held the Seder for the whole family. This included us: we were related through the marriage of their elder son Jacques to my Auntie Touné, my father’s favourite sister.

The Seder was on a grand scale and catered for six to seven families. The preparations for it started one month in advance. All the mothers used to go to Um Jacques in a rota of two at a time in order to help prepare the meal.

During that season the Gentiles with their spring cleaning were as busy as the Jews with their Pessah cleaning. In the street we used to live in, Persian carpets were being beaten on the balconies by Kurdish cleaning ladies in zingy dresses. The more beatings reverberated in the streets the closer we came to Pessah. There was a definite sense of ascending hysteria. I was young, and to me it looked epic in scale.

The weather this time of the year was crisp and scrubbed. The last whiffs of orange blossom mingled with the pungent smells of the Med and the many gallons of cleaning fluid.

On the day of The Seder the whole world seemed as good as new.

Dusk settled with the arrival of Uncle Jacques in his shiny black Buick with its polished chromium plated nick-knacks. The effect of an American car in the narrow streets of Beirut was breathtaking. We all glided into the Buick in a cloud of starched cleanliness and Eau de Cologne.

My father always held the cumbersome bouquet of gladioli. Uncle Jacques drove us to his parents’ flat barely three minutes away, but the ride seemed pure magic. The experience of the car was transcendental.

Abou Jacques and Um Jacques lived in the penthouse flat of a 40s building with the monumental feel of a Parisian facade. A heavy modernist wrought iron and glass portal led into a hall with a stupendous mirror on the left and a smaller one on the right. Two steps up and you reached the landing: a lift was inserted in the stairwell of a sweeping, wide staircase climbing all the way up to the fifth floor. Everything was clad in tasteful local marble. Lifts were not common in Beirut of the 50s. The ascenseur’s metal door was imposing, with a vertical slit-like window in its centre, and crowned with a brass plaque depicting in intaglio the world map, overlaid with the brand name of the lift ‘O.T.I.S.’. we fell under its magic spell, that would propel us upward to some heavenly place.

We had to ascend in two batches.

First my mother, my sister and uncle got in the cabin and were heaved up, taking with them the shaft of light that was cast onto the landing. My father, the gladioli and I waited in semi-darkness while watching, in awe, their progress upward. Their arrival was heralded by the light flooding the top floor landing and followed by a gush of ‘Ahlan Wasahlan’ and ‘Hag Sameiah’ that trickled and echoed down the stairwell. That was Um Jacques’ voice. On our arrival, my dad, the gladioli and I were received with the same generous glee.

Um Jacques was a lovely coquettish old lady with a tight and immaculate perm. She always wore little gold earrings mounted with a string of tiny pearls. Whenever she giggled and laughed her gold tooth glinted with happiness. Her dresses were perfectly tailored in summery colours and flowery patterns according to the latest Parisian fashions. She loved wearing the heavy jangling gold bracelet that Abou Jacques gave her a long time ago. Everybody loved her.

Abou Jacques also had a gold tooth, shyly set behind a generous but stiff moustache. He had white hair and was soft spoken with a perpetual expression of contentment and humility. His amber worry beads never left his hands.

The flat was awash with aunts, uncles and cousins of various ages and sizes, greeting and complimenting each other profusely. The crystal chandeliers were ablaze in the two rooms where the Seder table was set straight across both spaces. It was huge. Four white tablecloths were needed to cover the full length.

While the last preparations were being made, my cousins and I would go out onto the terrace to scrutinize the shimmering glitter of the city and spot the lights of the famous seaside hotels: Hotel Excelsior, Palm Beach, St. Georges, Residence, The Normandy. Each one was identified and greeted loudly. We looked upon Beirut as travellers do when taking off or leaving port. Indeed, the terrace felt just like a ship’s deck at night with the same sort of breezy stillness, and muted rumble of departure.

The night was queen. Our eyes were filled with cascading stars and neon lights. From the darkness of the terrace the Seder table spanning both rooms could be seen through three French windows, bursting with so much light, that the walls containing it seemed to dissolve into night. Within this radiant cocoon the Seder table displayed its splendid vanities: Damascene brass work, Bohemian crystals, Louis XVI silver tableware and china crockery festooned the table in balletic rhythms.

As we all settled around the table Abou Jacques would hush us down in order to start the journey from darkest Mitzrayim. We children were more interested in the Haroseth. We read through the Haggadah looking at the pictures, singing the songs, spilling the wine, and cursing the Egyptians; we did not understand much but felt it all the same. Slavery, miracles and redemption mingled in our heads, but the Haroseth was best.

Before the meal started, most of the mothers disappeared into the kitchen led by Um Jacques, and reappeared laden with an abundance of different entrées, beautifully served on an array of big, boat-shaped plates.

All the men were proud, and contented. Compliments were rushing up and down the table. ‘May Peace be upon your hand!’ ‘May we have such feasts at the weddings of your children!’ The meal proceeded noisily with all fathers exchanging jokes and laughter. The profusion of flowers displayed on the sideboard shimmered and quivered to the sound of silver cutlery and joyful eating.

After we consumed the first course, Um Jacques would disappear again into her kitchen while the ladies cleared the table. With the help of one of her daughters-in-law, Um Jacques would reappear with the main course. On a massive silver vessel with big brass handles was enthroned a whole stuffed lamb bedecked with a garland of red flowers round its neck and a young lettuce in its mouth. Its eye sockets were emptied. Everybody applauded. It was awesome and gruesome, delightful and fearful. The epicentre of the meal shifted from Abou Jacques’s to Um Jacques’s end of the table. She unpicked the sown-up belly to release the stuffing of rice and pistachio nuts, and the fragrance of spices would rush out into the room on its way to heaven. ‘Ya Allah!’

Following this mythical meal the Haggadah was read and sung into the small hours of the morning. My cousins and I would grow restive and escape onto the terrace to watch the city. Little did we know what was brewing behind all that glitter. That was 1957. In 1958 the first inkling of trouble surfaced, and Jews began wanting to leave. Half awake and half dreaming of Eliahu Hanavi, our Seder ebbed away gently on the laps of our parents.

My younger sister and I would wake up the next morning not quite understanding how we got in our beds. The first day of Pessah was usually sunny blue with some whiter-than- white clouds and a fresh clean breeze. We made the walk to Synagogue all starched-up and sharp. The soles of our slightly painful new shoes were stiff; they slithered on the grimy cobbles and made us feel above worldly things. We felt new…

The Synagogue was brimming with billowing tallitim that revealed silk ties and crisp suits.

Hanging from the ceiling, above the ark, the crowded row of chiseled brass and silver oil lamps were sparkling with polished newness. Whiffs of burning oil, ‘Old Spice’, old prayer books, and bergamot Eau de Cologne mingled and swirled around. Raucous and out-of-tune singing often drowned the vocal arabesques of the Hazan. I used to watch with wonder as his face turned sweaty and red, and his jugular vein swell over his rigid collar as he reached his top notes.

At the end of the service, the open air forecourt of the Synagogue swarmed with all the ‘Messieurs et Mesdames’, uncles and aunts, the grannies, the grandpas, the cousins, the friends  – all in a riot of taffeta, lace, nylon and rayon, silk flower corsages, gold and fake jewellery, fezzes, stilettos and shiny shoes. It was peacock time!

Soon after, the crowd would part again for the traditional Pessah Ziarat or visits. The Ziarat were a sort of communal walk-about, punctuated by well-wishing stopovers at all the friends and relations’ homes. Mothers and older daughters tended to the visitors; fathers and younger children did the visiting. The first two days of Pessah were open days for all.

The Jewish community fanned out for just half a mile around ‘Wadi Abou Jamil’, the local Jewish Lower East Side.

My father used to lead us patiently through the intricate web of walkways, steps and courtyards that rambled in and out of the main street, up dingy stairs to this friend, down stone-covered paths to that cousin. We were served salted nuts, mulberry or fruit syrup drinks and all sorts of almond and coconut sweetmeats. Everywhere we visited was neat, spanking clean and adorned with scented flowers.

Outside, in the clear spring sunlight, everybody moved around at a gentle pace (the new shoes began taking their toll) . Fathers waved to each other from across the street. The whole city resonated with warm greetings and farewells: ‘May we see you again in days of happiness!’

Thirty-eight years later, the Beirut Jews scattered across the globe in the successive waves of Middle Eastern convulsions.

[writingjourney]

Headache wip

that's a great choice because I can actually give you an excerpt for this one!! ♡ also funny bc right now i got an awful headache, so this is not proofread or anything:

✦ ✧ ✦

A swell of Italian curses, muffled by the heavy oak door. The keys jangle as he misses his target multiple times, the wood groaning painfully as he leans against it before trying again. When the lock finally springs open, Secondo enters your shared quarts with a sigh that seems to carry the combined weight of every burden in the world.

“Hello, my love,” you greet him from the couch, pulling your legs up to make room for him.

He grumbles what seems to be a greeting as he pulls at his robes with impatient, unusually clumsy fingers. When he misses the hook on the coat rack the fabric falls to the floor, emerald green and black pooling at his feet. He heaves another sigh.

“Oh, you’re especially grumpy today, hm?” You only have to take one closer look to see exactly what the reason for his foul mood is. The makeup around his temples is smudged, as is the paint around bridge of his nose when he regards you under droopy eyelids. “Headache again?”

“Hmpf.”

“Oh, heavy is the head that wears the mitre,” you mumble when he sinks down on the sofa beside you. “Is it very bad?”

“Yes.”

“That’s because you’re too stubborn to take the meds in time before it gets like this,” you chide, wrapping a supportive arm around his shoulders. “You always think you can push through by sheer force of will.”

“Hmpf.”

You press a soft kiss to his temple and he leans against you, resting his heavy head against your lips. “It’s okay to get a little help, my love.”

“I have you for that, no? You always take such good care of your Papa.”

“Well, not even I can just magically rub away your headache.”

He tuts, squeezing your thigh with his gloved fingers. “That depends on where you’re rubbing, hm?”

You chuckle, cradling his head against you and peppering his skin with more kisses. “I don’t think you’re up for that today. But I can rub some tiger balm on your temples if you would like?”

“Per favore.”

More kisses and he grows heavier by the second. His black eyelids are closed now, long lashes tickling the skin just below. “Let’s get you cleaned up before you fall asleep. I will take care of dinner today and you can take a little nap.”

He gives a dissatisfied hum. “Amore, we are making Cacio e Pepe tonight.”

“So? I helped you prepare it many times and it’s not that difficult.”

You can immediately tell that the idea displeases him. His brows pull together even more than in their relaxed state and his lips curl ever so slightly at the edges. This is the closest you will ever get to an actual pout from him and you have to fight off an amused smile.

“You don’t have to worry that I won’t need you anymore,” you whisper. “I will always prefer being your kitchen helper, my love.”

“I’m not wo–” You shut him up with a proper kiss and he practically melts into it. The smudged make up tastes bitter when you lick along his full lips. Secondo sighs, teasing your tongue with his for a moment before he pulls away. “Va bene. But you will join your Papa for his nap.”

[yrndrgn]

Brain zaps be zapping again

I'm going through this headache again, and I'm so upset about it. I'm not even going through a decrease- I increased goddamnit. I thought they only happened if you decreased. Now I have the metal balls jangling in my head if I so much as move my eyes wrong. Even my tinnitus has taken on a tinny sound. I hate these things so much. Life feels like it's on pause once they start up. I only get them closer to the evenings, so it's not too bad. But, like, some times they start at 5:00PM and mess up my whole evening. I'm in law school damnit- I've got shit to do.

I've also had some scary bad ones recently.

About three weeks ago, I was having a really shitty time. I got dumped, I was plagued by some unknown upper respiratory infection (not COVID), and- key point here- I had vomited a little after taking my meds. The only medication in the puke was the Mucinex I had taken earlier, but my other meds were also probably disrupted because of it. Due to- just- the emotional devastation that I felt and in generally feeling utterly like shit all the time, I hadn't been able to sleep for about 48 hours.

Not great for a sick person.

It was getting late. My dad had gone off to bed. I go up to brush my teeth because they were feeling shitty because, well, depression. My head had been buzzing for maybe an hour- the occasional long series of zaps, but also just buzzing pain in general. Enough to note, but not enough to really to make myself do anything about. I'm on the stairs when something feels off the first time. A lot of zaps go off at once and make my head feel a little dizzy.

Worrying.

I make my way to the bathroom and start brushing my teeth. That's when things got really bad.

I'm one of those people who shakes their head as I brush my teeth. I move in rhythm with the brush. Maybe the motion caused it because suddenly a whole bunch of zaps go off all at once. Just simultaneously blasting away at my brain. My body goes stiff I feel like I'm about to fall over and out of control of my body. The worst part was my vision. The world just started kinda melting. Y'know how sometimes a bunch of window screen will pop up in this specific diagonal overlap? It was like that but also a little liquidy. There was this sound as it happened- like when one dribbles basketballs really low and quickly to the ground but more metal. I remember feeling so stiff.

My body doesn't respond to my commands for a second, but somehow I pushed my will through enough for me to stop myself from falling. I panic finish because what the fuck just happened? I'm heartbroken, depressed, exhausted, sick, and now terrified because I lost control of my body for a second. I leave the bathroom and proceed to have another one. There's basketballs. My head hurts. My limbs stiffen.

The world melts.

I cling to some shelves. I gain back control. I'm scared. Do I move? Do I stay? I'm so tired. I need to go back downstairs. I need my meds. I want my dad.

My dad went to bed- that means he's in the room right next to me.

This is purely a matter of happenstance. Due to some shenanigans involving the AC units at home, my dad started sleeping in my sister's room since she had already left for her own place, and her room conjoins my childhood bedroom through the bathroom. I went to my childhood bedroom by habit despite not sleeping there because my AC unit was among the broken ones because, when you're feeble, sickly, prissy prissy prince(ss) like me, you need to be able to cool the room a little while on a tropical island. I was standing in my room at the time, maybe I could drag myself just far enough to get my dad.

I move slowly. I keep one hand webbed in the shelve's grids as I travel, then pressed against the wall once there are no more shelves.

I'm in the doorway when a third one hits. Maybe because it's happened twice now, but it's not quite as bad. But the world still melts for a bit.

I cling my to my sister's bedroom door and knock. I call out for my dad and quietly open the door.

He's tired and confused and worried.

"There's something wrong with me. I don't think it's safe for me to go down the stairs alone. Can you help me?"

I feel like a little kid all over again.

Instead of doing what my routine-oriented brain thinks of which is guiding me downstairs then back to the actual room I sleep in, he slips me into what was his bed. He rubs my back and strokes my hair then goes to get my meds. My Ate comes to check because she heard something happened and know that I'm still really sick. She brings me an extra blanket and some water.

My dad returns with my meds and my phone. He tells me to text him or my Ate if I need anything and to get some rest.

I take all my meds plus a Tylenol PM and finally sleep for the first time in over 48 hours.

I haven't had brain zaps as bad as that day since.

But every time they start back up, I worry if it'll happen again, and if this time I really do lose control. My dad isn't here to help me again. I don't know if there's anyone who could help me if they happen again.

[ardentpoop]

sometimes when i’m sad and unmotivated i spoil my own wips to see if anyone will bite. so here’s a little piece of this 🥴

“You ready?” Lawrence asks after a moment, cupping Adam’s cheek, staring searchingly into his eyes. 

Adam bites his lip. “Mm-hm.” 

The cold of the corridor washes over Adam as he waits for Lawrence to lock the front door, the jangling of his keys piercing the oppressive quiet alongside the muttered curses dropping from Lawrence’s lips as he fucks it up a couple times. 

Adam’s fingers are tucked into Lawrence’s coat pocket while both his hands are occupied with the keys, and he pokes Lawrence’s thigh through the wool. “Relax, Larry.” Lawrence hates it when he calls him that. “I’m not gonna have a meltdown just standing here. Or, like, get snatched away by some twisted old freak with a bondage kink. What’re the odds of that happening a third time?” 

“Adam,” Lawrence says, exasperated. He does that a lot, uses Adam’s name like it’s an obscenity; a vehicle for everything he can’t or won’t put into words. 

“Lawrence,” Adam says, mimicking his tone. It doesn’t quite carry the same weight. 

He holds Lawrence’s hand again, and they set off for the elevator at the end of the hall. 

The ride down to the lobby is blessedly uneventful, just the two of them sharing body heat and Adam’s stomach doing that uncomfortable floaty thing as they go down. He feels a little bit like an alien experiencing the wonders and terrors of human civilization for the first time. Six and a half months, Lawrence had told him. Crazy. But then, he isn’t unaccustomed to losing long stretches of time to the insatiate black hole of his brain. At least now he has Lawrence to keep the apartment clean and stock the fridge and remind him to take his meds, and touch him when he needs to be grounded, and tell him what’s going on in the world beyond his gilded cage. The elevator dings, depositing them into the abandoned lobby. 

Lawrence tugs his hand free of Adam’s in favor of placing the same palm at the small of his back, using it to guide him through the double doors that Adam hadn’t seen since they moved in. The night air feels sharp on Adam’s face; its frigid lips kissing his cheeks; and there’s so much more sound than Adam is used to, humming and trilling and whooshing. He suddenly misses his earbuds; recalling endless walks from his past life that were made tolerable only by the industrial metal and hardcore punk crashing in his ears. He presses closer to Lawrence, who curls his fingers against his spine. I’m here. 

They stop at the end of the sidewalk, the lobby doors still visible past the rows of sleeping cars glittering under the streetlights. 

“You’re doing good,” Lawrence says softly, lifting Adam’s chin with his index finger. 

Adam takes a mental photograph of his face; heart-achingly kind and caring and so handsome like this, the pale light picking out the multiplying threads of silver in his hair, his sky-blue eyes glowing with a warmth that repels the winter chill. He doesn’t stop Adam when he pushes up to kiss him, simply wrapping his arms over Adam’s back and allowing him to stake his claim.

“Adam,” Lawrence intones, once Adam has reluctantly torn himself away; pressing his fingers to his own mouth and staring openly at the pink flush he’s left on Lawrence’s lips and the high points of his cheeks. 

“Fuck,” Adam says, with feeling. 

Fuck! I’d eat you alive if you’d let me.

He probably would, is the thing. He would let him.

[allmyavatartortallfics]

It does naturally follow that leftover princes should stick together.

This is the Everyone Gets A Redemption Arc version of the Ozorne thing.

Ozorne gets dragged to the Fire Nation for some, vague diplomatic reason when he's about 8 or 9. He does not want to be there, he does not like the Fire Nation... but he does like Turtle Ducks.

On this basis a very shy and very confused Zuko receives several weeks worth of the full Adopted By An Extrovert experience (i.e. being dragged around and talked at by a hyperactive Ozorne).

Ozorne of course has to go off to the Imperial University and is too busy/preoccupied to think too much about the Fire Nation. Eventually he decides to take Arram and Varice on a field trip to meet his old friend and see some Turtle Ducks (the perils of associating with Bird Nerds).

Ozorne turns up at the Caldera, all happy and excited and is very baffled and upset to find that is Friend is Not There!! Terrible! So, he gets the full explanation and is Big Pissed Off. He's been trained by Chioke for several years. He bounces Ozai off a few walls lightly grills him and feeds him to Enzi.

Then he gives Azula a hug and introduces her to the fun concept of taking your meds and bounces off to find his friend.

Ozorne is having a fantastic time on a Legit Adventure bouncing around on a Zuko-hunt with intermittent breaks to find new birds. Varice and Arram are having the combined experience of New Dog Owners trying to leash train a St. Bernard puppy that doesn't understand it weighs 80lbs and Going for a Walk with a Bird Watcher (i.e. they long for the sweet release of death).

The first the Gaang find out about this is some weirdo who jangles when he moves because of all the beads in his hair hops out from behind a rock and gives Zuko a hug. They are very alarmed by this. Zuko is very alarmed by this (its all the trauma).

Ozorne is possibly a touch hypomanic by this point and should probably have a lie down before attempting to explain himself:

"Zuko! Zuko! Zuko! We've been looking for you everywhere! Your hair looks terrible. Please don't be mad! We possibly, maybe, fed your Dad to a Crocodile God. Its not my fault, I just panicked and Enzi was right there -- I don't know why, he just follows Arram around. Oh - this is Arram and Varice"

"I'm sorry, did you just say you fed Firelord Ozai to a Crocodile God?"

"I'm sorry did you just say Crocodile God?"

"Its not my fault! I panicked!"