#This...might become a full fic

[erisenyo]

I'd say we can blame the Zukka server for this one except it's been kicking around for a while all on it's own

NSFW ahead - Zutara, bloodbending, humiliation kink, D/s vibess, conensual but not sane or safe, I think we can see where this is going

The first time she has him on his knees it’s an accident—almost.

Katara grunts as Appa takes off, instinctively shifting her weight to counterbalance the heave of take-off, the rush of bloodbending still in her ears. It’s a sharp, jagged thing, sticky in the way it clings to her bending, tugging her awareness away from the rolling ocean and toward the smallest rush instead, looking to grab and hold and crush the water to her will and she knows it’s not water but it’s close enough and she’s just doing what she has to do, what Zuko came with her to do, so for him to turn away like he’s horrified by her, like she’s the monster when he—

“What was that?” Katara snarls, the words bursting out of her, her bending thrumming like she can feel the pulse of every venule in her fingertips.

“What?” Zuko says after a pause, delayed and not looking at her, acting like there’s anything at all to see except ocean over the side of Appa’s saddle, when the only thing around to look at is—

“Back there,” Katara snaps, bending throbbing along with the words and her pulse, high and wild and looking for something to grab onto and that’s the hardest part of bloodbending, the way it wants to be used once it’s been called, a rising flood pressing against the dam of her control. “On that ship, when you—”

“My information was out of date,” Zuko has the gall to shrug, even stiffer than usual about it and nearly entirely turned away, like she’s too disgusting to even look, at the edge of the saddle like he’d be leaping out of it if he had anywhere to go. “But it’s fine, we got his location, we just have to go to—”

“I’m not talking about information,” Katara spits, “I’m talking about you.”

A jerk, his voice coming high and thin. “I—me?”

“You think you’re better than me?” Katara hisses, wishing she could revel in that fear except all she wants his for him to snap and snarl back so that she’d have the excuse to— “Like you’ve never done what you had to do? I don’t need your judgment, Prince Zuko.”

“What?” he says, almost turning toward her before he catches himself. “No, I—” Like he has any ground to try to deflect when he’s acting like she’s something too shameful to even acknowledge. “You just—”

“Shut! Up!” The bending lashes out with the force of it, whipping and rolling right at the object of her rage and freezing his jaw if not his throat.

So when he moans in the sudden silence, they both hear it, clear and lingering even in the rush of wind and waves.

“What—” Katara pulls back, her shock quickly twisting into ready anger as he gasps and whirls fully away like she’s— “Are you mocking me? You think this is a joke?” she snarls as he just shakes his head, mute.

“No, no,” he says, the words tripping out of him, “I don’t, I don’t, I—"

“This isn’t some trick—”

“—I know, I know, you’re—"

“—that you can just laugh at,” she shouts, the bending lashing out of her mid-word, snapping his jaw shut and wrapping into his veins and arteries and forcing him to turn and face her.

It’s a rush of adrenaline-fueled rage and she’s braced to counterbalance his resistance, so she overspins when he goes limp into it instead. She stumbles, instinctively yanking him down as she finds her balance and the way he folds right to his knees, not even fighting.

Katara only half-releases him in surprise this time, but it’s enough for his whimper to go from strangled to loud and clear halfway through, the sound loud and clear, fear and—and making fun of her, when they’re—when this whole thing was his—when they wouldn’t even be here if not for—

“Stop mocking me,” Katara screams, her hands clawing the air as she purposefully reaches out this time, gripping him tight and making him feel her, making sure he feels her bending everywhere.

“I’m—not—a—joke,” she snarls, setting her feet and shoving away the part of her that wonders what Aang would think of her using all their time practicing bending in the air for this and focusing on the wild feeling of exactly what she could do to him instead.

She lifts Zuko bodily into the air until he’s barely supporting his own weight, back arched and arms splayed wide and knees just graving the saddle, making sure he feels her power down to his fucking toes. She strangles any more sounds as she flattens his tongue to the roof of his mouth, his head kicking back, and she can feel the way his pulses pounds, feel the flush of fear in him, the blood rushing to his cheeks and extremities and his—

Zuko lets out a sound that any other time would be protest as she releases him so abruptly he collapses down onto the saddle. But she knows its just gasping for breath and the shock of regaining control of himself after—after straining, ice replacing the rolling fury in her veins as she stares at Zuko fumbling up onto his knees and back, scooting away, his knees drawn up like—like protection. Like he needs protection from her. His chest heaving and mouth wide and face turn away so she can only see his scar and just a sliver of skin, usually pale but still flushed red with—

Katara whirls away, fists clenched at her side as she tries to will away the voice too like Aang’s in the back of her head murmuring ‘two-headed rat viper,’ sadly and quietly and understandingly, like there’s anything here to—

“Get us to Yon Rha,” Katara grits out, the words rough in her throat like she was the one fighting to scream, and Zuko just gasps behind her, breaths harsh, and Katara decides that that is answer enough.

--

The second time she has him on his knees, it’s on purpose. Mostly.

Because the problem is she can’t stop thinking about it, that—that sound. About that sound, and about the way he’d looked at her.

So in snatches and glances and sidelong looks, through the rest of the night and into the morning she watches him. Through the trek across the nondescript, nothing island to the nondescript, nothing village to the nondescript, nothing man who killed her mother, she keeps him in the corner of her eye.

And she knows that he can tell she’s watching, she can see it in the way he holds himself and the angle of his head and in the mortified redness that never truly leaves his face. In the stiffness of his body when she makes the rain fall like daggers around them. And in the look in his eye when he snatches furtive looks back, too, even though she doesn’t know how she knows it, something in his gaze she can’t place except that it makes her think again of that sound, and what it felt like to have him helpless in her hold, and he way he’d curled his legs up in front of himself after…

“Why didn’t you fight me,” Katara demands later as they pause by a stream, Zuko crouching down to wipe the sweat from his face and neck, his hands, cupping water into his mouth and the power of the moon is still lingering in her chi and for a while moment she imagines she could cup that water in her bending, too, cup it and follow it past his lip and—

“You didn’t even try,” she snaps when he just avoids her gaze, temper scraped raw by the idea of being denied this on top of being denied the struggle, on top of all the righteous fury crested inside her with nowhere to go. “You always—you fight why wouldn’t you—”

She breaks off, clenching her hands into fists against the jagged surge in the midst of the rolling ocean of her bending, Zuko hunching forward even more and still not answering, hunching over himself just like before, which means this is the same, which means—

Which means not what she thinks its means. Which means she was wrong then, and she’s wrong now, and he’s just mocking her again, mocking her like—

“It’s like you want to be on your knees,” she accuses, remembering the way he—blurting the words before she even fully thinks them, bravado over uncertainty and then when he just looks away, doesn’t even have the nerve to make a sound, “Or like you want me to put you there.”

Zuko just swallows hard, a flush crawling up his face, and Katara feels like her own face is flushing, barely-banked adrenaline surging back to life and her bending along with it.

“Toph told me how to spot a liar, you know,” she says, watching his lips part as he gasps and she has no idea where the threats are coming from. “I can feel hearts beating and pulses pounding just as well as her.” The quick flash of his tongue, like his lips are suddenly dry. “Would you be lying now if I checked you?”

Katara doesn’t know why she holds her breath, jagged anticipation in her throat, but it’s the only reason she hears the whimper that slips past his bitten lip over the sound of the stream, the noise that’s fear but also—it’s also—

“Should I check?” she says, the words coming out taunting, challenging, her bending shivering with readiness, her awareness sharpening from the heavy rush of the stream to the tight-quick-fast pulse on front of her as Zuko pants a moment, still half-folded forward.

Then, unsteady and low, gold eyes suddenly peaking through his lashes and the fall of his hair, “If it would make you feel better.”

Katara bloodbends him. Not like before, not with that sharp urge to wrench, but shoving into every bit of him hard enough to make him gasp, to make his whole body jerk with it and then go still, caught as she holds, flexing against every bit of him and—

“You like this,” she accuses as she quickly releases him, like that does anything to erase the bright feel of the pathways and pools of his blood from her mind.

And Zuko shakes his head, chest heaving and gasping and that’s familiar to her, too familiar, but the flutter of his lashes along with it—

“Are you lying?” she challenges, and she wonders if he can feel the potential of her bending pulling at his blood as he pants, open-mouthed a moment, body going tight.

Then, “You could check,” he rasps, and it’s such an open invitation that even half-expecting it, Katara still stares a moment before grabbing hold again, pushing to the liquid core of him but leaving his throat free because the way he keens, like he wants it, like she doesn’t even need to check his throbbing pulses to know—

Zuko is still folded half over himself, so she makes him straighten to sit back on his heels, first. Then she makes him drag up his head to look at her, makes him keep his eyes open until they bead and water and she’d do something about that except for the way the strain against her grip is like he’s trying to tilt back into it. And then she forces his knees to spread, wide enough to draw out a panting whimper and further than she expected and more than enough to see the bulge in his pants.

“You like it,” Katara says, her mouth suddenly dry—adrenal response, a voice like Yugoda’s says in the back of her head—as she stares at the dark fabric straining against the length of him, the way she can see his shape so clearly, see him press flat by the fabric against his own leg and it can’t be comfortable and—

 Katara gives him enough play to talk, to argue, to say its stress or adrenaline or just the natural responses of a teenage male body experiencing hormonal surges. But he just groans, letting out a low, pleading sound of denial and she can feel the way he strains to close his thighs but she still has him in her hold and she’s attuned to his blood, she can feel the way he’s reacting, she has felt it, and even if she couldn’t she can see.

“You like it,” she says again, more to herself except she can see the way he bites his lip against it even as she can feel the rush of his blood, can feel exactly where it’s pooling and even if he doesn’t like it, his body undeniably does.

Except Katara thinks he might like that, too. Because his invitation is still hanging in the air and she can’t fight the urge to figure this out, figure him out, arching his back—he likes that—and flexing his fingers—he’s indifferent, or what baselines as indifference for him in the current situation—and closing his lips—oh, he really like that, that gives her a new baseline. And she can see the hardness between his legs, the one she isn’t causing, at least not with bending—at least not directly with bending. And she can see the way he gasps and pants as much as she’ll allow it, hear the half-pleading groans that don’t entirely muffle against his sealed lips.

And the way she can feel the strain of his body, what he fights and what he tries to sink into, the shivers and tremors and Tui and La the jerks of his hips that she presses instinctively to stillness, and then again because the way it makes him moan—she shoves with her bending, gripping and pushes and finally following the flow of blood as much as controlling it, making her presence known beneath his skin, deliberately pressing it through him inch by inch and feeling heady with the precision of it, with that she can make his body do, what she can make it feel.

There’s the increased blood pressure throbbing against her pending, the quickened pulse, the blood rushing away from the heart, so like fear except for the way the blood is also flushing up his abdomen and Katara is fascinated by the way she can feel the steady spread of it before she ever sees the wash of red reach his neck and face.

There’s the blood stiffening his nipples, erectile tissue going hard just like his already-full penis, Yugoda’s voice again brisk and papery in the back of Katara’s mind, talking about arteriolar dilation and increased blood flow, about supraspinal centers and spinal reflex mechanisms and Katara wonders wildly which one is, wonders when exactly he got hard, and why, and how and—

Zuko’s blood throbs against her bending like it’s in her own veins and Yugoda’s clinical vice in memory talks through the stages of male arousal, Katara noting each one, wondering what this would feel like with her healer’s sense instead of the jagged sharpness of bloodbending but it’s impossible to do both with Zuko gasping and straining and throbbing this way, with the way she can feel his flush rising even hotter, blood rushing even lower, feel he way he swells even further, so much it has to hurt and the sound he makes says maybe it does but that he doesn’t mind, his muscles straining against her hold, a textbook case of male arousal and on a woman she’d feel—

Katara yank her bending so hard back to herself that Zuko cries out with it, his entire body arching against the hold that’s no longer there. His hips jerk against nothing, a wordless protest breaking past his lips, then another as he falls forward to catch himself on hands and knees, head bowed and body visibly clenching still, gasping almost like sobs with every breath, fingers digging into the dirt.  

“You like it,” Katara finally says, low, watching the flex of his fingers into the dirt, the humiliated hunch of his shoulders and flex of his hips. “You like not liking it,” she realizes, staring another moment and feeling the echo of his throbbing blood before suddenly whirling to stomp back to the path and the beach and Appa, trying not to listen for how long it takes Zuko to follow and forcibly shoving away the awareness of her own pulsing blood.

[uravitypng]

tsukishima has such bully energy. he'll pull the chair under you before you sit down, he'll steal your things and hold them above your head, he'll call you nasty names and laugh about how ugly you are. bully tsukishima thinks of you at night while he's stroking his cock. he thinks about how you look stunning with watery eyes, when you're trying your hardest not to cry and you pout so pretty. his favourite thing is when you try so hard to get your things back, you'll go on your tippy toes and jump up, causing your breasts to bounce slightly and your thighs jiggle, if you're wearing thigh high socks that day they'll roll down. he'll think about the time when he was behind you on the stairs, your skirt was swaying and if he looked close enough he could see your underwear. he cant stop thinking about you, maybe tomorrow he'll be able to get you to cry.

[o0anapher0o]

So I’ve mostly been lurking in the rwrb fandom but I’ve seen some discussions about what the sequel could look like so I thought I’d throw in my two cents:

Cold open with the proposal.  Dealer’s choice who, how and where (Paris seems an obvious choice, but also, well, rather obvious, dare I say a bit on the nose). Bonus points if Nora, Pez and/or Bea are somehow involved.

General background for the film would be Alex and Henry’s big fat royal wedding (I know in the book Henry left the royal family but from a narrative pov that would be wasting so much material). The wrinkled white racists at Buckingham Palace obviously come up with the most absurd obstacles and demands giving the boys plenty of opportunities to be adorably mutually supportive and cute. Or bang out their frustration.

One plot line could involve Alex getting princess diaried and finally being forced into those desperately needed etiquette lessons.  I imagine Shaan is heavily,  long-sufferingly involved (Zarah sends some very creative threats should Alex damage her boyfriend). Alex, of course, fights tooth and nail against any bit of royal protocol the point of which cannot be explained to him by anything other that ' that’s how we do it‘. Because is not a good enough reason for him to do stupid stuff. As a fellow English lit major I have a strong need for Henry to remind his grandfather that 'great customs curtesy to great kings' and maybe the royal protocols need some updates (they really, really do) and if the king can’t change then then who can?

Another plot line could centre around Philipp noticing that Henry is feeling some kind of way about certain people on the guest list. The 'I had my first time with one of my big brother’s friends when I was 17‘ bit wasn’t in the movie, but given we’ve only heard a fraction of those 72 emails it wouldn’t be a stretch to say it was in there. Pip could regain some of Alex's and Bea's trust as they work together to find out who took advantage of Henry (they eventually realise the person to ask is obviously Pez, but getting him to spil takes some convincing).  Philipp concludes his redemption arc in the grand finale of the film by punching the guy at the reception, causing a major scandal at his brother’s wedding thus making them even. Alex and Pez shameless cheer, Henry is surprised but very touched.

And then they lived happily ever after (until part 3)

[spiderispunk]

Sam likes to make Bucky watch. Particularly when he's got you underneath him, he's controlling the way your body moves, but he's also got control of the super solider, keeping him from touching himself. He's in full command of the room; the captain, if you will 😉

Need you to know that I stared at this ask, frozen, for like a minute straight.

"Don't," Sam says, a stern edge on his voice.

Bucky freezes, a sheepish grin on his face. He'd been palming his crotch, following the steady rhythm of Sam's hips as he rocked into you. A steady rhythm that had stopped, as soon as Sam saw Bucky breaking the rules.

"I said no," Sam mumbles. "Didn't I, sweetheart?" He looks down at you, a small smirk on your face.

You nod, a whine trapped in the back of your throat. You wanted-- needed-- Sam to keep going. He'd felt unreal inside of you. Hitting all the right spots just the way you liked it. You'd been so close to coming when he stopped.

"Sammy," you groaned, rocking your hips up against his. "Please."

Sam curled his hand around your hip, and pushes you back down into the mattress. "Nah, baby. You know the rule. Why don't you remind Bucky here, since he seems to have forgotten."

You bite your bottom lip, and look at the Super Soldier sitting in the chair on the other side of the room. "Bucky has to watch."

"And?" Sam raises an eyebrow.

"If I touch myself, you stop," Bucky finishes. He gives you a sympathetic look. "Sorry, darling. Couldn't help myself."

Sam hums, rocking his hips into you slowly. "That's unfortunate," he says, eyes firmly on Bucky. "Hopefully Bucky learns some self-control soon."

"Not fair," you whine, though you're grateful for the movement.

"Yeah," Bucky mumbles. "Gotta agree."

"Well, that's why it's called a punishment." Sam winks.

[dangerous-advantage]

(Image description below 'read more' line.)

[Image ID: A four-by-four alignment chart on a white background with text descriptions to the left and to the top of the squares.

The top left description reads, "seems like they'd be good at parenting." The top right description reads, "seems like they'd be bad at parenting."

Then, from the top down, to the left of the squares, the other set of descriptions reads: "excellent child rearing instincts," and "never trust them with a child in your life."

Each of the four squares contains an image of a different character. At the top left is an image of Lan Wangji of the Mo Dao Zu Shi donghua. He sits between the descriptors "seems like they'd be good at parenting," and "excellent child rearing instincts."

In the top right square sits an image of Wei Wuxian, also of the Mo Dao Zu Shi donghua. He sits between the junction of "seems like they'd be bad at parenting" and "excellent child rearing instincts."

In the bottom left square is an image of Xie Lian from the Tian Guan Ci Fu manhua. He occupies the square with the captions, "seems like they'd be good at parenting" and "never trust them with a child in your life."

Finally, in the bottom left square, sits an image of Hua Cheng from the Tian Guan Ci Fu manhua. He occupies the junction between "seems like they'd be bad at parenting" and "never trust them with a child in your life". /End ID]

[stevesbipanic]

Greek Mythology AU with Eddie as Hades and Steve as Persephone.

[keerysquinn]

@cheerscoopscentral's cheerscoops week 2023 | day 2: right person, wrong time/place

"What do you want to do then?" No one ever asked Chrissy what she wanted. They chose for her and expected her to go with the flow whether it was what she would have chosen for herself or not. And, because she hated to rock the boat, she always did as she was told. That's how she ended up working as a secretary in her father's office. That's how she ended up dating the son of his law partner - Jason Carver. That's how she ended up engaged to him, and that's how she ended up on the bachelorette party of her worst nightmares where these women who weren't really even her friends were drunk at a club and abandoning her to sit alone at the bar. So, for the first time in her life, she did what she wanted to do, and she left the club. She ended up in a bar down the road with a much quieter and more Chrissy atmosphere, and that's where she met Steve Harrington. She told him about her night thus far, and he offered to give her a better night, asking her what she wanted to do instead. Maybe it was the fact that he was the first person to ask her what she wanted. Maybe it was because she was sick of being the perfect girl she was expected to be. Maybe it was because he was handsome, and because she couldn't help but tell him everything when he was looking at her with such kind eyes and that killer smile. She didn't know what compelled her to confide in him, but she told him everything. All the things she'd never been allowed to do before and wanted to do now. "I want to eat the greasiest, cheesiest pizza I can find. I want to play pool in a dive bar. I want to get a tattoo, and I want to stay up all night and watch the sunrise on the beach." "That can be arranged." What followed was the first night where Chrissy ever felt like she was free. She spent the night exploring the city with Steve, and he made sure that she got to do every single thing on her list right down to watching the sunset on the beach. But, in addition to realizing her life could actually be happy and everything she wanted it to be if she just stood up for herself and did what she wanted, she realized that she'd never be happy marrying Jason. She'd tricked herself into thinking that she wanted the life that he'd offered her, and it was only in meeting Steve that she realized that loving someone didn't have to be so hard. She had to go back though. As much as she wanted to kiss Steve there on that beach and effectively blow up her life, she couldn't do it. She wasn't ready, and she was afraid. One night of rebellion was easy. A lifetime of it was terrifying. So, she thanked Steve for giving her the bachelorette night of her dreams, but they parted ways without exchanging any contact information. For her, he would always be her greatest "what if?".

[just-french-me-up]

Some of yall are so horny on main it's actually kinda healing, good job

[theghostofashton]

wip wednesday

gonna use @lightningboltreader​‘s open tag (thank you!) to share something from another 4x18 coda <3

When they make their way over to Tommy, she too has tears in her eyes. Carlos hugs her first, murmuring a ‘thank you’ in her ear that she responds to by tightening her grip, and then TK steps up and gets yanked into an embrace. Tommy says something to him, and he nods.

TK stays in her arms for a couple of moments, and Carlos watches them with a smile. They’re so lucky to have so many wonderful people in their lives. TK has lost his mother, but he’s surrounded by people who will mother him, who will cradle him like Gwyn no longer can.

Getting to this place with his father still feels daunting, a mountain he’s not sure he has the strength to climb yet, but the scene in front of him is proof that it can happen. One day it’ll be something that can sit within him and be tended to, just like any other feeling, without taking his body over and trapping him among the waves. And through all of it, he’ll have someone who knows by his side, someone much farther along on the journey, who will rush back to where he is without a second thought and take all of those steps all over again, just to see him through them.

When TK finally steps back, Carlos reaches instinctively for his hand. The feeling of needing to be touching TK at all times is familiar, but today, on their wedding day, it’s amplified. He feels like a part of TK, and it’s something he’s known for years now, but today it’s official.

I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.

He’s thought about the rabbi’s words since he heard them for the first time. The way TK completed the statement and the way he looked at him afterward, like he was precious, has stuck with him. Being TK’s beloved. Belonging to him. It’s everything Carlos has wanted for so long, and now it’s finally official, and there’s something about it, especially after everything, that feels so comforting.

The past few days have been a whirlwind. It feels like his entire life has been upended, like he doesn’t quite know himself as well as he thought he did. But he knows he’s TK’s beloved. He is holy to him, and that means something. Those words in Hebrew mean something, and they’re all Carlos has right now. He can’t help but cling to them.

[notmoreflippingelves]

Krisnix - Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibilty AU, for the prompts, please? 😉🌹

"You do not suppose me capable of real feeling-- do you, Klavier? I will admit that I do not wear my heart upon my sleeve as you do, but you are wrong to assume that it does not beat and burn and long just as fiercely as your own does. I have known of Mr. Edgeworth's prior claim for months now, and for those months, I have thought of little else than Phoe--than Mr. Wright and the regard that I still hold for him. But the family needs my strength and my resolve--not least after your own romantic disappointment--so I remain ever the sense to counterbalance your own sensibility."

Klavier said nothing in reply but placed a steady hand on his brother's shoulder, until Kristoph covered the hand with one of his own.

Send me a prompt and I'll write a 4-5 sentence drabble about it

[musical-chick-13]

Fuck it, weird-yet-galaxy-brain take is that Love Is War is rom-com Death Note, but not in regard to the ship that everyone thinks, and what I mean by this is that Kaguya and Miyuki are NOT the lighthearted lower-stakes rom-com version of Light and L, they're the lighthearted lower-stakes rom-com version of Near and Mello.

[a-nice-egg-offering]

Dennis Reynolds was, in his life, surrounded by people and things. At some point a distinction between the two no longer felt necessary to him and so there were no people, only things. In his mind they were his. They belonged to him. He was the prefix, all of them only existed as an extension of himself. Dennis’ pretty things.

[divinekangaroo]

Next in my series of applying my MBA to fandom: Tommy Shelby's Business Case for the Monaghan Boy Race Fixing Scam

Revelation: exactly how fucking high is this man's financial risk tolerance!!?!? Without limitation! and what the fuck is this asset structure? the liquidity?! the ratios are whack, Mr Greene!

Recommendation: do not buy shares in Shelby Company Ltd

[goldeneyedgirl]

@sonyawix listen, at this point, I'm moving Anathema up in the fic schedule because the ideas are Occurring and I am having so much fun with this fic right now.

We have a hot few things to get through before Jasper gets that hug. But he's definitely established Esme as an ally in getting closer to Alice. Because she remembers when they met him, and the truth is they were suspicious and afraid of him. He's been the first line of defense for the Cullen family since he joined them. And yes, he's their brother and 'son', but Esme can't deny what he's saying and she's heartbroken that it's true.

And like, Jasper definitely gets his hug. They end up fucking on an autopsy table, and the hug comes way before that.

I really need a proper outline and a timeline for this fic immediately. There are so many moving parts, we're gonna have a great time!

[byblix]

Who wants a random scene from one of the fics I'm working on? Too bad, you're getting one anyway.

Set in S01E22, "It's About Time." Question: How does Doctor Barbara Lake forget about Mr. Blinky and his clear medical distress? Answer: Insert one punk wizard distraction. Minor injury warning for a cut arm, and mention of getting stitches, but I don't think anything's too graphic, especially not in this tiny snippet of the thing.

--------

“You know you don't have to be all macho about this,” she said calmly. “If it hurts, tell me. I can't help if I don't know something's wrong.”

“That's not what it is,” Douxie told her. “Trust me. It really isn't that bad.”

She made a noncommittal noise, carefully pulling back the cloth. “Well, looks like the bleeding's stopped, at any rate. Let's get this cleaned and wrapped.”

Douxie stood so he could hold his arm under the running water, and quirked an eyebrow at her. “Still need those stitches?”

Dr. Lake wet another of the cloths and started wiping at his arm, movements steady and gentle as she gave it a more thorough inspection. “Looks like, yeah.” She returned the raised eyebrow. “And I notice you've got a suture kit in this box. You were going to do them yourself, weren't you?”

Douxie bobbed his shoulder in a helpless half-shrug. “Like I said: wouldn't be the first time.” Then he waved his left hand. “And it's not my dominant hand, so messy stitches aren't a worry.”

She pursed her lips at him, but then returned her focus to cleaning his arm. “Don't see any debris. Sit down and hold this while I get ready to stitch you up.” Douxie opened his mouth to protest, but Dr. Lake just looked at him, something in her eyes piercing straight through the centuries to make him feel like an actual teenager again. “Doctor's orders, young man,” she told him, face resolute.

He froze, totally at a loss for a second, then let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head with amusement. “Alright, alright,” he said, lifting his free hand in a gesture of surrender before dropping back to his seat and holding the cloth in place. He gave her a crooked grin. “Suppose I'll owe you lunch when you come back to take them out?”

“Now you're getting it,” she said wryly, a playful sparkle in her eyes.

[tngrace]

"I - I don't know who am anymore."

Bradley shudders as he says those words before strong arms wrap around him. The smell of mint is still strong like when he was a kid,  and Bradley breathes it in deep and lets it settle him. “You’re still Bradley Rooster Bradshaw, son of Nick and Carole, godson but more like son of Maverick. Just because you’re not flying anymore doesn’t change who you are.” Bradley leans back just a little; “You forgot son of you too, Pops.”