#dirty shirty

[unikirin]

im 30 today babey :)

[apdreadful]

Waking up to the same tired ass complaining about last nights episode..

Like Tommy didn’t ask Buck how HE was doing in a very concerned way.

Like Buck didn’t say that Bobby was more of a father figure than his own father.. And Tommy acknowledge it saying Buck was at least lucky to have Bobby as his Captain, because his Captain for the majority of his time with the 118, was that racist, homophobic, mysogynistic bag of excrement Gerrard, who was a lot like the father he grew up with. Where’s your acknowledgement and compassion for that traumatic childhood? Where’s Bucks?

And to clarify I am NOT clocking Buck for his actions or reactions. I’m pointing out that if YOU ALL are going to clutch your pearls and get all knotted up and shirty about Tommy’s so called “lack of understanding and compassion” it’s pretty fucking hypocritical that you clearly don’t feel Buck is lacking in both or either to Tommy here.

Also, it was Buck who steered the conversation to Daddy Issues by saying that maybe they BOTH have Daddy Issues with that goddamn dirty flirty smirk on his face.

This is a man flirting with his boyfriend…

And this is his boyfriend flirting right back..

These are two men in a relationship, a COUPLE, communicating, commiserating, and discussing their less than awesome fathers with honesty and HUMOR.

And it is sexy af they’re this comfortable with each other..

But…nice try to twist the narrative..

[muzaktomyears]

Only one happening – there is no other word for it – ever slowed the long procession of girls to our den of iniquity: it was ‘The Thing’, and it was George Harrison’s fault. One night, after some excessive drinking along with the rest of us, he was sick on the floor at the side of his bed. This was nothing terribly unusual after a skinful; it was typical of us all. What was different was that next morning he left the mess for the cleaning lady to deal with. She protested that it was not part of her daily duties and it could stay where it was. The trouble was, George decided it wasn’t his duty either and she stormed off in the direction of Herr Weissleder in a Teutonic rage. It wasn’t the first time she had complained about the untidy Beatles, whose sweaty socks, discarded clothing, bottles and other items usually littered the place. This fresh contribution from George was the last straw. In an effort to placate the old lady, Weissleder despatched Horst Fascher to our quarters with an order to George to remove the offending vomit himself. But George became really shirty. It wasn’t his job, it could stay where it was for all he cared, even though he had to climb over it to get into bed. None of this was really typical of George. He rarely involved himself in any sort of argument and was always much quieter than the rest of us in those formative days and, because he was the youngest Beatle, we all tended to look on him as the baby. We never let him forget, for instance, that he had been kicked out of Germany for being too young and taunted him with such gibes as “Still in nappies, weren’t you?” Even some of the fans treated him as a baby. German girls would shout Liebschen Kind! (lovely child) at him and he wouldn’t mind at all. He always wore a sly grin and had a twinkle in his eyes, perhaps because many of the birds wanted to mother him, which he let them do. Not that he was any kind of ‘softie’, despite his stature (only Stu had been smaller). He would have a go in a rumpus. And he had a streak of obstinacy which came to the fore now, as he categorically refused to clear up the mess at his bedside. So the pile of vomit remained. And it began to grow, and grow, mushrooming and taking on a life of its own. Cigarettes were crushed in it, bits of food fed to it, until it assumed the look of a hedgehog; we christened it The Thing. When members of other groups visited us in the flat they took to giving it the occasional drink. Its fame spread and people wanted to come and see it. For a time food and drink seemed to beautify The Thing and it blossomed like a miniature flower garden. It measured something like six inches in diameter. But its beauty was short-lived, and it began to grow hideous. “I’m frightened to sleep,” George remarked one night, “in case it eats me”. The Thing began to pong as well, but it was George’s baby and somehow we had grown to love it as a pet, despite its wretched origins. After its fame spread Horst arrived one morning to inspect it. He thought it was a disgusting sight: he was right, of course. He left, returning with a shovel; the end, we knew, was nigh. “Hey! Don’t do that! That’s our pet,” we chorused. Horst was not the sort of man to be put off by mere cries of affection for the squalid Thing. He scooped it up on his shovel and led the way with it out on to the Grosse Freiheit while we followed behind him, solemnly chanting the Dead March. The beloved Thing was given a swift burial in a street bin and, only after it had gone to its eternal reward did the cleaner reappear to try to make the flat look fit for human habitation once more. And in the end, it had been something of a minor victory for George: someone else had had to do the dirty work after all.

Beatle! The Pete Best Story, Pete Best and Patrick Doncaster (1985)

[seaglassandeelgrass]

So you're saying we have to vote and then vote *again*??? Every four years? Every two? There's elections every year!? SEE voting doesn't change anything if did why do we have to do it so often why even bother it's pointless it's just an endless cycle-

Correct! You have just described an ~*election cycle*~ which does in fact happen at regular intervals! As an alternative, someone could unilaterally declare themselves dictator-for-life if you'd prefer? If reading a couple ballot measures and filling in some bubbles every so often is such an onerous, all-consuming burden?

Voting is not a magical one-and-done panacea.

It is a chore (and civic duty- we have those, as part of the civil contract of ~being part of the civic body~) like taking out the trash or scrubbing the toilet or washing dishes. You do it, repeatedly, on a regular basis, as part of maintaining a decent place to live.

There are many other chores to be done besides, none of which preclude you from doing the dishes. (Most of them are not glamourous either. You can put some music on or something while you wield that toilet-brush if it makes you feel better)

And like taking out the trash or washing dishes, if you turn up your nose and refuse to do it and then continue complaining about how much the kitchen stinks and how there's never any clean dishes- Your roommates who always take their own turn and now yours too at the chore-wheel are well within their rights to get a bit shirty with you. Miffed even. Cheesed off.

And burning down your apartment instead of doing the dishes is vastly disproportionate (they're dishes pal, yeah they're tedious but it takes like fifteen minutes and they've got to be washed), shortsighted (so you've burned the building down. now what?), does not fix the initial issue (the dishes are still dirty, in the smoking ashes of your place of residence), and selfishly disregards any collateral damage (it's an apartment building. did you spare a thought for your neighbours whose homes you also just burned down).

And sure, better ways are possible- dishwashers exist! But you do not have a dishwasher right now and the dishes do still need to be washed in the meantime. And it is difficult to install a dishwasher if you have burnt your apartment down in a fit of pique.

Have you tried using those yellow rubber dish gloves? They really help if you hate touching wet food.

[classicrocker2000]

Only one happening- there is no other word for it- ever slowed the long procession of girls to our den of inquity: it was "The Thing", and it was George Harrison's fault. One night, after some excessive drinking along with the rest of us, he was sick on the floor at the side of his bed. This was nothing terribly unusual after a skinful; it was typical of us all. What was different was that next morning he left the mess for the cleaning lady to deal with. She protested that it was not part of her daily duties and it could stay where it was. The trouble was, George decided it wasn't his duty either and she stormed off in the direction of Herr Weissleder in a Teutonic rage. It wasn't the first time she had complained about the untidy Beatles, whose sweaty socks, discarded clothing, bottles and other items usually littered the place. This fresh contribution from George was the last straw. In an effort to placate the old lady, Weissleder despatched Horst Fasher to our quarters with an order to George to remove the offending vomit himself. But George became really shirty. It wasn't his job, it could stay where it was for all he cared, even though he had to climb over it to get into bed. None of this was really typical of George. He rarely involved himself in any sort of argument and was much quieter than the rest of us in those formative days and, because he was the youngest Beatle, we all tended to look on him as the baby. We never let him forget, for instance, that he had been kicked out of Germany for being too young and taunted him with such gives as 'Still in nappies, weren't you?' Even some of the fans treated him as a baby. German girls would shout Leibschen Kind! (lovely child) at him and he wouldn't mind at all. He always wore a sly grin and had a twinkle in his eyes, perhaps because many of the birds wanted to mother him, which he let them do. Not that he was any kind of 'softie,' despite his stature (only Stu had been smaller). He would have a go in a rumpus. And he had a streak of obstinacy which came to the fore now, as he categorically refused to clear up the mess at his bedside. So the pile of vomit remained. And it began to grow, and grow, mushrooming and taking on a life of its own. Cigarettes were crushed in it, bits of food fed to it, until it assumed the look of a hedgehog; we christened it The Thing. When members of other groups visited us in the flat they took to giving it the occasional drink. Its fame spread and people wanted to come and see it. For a time food and drink seemed to beautify The Thing and it blossomed like a miniature flower garden. It measured something like six inches (15 cm) in diameter. But its beauty was short lived, and it began to grow hideous. 'I'm frightened to sleep,' George remarked on night, 'in case it eats me.' The Thing began to pong as well, but it was George's baby and somehow we had grown to love it as a pet, despite its wretched origins. After its fame spread Horst arrived one morning to inspect it. He thought it was a disgusting sight: he was right, of course. He left, returning with a shovel; the end, we knew, was nigh. 'Hey! Don't do that! That's our pet,' we chorused. Horst was not the sort of man to be put off by mere cries of affection for the squalid Thing. He scooped it up on his shovel and led the way with it out onto the Grosse Freheit while we followed behind him, solemnly chanting the Dead March. The beloved Thing was given a swift burial in a street bin and, only after it had gone to its eternal reward did the cleaner reappear to try and make the flat look fit for human habitation once more. And in the end, it had been something of a minor victory for George: someone else had to do the dirty work after all." Beatle! The Pete Best Story, Pete Best and Patrick Doncaster

[trshmouth]

richie but in those icarly t-shirts

HJSDFKGJFSDKGJFDSGJ SO TRUE your mind

[bubblegum-amoxicillin]

Dirty Shirty

[xxforsaken-angelxx]

chimericarchitect replied to your post “(in a shirt in a shirt in a shirt in a shirt)”

Just checking, but is this shirt-dirt thing a reference to another thing, or are you just a shirty dirty kinda troll tonight?

fuck hold on

[nonsensicalobsessions]

Liam the Scientist: A Symphony without Strings Song

“Papa? Can I talk to you?”

Tom put down the script and proposal he was reading to look at his son. Liam was standing in the doorway of his study, looking uncertain and nervous, which was not like his six year old.

He took off his glasses, and extended his arms. “Of course, son. Come here.”

Liam didn’t hesitate, and scrambled to throw himself into his Papa’s inviting arms. Papa had big, strong arms, and gave the best hugs, ever. Aidan was great, his hugs were great too...but nothing was better than Papa’s hugs. Liam was secretly convinced the reason that Mama was better, and staying better at long last, was due to Papa’s hugs.  Because honestly, if you looked long and hard at it like Liam had, Mama didn’t get any better at all until after she and Papa found each other again, and once Papa spent all his time holding Mama, and giving her all his hugs, she got better, and stayed better.

Science. It wasn’t as soul-satisfying to him as music, but it was just as real. Aidan and Mama had taught him lots about science all his life, since Mama was always seeing doctors and trying new ways to get better. There were THE-O-RIES, which was the science word for the idea you wanted to test out. And there were VARI-A-BULLS, which were the things that you would mess around with to try to get your idea to work. It was all very exciting, and interesting, and Liam really wanted to get his hands on some science and start experimenting right away. But clever Aidan was quick to let him know you didn’t always have to get your hands dirty. Aidan said if you were quiet, paid attention, and asked questions, you could learn a lot. 

So that’s what Liam always did.

So that’s why he needed to talk to his Papa now. He needed to figure something out. He understood the...THE-O-RY, but not why it wasn’t working. He’d asked Aidan, but Aidan had suggested he talk to his Papa instead.

(Aidan’s exact response had been to choke on his root beer float he was enjoying (they had just made them, it was a LESSON IN MEASUREMENTS) and say, “I...think you would get a better answer from Papa Bear on this one, Liam. Being as this is a more...personal question than just a scientific investigation, the variables are likely to be more...variable.”)

Liam nodded solemnly. That made sense. So he had set his root beer float on the counter, slid off the stool, and headed straight for Papa’s Study. Papa’s Study was where Papa went when he needed to read, or work, or learn his lines, or just learn stuff. There were lots of books, it was almost like a library. If the door was shut, Liam knew not to both him unless it was an ENMERGENCY. Papa was always ready to be there for him in that case. ENMERGENCIES could be anything to being sick, or hurt, or scared. But if the door was open—as it was now—then it was okay to talk to him. 

Still, Papa had his glasses on. He was reading. Liam knew he himself didn’t like getting yanked out of his books when he was reading his stories, or learning stuff. It was annoying. (Liam loved that word, “annoying.” It described everything from being pulled away from his beloved books to rapid-fire scale drills on the piano to having to get his ears checked. He wasn’t a baby! Just because he kept getting those dumb ear infections...! Mama just wouldn’t leave him alone!)

Tom cuddled the warm, sturdy body of his son in his arms and marveled anew at the curve ball that life had unexpectedly thrown him a year and a half ago...having a son still blew his mind and took his breath away, just as waking to Merry’s lovely face every morning still brought him to his knees in utter joy. Liam was everything he could have dreamed of and hoped for in a child—healthy, intelligent, compassionate, witty, adventurous...He loved the way Liam was coming to him now with his little boy problems, big and small, rather than relying on Merry and Aidan for everything...

“Papa, where’s Mama?”

Tom frowned as he looked into Liam’s inquisitive, but slightly anxious face. “Mama’s asleep, Liam. She will be for awhile. You remember how we traveled into the city for her checkup and didn’t get back home until quite late last night? All of that makes her quite tired. Why? Is something wrong?”

Liam shook his head even as he answered, “Nooo.” Mama was very firm on this point, that nonverbal answers to Papa, or any adult, was disrespectful, and not to be tolerated.

Tom gently guided Liam’s chin upwards, so he could look into Liam’s eyes, so much like his own, although the color was the same blue as his mother’s. “Liam, what is it? I can tell you’re worried about something. Let me help you. It’s what Papas do, you know...” he gently teased, trying to coax a smile from the boy’s face.

It worked. Liam’s face was regaining some of its normal animation.

“Would you like to go for a walk? We could go feed the ducks.”

Liam’s face fell again. “Papa. I read it isn’t healthy to feed the ducks like I’ve been doing. I might be making them sick. Bread isn’t good for them. So me, Mama, and Aidan...”

“Mama, Aidan, and I,” Tom gently corrected, tickling his son as he picked him up and put him is his lap, secretly thrilled he could still do this. Please don’t grow too quickly, son...

“Oh. Yes. Mama, Aidan, and I are getting special duck food. We found a recipe and are making it ourselves! Mama and Aidan says it’s another LESSON IN MEASUREMENTS. So I can understand metric, imperi’l, and United States custom’ry standards,” Liam informed him absently, examining all the things on Papa’s desk top that he must never touch. Not because anything would hurt him, but because Papa had things just like he wanted them. Mama talked to him about respecting Papa and his belongings. Mr. Luke told him privately that if he moved them, Papa might have a hard time finding them again because sometimes Papa couldn’t find his nose without a mirror. Liam was pretty sure Mr. Luke was teasing but he looked really tired when he said it.

“That’s a mouthful,” Papa said mildly. “Do you understand what that means?”

“Not ‘zactly,” Liam answered, not concerned in the least. “It’s something about the different ways to measure stuff. Mama’s and my country does things one way, yours might do it another, and Europe another. Why can’t everyone do it the same? Seems pretty silly to me.”

Tom laughed and hugged his son again. He remembered when everything looked so simple to him, so straightforward. Liam’s eyes saw life so clearly. He should try to do the same, especially when his head started aching like it was this morning.

Merry was still in remission, thank God. It had been a long and trying few days, complete with a bone marrow extraction. He loathed seeing her tired and in pain. Something wasn’t quite right with her, necessitating another trip to Sloan-Kettering, and she was due for another checkup soon at any rate. Dr. Kelly swore Merry’s malaise was not due to leukemia, and promised to ring them as soon as she figured out the cause of what was plaguing Merry and making her feel so exhausted and ill. She refused to admit how much these checkups took out of her, but last night she fell asleep on the way home, and remained asleep while he carried her to bed. She slept through the night without waking, but she was restless, often moaning softly, sometimes crying out as she would move. Worse still were her agitated mumblings...

“Tom...sorry, so sorry...”

“Merry, you’re fine. Nothing to be sorry about, my love. You’re dreaming. You’re in my arms, in our bed. Everything is fine. Relax, sweetling.”

“No, no, no...won’t leave you...won’t leave Liam...”

“Darling, you are still in remission. Do you hear me, still in remission. You just saw Kelly today and she said so. Kelly said you are fine. You’re having a nightmare, Merry. I swear to you, everything is fine. I have you, Merry. I love you...”

He felt her begin to relax slowly as he stroked her hair gently and continued to murmur soft words of reassurance.

In the morning’s light, he looked her over carefully. Her color was good, and her breathing was deep, and even. But as he peeked at her body, he could see all the bruising from the bone marrow extraction biopsy, and bloodwork, a partial explanation of her poor sleep.

He’d slipped carefully from their bed, crept downstairs to grab a much needed cup of espresso. Nothing else would do. Soon, Aidan joined him. Once they’d reassured each other that all was well in their offbeat little family, Tom grabbed a quick breakfast, and retreated to his study to whittle down the stacks of scripts and proposals that were creating a listing tower on his desk, and then his floor. They’d been adding up, and his agent was getting a bit shirty about it.

It was difficult to focus, though. Some were obviously discards, to the point why they’d even made it into his hands was a mystery. Snippy sticky notes were created on the rejects: “Who approved this?...Did I have to waste my time looking at this?...Did anyone vet this or did it just walk into my house?...REALLY?!...Not if I was on my last farthing. If we still used farthings...I would sooner play Thanos’ bastard love child than be attached to this project...This script has all of the depth and profundity of a puddle of piss outside a bar.”

He always threw the notes away before returning the scripts, but it felt so cathartic just to write them. He could be as creative and snarky as he liked. No one would ever know.

Struggling to remain somewhat focused while worrying about Merry was the perfect brew for a thumping headache, so when Liam’s voice beckoned from the doorway, Tom could not have been more pleased. Having his son in his lap, hearing his voice, listening to his thoughts...Tom could feel the pain slip away. This, this was what he needed.

“Papa? Can I...I mean, I want to...I mean, may I ask you a question?”

“Always, Liam.”

Liam squirmed, and Tom tried not to wince as Liam’s bony posterior pinched a sensitive area. “Liam, you seem quite...ah!...fidgety. Would you like to sit on the sofaaa...instead?”

“Papa, you’re funny. You’re making your voice all squeaky.” 

Tom felt his grin was more of a rictus but Liam’s beaming smile was not something he wished to lose. “Funny, yes, that’s me...” He stood, and carried Liam over to the sofa that once upon a time he used to sometimes crash on back when there was no one to notice, or care, if he fell asleep reading away from his bed. It was somewhat battered, but comfortable, and Tom refused to part with it. When he had somewhat defensively told Merry this when they were creating their first home together, she had looked at him in surprise. “Tom, keep whatever you like,” she’d said. She’d cared not a whit it wasn’t the latest style or it had seen some use. He wanted to keep it, so that was the end of it.

Tom examined Liam from the corner of his eye. Liam had all the hallmarks of a little boy who desperately needed to talk about something, but didn’t know where to start or what to do with himself in the meantime. Not that Tom knew anything about that from personal experience. Oh, no. He didn’t have this issue now, when speaking with Merry or Liam, either, of course. He was an adult, with excellent communication skills. It’s simply that he recognized what his child was experiencing.

Hiding a smile, Tom fished out two items from a box he kept on the top shelf of one of his bookshelves. Every year, he always received at least one gag gift from at least Luke, if not more friends and family members, usually marketed specifically as fidget toys. Before there fidget toys per se, there were things meant for children who had difficulty just remaining still. Tom was notorious for this. His hands were constantly restless, pulling at his clothes, rubbing his face, his hair, his skin...it drove Luke to despair at times. Tom kept the toys hidden away simply because he didn’t think any of them were suitable for Liam’s age when he and Merry merged households. But now...

“Ooooh...Papa, what is that?” Liam’s eyes were as round as saucers, and his entire countenance was fascinated.

“Something to keep your eyes and hands busy, while your mind thinks,” Tom explained quietly as he showed Liam how it worked. “See, you can flip these little cubes like so...and then you can make different shapes...it’s called an infinity cube. You just keep flipping, and folding...it’s great for building up finger strength, too.”

“Why do you have more than one?” Liam was busily working with his with both hands as he also watched Tom manipulate the one in his hand. Tom was amazed how large it looked in his son’s hands, next to his own...

“Just do. They were presents.”

“Oh, and you didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. You’re so consid’rite, Papa.”

“Thank you, Liam.”

Tom casually flipped his cube about, keeping a close eye on Liam.

Finally, Liam ventured, “I’m not a baby anymore, Papa, I’m really big now. I’m six. Going on seven. Going to school and everything. Aidan says he had to get a job at my school because he just didn’t know what to do with himself, not because he didn’t trust me or anything.”

Tom made the appropriate noises.

“And I know how babies are made.”

Tom choked. On his own saliva. Staring fiercely at his own cube.

Liam looked up, his cherubic face innocent. “Are you all right, Papa? Do you need some water?”

“No,” Tom wheezed. “No, I’m fine.”

Liam nodded, and went back to his cube.

Tom was never so grateful for all of his years of training as he was at this moment, for he was able to keep his voice nonchalant, or at least not nearly as tense as his chest felt at the moment. “So. Ah. You were saying. How babies are made?”

Liam’s head shot up. “Papa! Don’t you know?”

“Yes! Yes of course I know—” Tom spluttered, helplessly.

“I should think so,” Liam replied, his attention going back to his cube, a bit confused himself.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Tom was now feeling decided off-center. How was this conversation even possible? He was awake, there was no alcohol involved, and God damn it, where was Merry?! Did Aiden somehow set him up for this?

“What I was trying to ask,” Tom tried again after another awkward moment of silence had passed, “was what you know, and who had told you. You see...” he paused, and set the cube down to run his hands through his hair, then rubbed the back of his neck, tugged at his shirt collar, and finally leaned forward the rest his forearms on his thighs to peer closely at his son’s face. “This is the kind of talk that fathers usually have with their sons. So I was wondering who had jumped ahead of me.”

Because yes, it stung. Just a little. Or maybe a lot. Or maybe he was relieved?

No. Relief was not what he was feeling at the moment.

Liam looked up from his cube, oblivious to the turmoil he was putting his Papa through.

“You weren’t here, Papa. So I asked Mama, and she esplained it to me.”

Ah. Well, at least he could trust Merry...but goodness, he would have thought she might have clued him into this little developmental detail...

“Papa, is Mama all better now?”

Tom stifled a sigh. This question was harder than the baby one.

“Liam. Son, we’ve discussed this...”

“But Mama just saw Dr. Kelly again, and Dr. Kelly said she was okay. You said so.”

“Yes, I did. And she did. And right now, Mama is doing wonderfully well.”

“And Mama has never ever been well for this long.”

“No, she hasn’t. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“So, maybe she’s all better, forever, right?”

Tom took a deep breath. “Liam, we certainly hope so, but it’s difficult to say for certain.”

“But what if she is?”

Another deep breath. “Okay, Liam, I can see you are trying to get somewhere. Let’s pretend and say she is. Then what?”

“When will you and Mama have more babies? Because if Mama isn’t sick anymore, and now that you aren’t lost anymore, there can be more babies, right?”

This time, Papa could not hide his wince, and his sadness. Liam was very surprised to see this, he thought this would be a happy discussion. Babies always made grownups happy, as far as he could tell. Little kids, or even big kids, such as himself, that was more of a toss up. Liam himself wasn’t so sure how he felt about it. But. If there were more babies, then Aidan might have to stay home with the baby, and Liam really didn’t know how he felt about that either.

Here were the facts. Mama was well. She had never been well for so long. Papa was no longer lost. There were no new babies, nor signs of any being expected, as far as he could tell. 

There were a lot of VARI-A-BULLS at play here.

Liam just wanted to know what was going on, and what to expect.

“Son, it’s not that simple, I’m afraid.”

Liam set his cube down to make sure he didn’t miss a word. Tom was well aware that Liam’s quiet patience was something he inherited from his mother, as he stumbled through his explanation.

“You see...that is to say...Mama won’t...she can’t...”

“I can’t, what?”

Oh thank the blessed heavens.

Merry was still looking tired, but was smiling at both of them from the doorway. Tom stood immediately. “Darling. What woke you?” He strode to his wife with the quick stride he always used where she was concerned, wrapping her in his arms, and pleaded, “Help me,” in an impassioned whisper in her ear. He felt her lips twitch as she gave an imperceptible nod in return.

Mama was still in her dressing gown and slippers. Papa guided her to the sofa, his arm firmly around her waist. “Kelly rang just to check up on me, making sure we made it home safely. She reminded me to keep taking all of my vitamins. Apparently I am still fighting an infection somewhere because of my blood count but it is mild, so it could be anything, so I should push fluids and rest for the next few days. It could be anything, she isn’t concerned, so you can’t be either, Mr. Hiddleston,” Mama was explaining for Papa, whose face looked like he was trying not to worry but was worrying anyway. Papa’s face did that sometimes where Mama was concerned. Liam knew that.

“Too late,” Papa muttered.

“Tom.”

“Merry.”

“Mama? You’re not getting sick again, are you?”

Liam’s plaintive voice drew both adults’ attention back to him again. Mama’s face softened. “No, Liam. There is no sign of the leukemia, isn’t that great news! I’m a little low in some of my vitamin levels, but that is easily taken care of, so nothing to worry about there, and once that is past, I am certain I will be feeling much better.”

“Then maybe you can have more babies, after all!”

“Oh...is that what’s going on in here?” Merry looked over Liam’s head to find Tom nodding slightly.

“Liam, I’m afraid not.”

“But, why not?”

Liam’s voice was sounding decidedly grumpy and put out with this information.

“Remember how we talked about how babies are made?”

Tom’s cheeks began to turn pink. “Merry? Wouldn’t you like some tea? Or hot chocolate, I think that sounds lovely...”

“No, thank you, Tom...as I was saying, Liam...Babies are made from some of the mother’s DNA, and half of the father’s remember?”

“Yes!”

“Well, I’m afraid all the medicines I had to take really messed up Mama’s. Now I can’t pass it along. That part of me doesn’t work right anymore, and never will. It’s just the way it is.”

“Oh...does that make you and Papa sad?”

Merry gently explained to Liam that while the loss of the possibility was a sadness for her, Liam was such a gift she was perfectly happy and could never ask for anything more. Tom’s head was spinning. Merry’s conversation with Liam about “how babies were made” was about genetics? And not about...? He wasn’t off this hook after all...that is, he hadn’t been robbed of the wonderful bonding experience of explaining...

“Papa?”

He looked up to find Merry mouthing “Say something!” And Liam looking at him patiently.

“Forgive me, Liam,” he said humbly. “I was lost in my thoughts. Ask me again please.”

Liam giggled. “Mr. Luke says you get lost in your head a lot!”

“Mr. Luke says a lot of silly things like that,” Merry deflected.

Liam continued. “You’re not sad, are you, Papa?”

“Good God, no,” Tom replied immediately, scooping his son up into his lap again, bony bits be damned. “Liam, I never dreamed to be blessed with a son like you and now that I have you, wanting more just feels...greedy.”

“Like the ducks?”

“Worse than the ducks. Ungrateful and selfish. Having a baby is hard work for a mother’s body, and your Mama’s body has been through enough. She’s more than earned a rest.”

“Mama, you should go right to bed,” Liam proclaimed. “Papa and I will bring you hot chocolate.”

“No, I don’t have to...”

“Oh, I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Tom concurred.

“But I don’t want to go back to bed, I just got up,” Merry protested. “I feel just fine!”

“Doctor’s orders,” sang Tom merrily. He loved it when Merry walked right into a cleverly baited trap.

“You hafta listen to Doctor Kelly,” Liam solemnly intoned. “She and Papa’s hugs made you get all better. Please, Mama. She will be so annoyed if you don’t.”

“Dreadfully annoyed,” Tom agreed, his face and voice a mirror of their son’s. Oh, Liam was aiding and abetting, this promised great things for the future...

Merry’s expression was promising dire retribution in the near future, however. She stood, lips pressed together in a thin line. “I can’t fight both of you,” she sighed. “But my body is just fine, thank you very much.”

Tom winked in lascivious agreement, just in time for Liam to ask, “Papa, how would having a baby hard be hard on Mama’s body? And how ‘zactly does the Mama and Papa DNA mix, anyway? Mama never esplained that part to me...”

Merry’s lips curled into a smile.

“Yes, Papa. Do feel free to explain that part to him while you’re making the hot chocolate.”

Tom felt the trap spring shut.

Damn it.

tagging: @hopelessromanticspoonie @yespolkadotkitty @just-the-hiddles @vodka-and-some-sass @winterisakiller @theheartofpenelope @sabine-leo @fruitfly123 @wegingerangelica @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @jessiejunebug​ @alexakeyloveloki​ @scorpionchild81​ @tinchentitri​ @theoneanna​ @blacksuitofdoom​ @mishaandthebrits​ @rjohnson1280​ @ms-cellanies​ @noplacelikehome77​ @villainousshakespeare​ 

[wizzypiehigh9]

I want a Hippopotamus for Christmas...

Damian: "I want a hippopotamus for Christmas!"

Bruce: "Damian we've discussed th-"

Damian: "ONLY A HIPPOPOTAMUS WILL DO!"

Bruce: *sigh*

Jason: "He's gonna keep singing until you give in old man..."

Damian: "Don't want a car, no dinkey tinker toy!"

Dick: "B, I think Jason's right,..."

Damian: "I only want a hippopotamus to play with and ENJOY!"

Bruce: "Grayson,... You do not expect me to give in, and actually buy Damian a hippo... DO YOU?!?"

Dick: "I-"

Damian: "I WANT HIPPOPOTAMUS FOR CHRISTMAS!"

Jason: "I tell you what old man, if you don't shut that kid up, I WILL... Alllllfieee, where's your sedation that you like to use on us so... frequently..."

Tim: "Hey,... don't forget me! My ear's are about to burn off from the brat's singing..."

Alfred: "Don't worry Master Timothy,... I think everyone's noticing the affect of Master Damian's most barmy attitude... Fiddlestick's, I do hope that that boy shut's his mush very soon. His wobbler is becoming a very yonks episode of time. He also unfortunately didn't seem to take after his Father's vocals in the slightest..."

Damian: "I DON'T THINK BATMAN WILL MIND, DO YOU?"

Jason: "The Old Man can sing?"

Bruce: "Alfred that was supposed to be a SECRET!!!"

Alfred: "Sorry Sir. In certain predicaments One let's thing's slip..."

Bruce: *Batman glare*

Alfred: "That shirty act doesn't work on me Master Bruce, and you know it..."

Damian: "HE WON'T HAVE TO USE A BURLY DIRTY BAT-PLANE!"

Tim: *ahem*

Tim: "...Am I blue.... you'd be too... if each plan that you'd had, done fell throu- "

Bruce: "YOU HEARD ME SING THAT TIM??"

Dick: "Little Timie,... please tell me you got that on video..."

Tim: "Not that I would send it to you Grayson... It's MY blackmail... and you missed the best part... Wonder Woman turned into a pig!"

Alfred: "Master Timothy! I'm gobsmacked at you... I believe you owe the jar a quid. You shouldn't say rubbish li-"

Damian: "JUST BRING HIM THROUGH THE BAT CAVE!"

Damian: "THAT'S THE EASY THING TO DO!"

Dick: "Arghhh,.. Al you have any ear plugs!"

Alfred: "I'm afraid Master Grayson that even if we did, in such a plight we find ourselves to be in... It would be daft to try and look..."

Bruce: "DAMIAN! It's November... Can we have this conversation when-"

Damian: "I CAN SEE ME NOW ON CHRISTMAS MORNING..."

Bruce: "Dam-"

Damian: "CREEPING DOWN THE STAIRS!"

Tim: "Bruce, It's not going to work..."

Dick: "Yea,...Timie's righ-"

Damian: "OH WHAT JOY, WHAT SURPRISE!

Damian: WHEN I OPEN UP MY EYES!

Damian: TO SEE A HIPPO HERO STANDING THERE!"

Tim: "YOU don't even know what JOY IS you BRAT!"

Dick: "Oi,... Timmer's... Calm Down,... and,.. can you pass the tissues?"

Damian: "I WaNt A hIpPoPoTaMuS fOr ChRiStMaS!"

Dick: "Now, Timmy,... NOW!"

*BANG*

Damian: "ONLY A HiPpOpOtAmUs WILL DO!"

Dick: "HEY! I meant PASSS the tissue box don't yeet it at meh face!"

Tim: "Sorry, Grayson,... thought I was doing you a favor... It's kinda hard to kick something over to somebody accurately..."

Damian: "NO KILLER CROC'S! NO LOOK ALIKE MOCKS!"

Jason: "You know he's just making the word's up now Old Man,..."

Alfred: "We have dubiously noticed Master Todd... We have dubiously noticed the bonker attitude of the impervious child... "

Alfred: "..."

Alfred: "I'm to old for this..."

Dick: "HUHHHHHHHHHHHHH?"

Damian: "I ONLY LIKES HiPpoPoTaMuSeS!"

Damian: "AND HiPpoPoTaMuSeS LIKE ME, TOO!"

Tim: "Richard..." *sigh* " Don't shove tissue's in your ears with your elbows..."

Dick: "HUH???!?"

*smack* *Tissues fall onto the floor*

Tim: "TIMMY that was my highly-efficient noise canceling device!!!"

Jason: *ugh *

 Damian: "FATHER SAYS A HIPPO, WOULD EAT ME UP BUT THEN,"

Jason: "Moment's like these... I wished I stayed dead..."

Tim: "I wish I'd die..."

Jason: "Don't worry Replacement,... Maybe DC will let you join the Dead-Robin Club soon-"

DRAKE SAYS A HIPPO IS A VEGETARIAN!"

Jason: "-er than you thought..."

Tim: "..."

Bruce: "Tell me you didn't encourage this Tim...."

Tim: "No! All I did was..."

Bruce: *gravelly Batman voice* "Tell me... That.... YOU... YOU... THE MOST SENSIBLE ONE OF A-L-L MY CHILDREN!" *offended gasps* ... "Did... NOT ENCOURAGE MY SON TO WANT A 3,000 POUND ANIMAL!!"

Tim: *cough* "I just umm,... Well, you see it's very simple..."

Jason: "Very simple replacement...? THIS IS YOUR FAULT THAT WE ARE TIED UP IN CHAIRS AROUND THE DINING ROOM TABLE WATCHING DICK STUFF TISSUES IN HIS EAR'S WITH HIS ELBOWS!!"

Dick: "That seems like that's your problem,... not mine..." *stuff's more tissue's in ears*

Tim: *Glup* "heaskedmewhatkindofanimalswerevegetarianbesidesbatcowwhileeatingbreakfasttheotherday..." *slumps in seat* "Imighthave..." *squeaks* "said a ... hippo...IONLYTHOUGHTTHEKIDWASSTARTINGTOBONDWITHME!"

*Collective groans*

Damian: "THERE'S LOTS OF ROOM FOR HIM IN OUR THIRTY-CAR GARAGE!

Damian: I'D FEED HIM THERE AND WASH HIM THERE AND MAKE DRAKE GIVE HIM A MASSAGE!"

Tim: *choking noise*

Everyone: "..."

Alfred: *Snort*

Alfred: *Laughing*

Jason: "Oh HAVE MERCY GRAYSON... LOOK!"

Tim: "WHa-"

Dick: "He's gone delusional... Man Down JayJay... man down..."

Jason: "Don't Call me JayJ-"

Damian: "I CAN SEE ME NOW ON CHRISTMAS MORNING,

Jason: -ay"

Damian: CREEPING DOWN THE STAIRS!

Dick: "B,... Damian's broken Al.. AL YOU OK OVER THERE?"

Alfred: "Quite alright Master Richard,... I just recalled... Master Bruce do you remember one year on Young Richard's birthday being asked for an elephant?"

Bruce: "..."

Bruce: "Yes,..." *laughs*

Damian: TO SEE A BAT-HIPPO HERO STANDING THERE!

Dick: "What?...I would neve- Well, wait... actually... that seems like something I would do..."

Tim: "Yea,... circus-boy..."

Dick: "Hey,... TIMMER'S DAT'S NOT NICE!"

Jason: "Is nobody concerned that the kid has named the hippo??? He's getting attached..."

Dick & Tim: *Both Dick and Tim* "NOT NOW JASON!"

*Ongoing bickering in the background*

Bruce: "Ok,...Ok,... That gives me an idea Alfred..."

Damian: "I WANT HIPPOPOTAMUS FOR CHRISTMAS!"

Bruce: "Damian!"

Damian: "ONLY A HIPPOPOTAMUS WILL DO!"

Bruce: "Dam-"

Damian: "NO KILLER CROC'S! NO LOOK ALIKE MOCKS!"

Bruce: "Da-"

Damian: "I ONLY LIKE'S HIPPOPOTAMUSES"

Bruce: "YOU CAN HAVE YOUR HIPPO!!"

Damian: "AND HIPPOPOTAMUSES LIKE ME- WHAT? REALLY!"

Bruce: "Can you,... untie us now Damian,... and... keep your voice lowered... I think you've damaged all of our eardrums..."

*Collective Groaning & Bickering*

And If on Christmas Morning Damian received a stuffed-toy hippo and was happy with it... No one said anything about the charade that happened just a month before... The kid got his hippo, and was never allowed to drink Hot chocolate again... that's all that matters... 🦛

[jessjamesjake]

1930s hankie holder reads, “When your handkerchiefs are clean, Put them where they’ll be seen. When your handkerchiefs are dirty, stick them in this little shirty.” $24 shipped in the US. Venmo or PayPal. Comment or DM to claim. https://www.instagram.com/p/CDjKDqcACBU/?igshid=1pzwll55wpj9z

[iridescentxstars]

Jongin ‘spills’ something on his leg while baking ;) - @ainabaina

Boyfriend!Jongin x Reader

You reprimand Jongin for being so clumsy while ignoring the smug look on his face, “it’s seeped through,” he exclaims, quickly pulling his sweats down while you just watch in shock at his actions.

“Jongin, we’re in the middle of the kitchen, what are you doing?” He kicks the pants off, the apron hiding his briefs behind it but you still blush at the thought of Jongin near naked in the kitchen.

“Oh, yeah, my shirt was dirty too,” he says nonchalantly, untying the apron and then pulling both that and his shirty over his head. You squeal, covering your eyes while Jongin stands proudly in nothing but his briefs. “What’s wrong, Y/N? You make it seem like you’ve never seen me naked before.” His laugh indicates immediately that this was his plan all along.

You slap his arm, telling him off for being a tease while he laughs carefree and walks casually around you to the bowl you’ve left on the bench; he looks happy knowing there is still some batter left behind.

Holding the bowl in one arm, Jongin walks over, quickly dips his finger in and dabs a cool smudge of cake batter on your cheek. “Oh, look,” he grins, leaning closer, “let me clean that up.” His tongue slowly glides along your cheek before he gives you a quick kiss and pulls away.

You don’t know what to do, his shit-eating grin annoying you immensely but the thought of licking cake batter off Jongin’s body suddenly becomes a fun idea.

He loves how you cave into his playful idea, gathering a large amount of batter on your finger before making a mess over his pecs. He sighs when he feels you suck little marks into his skin as you lick the batter off, lips eventually leaving the trail and moving down to his abdomen.

You’re on your knees, pushing Jongin back slowly until he’s leaning against the bench and your hands are playing along the edge of his briefs. His eyes darken as he watches you drag the dark briefs down his thighs and release his growing erection. You take him in your mouth, Jongin needing to brace himself because you always know how he likes to be sucked and with a soft pop, you look up at him.

“This is extremely inappropriate, Jongin.” He shrugs, guiding you back towards his cock and sighing as you get to work.

[divagonzo]

why do you hate Hermione so much everything i read from you is so rude about her what gives

Well ‘ello to you too Nonnie.

So do I hate Hermione? Heavens no. As weird as it sounds, I treat the character like one of my nearest and dearest - gonna call them out when they act wrong and expect them to do the same for me when I fuck up. I was doing this when I was that age, being an arrogant arse (and somewhat one still to this day.) (There are reasons why I go by Dragon and it’s not always my award-winning wisdom.)

Does it come across as brusque and rude? Sure. I’ve never been accused of sugar coating anything, unfortunately. Another of my bad traits, I reckon.

But after this, I’ll delve into this bit for you, nonnie.

(and I’m repeating myself by going into this again but since I can’t scare up the previous discourse for Hermione positive narrative from me…)

Positive Hermione discourse….

For me, personally, I think her world turns right side up the moment Ron walks back into the tent, having saved Harry, destroyed the locket, and keeping the sword of Gryffindor.

While she was rightfully beastly over what had happened (not understanding maybe how deep that abyss went for Ron in those moments he was being pushed away) she shouldn’t have hit him - but her anger otherwise was justified. And like Ron (which seem to be two sides of the same complimentary coin) she needed time and distance to eventually quell her anger.

I’ve been Ron at that moment with someone I deeply love, having hurt them. The palatable fear over losing them for your stupid shit is very scary. I had to do what Ron did - giving them space and time. Unlike a story which can be remedied in 100 pages, mine took years.

But unlike when Ron and Hermione were even a year younger, Ron has grown to where he respects her space and will take what he can get, having betrayed her and Harry. Harry pushed him away but he was the one who got shirty and walked off, to disastrous consequences.

So they are off hunting clues again, with Ron helping out immensely. The debacle at Xeno Lovegood’s house and then being caught out by the snatchers showed everyone how the others are important to each other. There was no perceived weak link anymore. Everyone knew their value. All three were vital and necessary to the others.

So when Ron’s being beaten to a pulp and Harry’s gotten a stinger to the face to try and hide his identity, the only one left standing whole is Hermione. And she’s terrified.

I can’t blame her in the least.

Viv and I disagree on this point, but I personally think that this was a geometric growth moment for Hermione. Ron’s offered himself up to Bellatrix, knowing what is coming (or so he thinks) but instead she picks Hermione. (Once again reinforcing the theme that villains pick out the one most dangerous to them.)

You can’t sway me from thinking that Hermione and that iditic and iconic memory of hers didn’t flashback for a moment to Ron’s courage to come back to them, willing to face her wrath for walking out. I can’t be dissuaded that she had that thought in her head that “Ron came back. Ron faced down acromantulas for me. I can do this, too.”

Hermione knows that what is coming is gonna suck dragon’s talons. And it’s going to hurt, especially since she got yanked by her hair when separated from the guys. I can tell you that hurts horribly. She’s using every bit of Gryffindor courage to keep her wits for what is going to happen. She was going to protect her friends if it was the last thing she would ever do.

Now that’s love, everyone. That’s a fireworks explosion demonstration right there where even oblivious people can recognize it. That’s a demonstration that a Dragon respects writ large.

For me, this is her defining moment - facing down a worst case scenario and facing it with courage. It’s facing possible death and not cowering from it but buying them time and praying that they can find a way out, with or without her.

I honestly don’t think she expected to survive it.

She had a good 30 seconds to consider what was going to happen. Anticipation was probably at the forefront of her thinking because she knew what Lestrange was capable of achieving.

The guys are downstairs and Ron’s frantic. He doesn’t know what is happening except that Hermione is screaming bloody murder. And since it’s off-screen (gives stink eyes to Uncle Steve and Uncle David) the reader’s imagination is used to consider how bad it really is. All the reader - and the guys - can hear is her screaming.

She’s there for minutes - more than five, less than 20 total. It’s fast and dirty and roughshod - unlike what the Longbottoms went through, potentially. But she’s being tormented for information - a Shrodinger’s moment in betraying how important the vault actually is.

But Hermione’s holding up and holding her own, lying while in unspeakable pain.

While I hate to broach such a thing, there’s a huge reason why the Geneva Convention has enacted rules and laws of warfare, including torture. There are reasons why prisoners of war, fighting under flag and uniform, are protected. Why?

Because under pain, a prisoner will say anything to make the pain cease. And with anything like such, it’s not a question of breaking but of when.

But Hermione? She’s keeping her wits under torture. She’s able to withstand such pain to keep Bellatrix from going after the others. (Yes, I know it’s the Author but I also think that some of it was scrubbed by the editors because you can’t go too dark on it, at least not that way.)

Cut to Dobby’s rescue and the guys escaping courtesy of Wormtail and they finally get to see - Griphook lying for them, Hermione barely stirring.

Like many a hero in books I grew up on (and media, too) Hermione gave them the one thing they needed: time. So many of the fallen heroes I’ve loved in stories are the ones who face down their demise with courage, standing in the breach to give the survivors a better chance.

While the book makes light of it and the movie, even more, something like that isn’t shaken off like you caught a volleyball to the face. (That stings, lemme tell you, double if you wear glasses.) Going through something so traumatic changes a person.

I liken what she went through as a baptism by fire - where it burned away all of the bollocks and bullshit, all of the petty games and bad communications, and made all of them realize how important each one of them is to the others.

This doesn’t mean that Hermione now has empathy and support for Ron the way he needs immediately. I personally think that the communication lines are completely open at this point and all of the words said that don’t quite mean what they say boil away to where what they do say to one another is what they mean. Nothing is hidden, everything on the table for the other to see - complete vulnerability.

While I do wish some problematic things were handled differently (*and I can’t advocate abuse for anyone*) My critical analysis of the character shows geometric growth after that situation in MM - and beyond. I do wish there had been more shown but more couldn’t have been shoehorned in into the last 1/3 of the book. There was too much else that had to happen in the narrative to give Hermione any more arc than she had.

But damn this is why I love fic that explores it afterward, warts and all.

So nonnie, I love Hermione, even if I am critical on some things. I don’t give a pass but I do understand the whys and hows of it. If I were a written character, I’d hope someone would say how fucked up I was at times in my life and also see how much growth happened between 15 and 40-something.

I try to live my life as a lesson on how to not fuck up - and how to survive it and grow from it when I do.

[theminibeast]

The Dirty Shirty Del Sol Launderette

Complete with a dry cleaning service and an ambiguous lost clothes pile.

[leaderintitleonly]

@wishingxuponxstars​ asked:

"Doc please help. Grumpy said I'm sick and I need you! I don't wanna have ligma forever!" (from Bashful)

“Now hold on, Bashful. Jus’ take a-”

“Wait, he said ya got what?!”

“M’gonna kill ‘em. Y’don’t have ligma! He’s jus’ trying to get you to say somethin shirty- uh, dirty!”

[bwprowl]

And I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t mention Good Smile’s latest Overwatch entry. This one’s notable though just because it’s such an unexpected choice; I don’t think Junkrat was on anyone’s short-list for the Nendoroid treatment. They really captured his charm too, particularly the bits that let you recreate his emotes, since we all know Junkrat has the best ones in the game. Kinda looking forward to this one for if they start doing different-skin repaints of these things, since I really like Dirty Boy’s Shirty Boy skin, and might grab that one. There’s also the implication that a Roadhog Nendo to accompany this one is on its way as well.

That’s all I’ve got for you tonight, guys! Take it easy, I’ll see you next week!