#working from home organisation

[somegrumpynerd]

To the people in my inbox I'm so sorry I swear I'm gonna answer those but work has been absolutely destroying me for like 2 weeks straight and I've barely been here

[fictionalred]

got home an hour ago and am already getting a little drunk ✌️

[fazcinatingblog]

Waking in the middle of the night thinking about those two ASIC things that were lodged a day late and how shitty my boss will be and how the superfunds need to be uploaded to BGL and that those two new guys keep asking dumb questions and one's quite nice, the other is really sour, almost grumpy, he's not really a bully, just really "wait I have to do that?" Like yes, you have to data entry into our software and I think I'm adopting his mannerisms especially talking to Sophia but maybe I always had that in me, maybe I've always been grumpy "no I don't know how long I worked on it, I kept getting interrupted" but also those stupid ASIC things I should've taken more notice of the date and I'm so dumb and there were two of them and

[maryse127]

I just watched a video about security for next week's NATO summit and what do you mean half of all police in the entire country is working on this security operation?!

[nutmegthings]

.

[latinokaeya]

gonna be honest i have not been having a great week at all but. small mercies is that the guests left so i finally have my own room back yay

[akajustmerry]

it really is mind-boggling to me that the only reason i know about the Congolese and Sudanese genocides is because of the tireless work of grassroots activists and advocates posting on social media. I can honestly say that if I didn't have social media and didn't happen to be following Black authors and activists, I never would have known what was happening in Sudan and Congo because it is simply not being reported in the great majority of mainstream media. We're talking millions upon millions of PEOPLE enduring unimaginable pain and devastation with next to no official reporting. And yes that is in huge part due to the level of violence and displacement occurring that is preventing a lot of news from getting out of these countries, but it's also so blatantly due to anti-Black racism and the perception of African Nations as inherently savage and violent. But genocide is not and never should be normal for anyone anywhere. With that in mind, please keep Congo and Sudan in your thoughts. Check out Focus Congo for resources to help the Congolese people on the ground. Focus Congo's MO is a local organisation whose goal is to rebuild homes, rehabilitate land, and provide medical aid, education, and resources to Congo's most affected people. Also, Check out Keep Eyes On Sudan for how to help out and raise awareness of Sudanese people displaced by civil war. According to Sudanese TikToker bsonblast, donations to local food kitchens in Sudan are desperately needed to fight famine. If anyone has other resources specifically for helping Congo and Sudan, please add them and link them <3

[dreamerwriternstargazer]

How it started:

How it’s going:

[cowsabungus]

Make pride accessible for everyone!!!!

I made a post about this last year and the year before, and thought if I did it this way it gives people and orgs something to work towards. Often people forget that disabled people aren't just wheelchair users, and even those who are, need more than just that ramp!

My first ever pride, not only as a wheelchair but my first ever EVER pride, I went in expecting to feel at home.

Obviously I wasn't, I'm disabled, so why should I?

Instead there was just a ridiculous amount of uneven flooring, a steep ramp to the disabled toilet, no sanitary towel bin in the disabled toilet (???) no allowances to be let out of the festival to fetch things from my car, no where quiet and organisers who seemed genuinely surprised to see a wheelchair user!

My next pride, three years later, I was a seller, and while they had sorted their toilet problem (still no sanitary towel bin???), the hill to get in wouod have been genuinely impossible for me to get to if I hadn't been driving to get my stall in anyway, even with someone pushing me, no quiet areas, plenty of kerbs for me to get stuck at and again, genuine surprise.

Why is it so surprising to consider disabled people might be at pride? Not only do queer disabled people exist, but parents and family of queer kids and people, vendors and even entertainers!

Making pride accessible is crucial!

ID available in Alt Text

[peascribbles]

𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒉, 𝒎𝒚 𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆.

Some things he simply can't let go of. soft!sylus x gn!reader, dragon tendencies, sfw; 500wc

By nature, dragons must have a hoard to call their own, and old habits die hard for Sylus.

A poorly kept secret is housed in the bottom drawer of his desk. Filled to the brim, each and every item in it is more priceless than all the artifacts and paintings he owns combined. As far as he's concerned, they are—and will always be—incomparable in value.

There are stashed receipts from dates with you, enumerating coffees and pastries bought from cafes; theater tickets for two; bills for suits and outfits purchased in Linkon's boutiques. He's accumulated almost a year's worth by now, organised them into neat bundles, tucked into one corner.

Under them are a stack of wrinkled papers filled with your idle scribbles, of clouds and flowers and ritual curses for your annoying coworkers. After you finish working you crumple and toss them into the bin he keeps by his desk. He recovers them when you aren't around. Unfurls each one at a time with care, pressing his hands down to soothe the creases—and into the drawer they go. At the very top is the frustrated sketch you'd created when you first met, depicting him with horns and a devil's tail.

The rest of his collection is a jumbled mess that clatters when he pulls it open, which is more often than he'll ever admit. Keychains adorned with charms roll around with piles of hard won coupons from the arcade. However useless they may be, he holds onto every single prize: matching candy rings, toy harmonicas, tacky plastic gems.

Your personal accessories have also migrated to the drawer over time. Sylus tells himself he's not stealing. He simply notices a misplaced piece of yours on occasion—perhaps in the crevices of the couch, under the bed, or in one of the cars, and they're simply spirited away and remain missing. Even the wrappers of the candy and chocolate you snack on around the base are preserved here.

There's an ancient greed that roots in his mind, demanding to possess and gather all that it desires, and you are its singular focus. You, and everything within your orbit. Everything you touch.

These ephemera, unremarkable to anybody else, serve as crucial reminders to him that you're truly here. They embody the life he strives to nurture using this unthinkable second chance he's been gifted with you.

The promise of a kinder, gentler story resides in the scraps he collects; one shaped not by grandiose games of fate, but sweet drinks and cakes, idle pastimes, and quiet evenings steeped with your presence. Desolate spaces transformed into somewhere comfortable, safe. A place he regards as a home—for you both.

And so these tangible traces of you are infinitely more precious to him than any material thing could be in this universe. Forget the mountains of gold and dragonslaying weaponry from long gone days. This unassuming drawer of junk, entwined with your memories, is a treasure unlike anything he's ever known.

[dandelionsresilience]

Just in case Trump wins:

right after Trump was elected in 2016, suicidality skyrocketed. If you’re considering suicide in the wake of the election this year, at least wait until after it’s absolutely certain that he’s won - after every vote has been counted, every state certified, and maybe even after he’s been sworn in (IF he wins), just to make sure he doesn’t go to prison instead. Watch the results come in live here, but don’t obsess or let them sway your vote. (To be clear, I don’t want a single person to commit suicide over the election results, no matter what. But I know from experience that “don’t do it” is thoroughly unhelpful, so instead I’m saying at least wait.)

if you’re considering suicide because you fear worsening material conditions, you might think a hotline can’t help with that. and it’s true that they can’t change legislation or promise you’ll be safe. but it’s worth double checking whether what you’re actually hurting from is in fact unfixable. right now, just getting through the emotions can help you regain a more objective view of the situation, and then you can work on surviving it. plus, when something bad happens, we tend to vastly overestimate how bad it will seem in the future, no matter how bad it actually is.

In my experience, it might take a few tries before you find a hotline that picks up, either because they’re so busy, or they’re closed at that time, or they simply don’t serve your location or demographic, so under the thingy I’ve listed more than just the same handful that tend to show up on other websites. Even if you’re not actively suicidal, you can talk to them about your hard feelings, ask for material resources, or just vent to a compassionate listener.

FIND HELP

HopeLine - call/text: 877-235-4525

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline - call/text: 988 | chat

Crisis Text Line - text HOME to 741741 | chat

help getting out of the military

for underrepresented adults:

Thrive Lifeline - text THRIVE to 313-662-8209

for pre-teens, teens, and young adults:

Your Life Your Voice - call: 800-488-3000 | text VOICE to 20121 | email

for teens (limited hours):

Teen Line - call: 800-852-8336 | text TEEN to 839863 | email

for trans and questioning people:

Trans Lifeline - call: 1-877-565-8860

for people with substance dependency:

Never Use Alone Overdose Prevention Hotline - call: 877-696-1996

for BIPOC (“with an LGBTQ+ Black Femme Lens”):

BlackLine - call: 1-800-604-5841

for college students of colour:

The Steve Fund Crisis Text Line - text STEVE to 741741

for LGBTQ+ young people:

The Trevor Project - call: 1-866-488-7386 | text START to 678678 | chat

for homeless or runaway youth:

National Runaway Safeline - call/text: 1-800-786-2929 | (has chat and email, but I think the link includes tracking)

for Muslim youth (limited hours):

Naseeha Youth Hotline - call: 1-866-627-3342

Amala Hopeline - call: 1-855-952-6252

for Jewish queer youth (warmline, may take up to 24 hours to reply):

JQY Warmline - call/text: 551-579-4673

for veterans:

Veterans Crisis Line - call: 988, option 1 | text: 838255 | chat

for veterans and their families:

Lifeline for Vets - call: 888-777-4443

for pregnant people:

Crisis Pregnancy Hotline - call: 888-628-3353 | text: 714-448-8323

for parents unsure of their ability to care for a newborn:

National Safe Haven Alliance - call: 888-510-2229 | text SAFEHAVEN to 313131

International Council for Helplines Member Organisations

Warmlines - for emotional support, if you just need to talk; a lower level of support than crisis hotlines

NAMI Helpline directory

Key warmline directory (unclear if 317-550-0060 might also be a warmline, I haven’t tried it)

Wildflower Alliance Peer Support Line (limited hours) - call: 888-407-4515

[gothhabiba]

You may remember me spotlighting the Mawasi Al-Qarara Mutual Aid Project (MAQMAP) in the past. MAQMAP is now Relief for Rafah (R4R), as the organisers and inhabitants of the camp return to their homes across Gaza.

Relief for Rafah needs funding to provide clean drinking water, food, and cash assistance to families in the Al-Genina District of Rafah. Despite the ceasefire, the aid entering the strip is not meeting the needs of the Palestinians in Rafah. Clean drinking water is desperately needed as well as edible food. Not to mention, the level of displacement remains high, with many families returning to piles of rubble. We aim to step in where the international aid organizations aren't. By donating, you are helping us sustain dignity, life, and love within the community. Your contributions will go to providing food, water, and basic life neccesities. Please help in rebuilding the lives that were destroyed by supporting and sharing our work.

I am personally organising bank transfers for this organisation and have been in personal contact with the organisers for some time. I can assure you that your donations are doing important work in Rafah.

[0bticeo]

mark grayson | takeout misshap

summary: mark stumbles in, looking wrecked—bruised, bloody, barely holding himself up—but guess what? he still has a takeout bag. the paper’s stained red, but he just grins like an idiot and goes: "still hot." priorities.

(requested by one lovely anon <3)

tw: none! diabetes inducing amounts of fluff, mark gets all the hugs and kisses he needs for the traumatic shit he's been through, blood and bruises, mention of invincible events but no spoilers (also ik there's only two variants in the wasteland dimension but. but viltrumite mark survived bc he's my bby)

you love mark grayson. from the bottom of your heart, to the moon and back, through hell and back. you love watching him geek out about the new seance dog episode, because you don’t understand , they perfectly adapted this one bit from the comics, and the VA’s performance made it sooo much better. you love watching the small crease of his brows when he focuses on his algebra homework. for all his complaining, he’s a good student. 

you love invincible. you love watching mark suit up, coming up to him and adjusting his mask for him as his hands rest on your waist. you love watching him take off, flying away like it’s the most natural thing. and it is. he’s told you, fingers stroking your hair, that to viltrumites, it was like breathing. 

“i wish i could fly sometimes,” you had whispered, craning your head to look up at him. 

a soft peck on your forehead, on your eyelids - left, right. on your nose.

“i can take you flying, if you want.”

you had smiled.

“yeah. i’d like that.”

it was easier, back then. when all you had to worry about was making it into college. three years later and you’re both twenty-one, with the weight of the world on mark’s shoulders. viltrumites are wolves. no sheep’s clothing needed to hide themselves - nolan grayson had been a predator through and through, his glacier blue eyes cold enough to cut you down to your marrow. 

you’re lucky you’re still alive and breathing. you’re lucky you get to see mark come home to you, bloodied, broken, bruised, but alive . it’s messy, sometimes. there’s blood on the carpet, stains ingrained in the fabric, unwilling to leave. there’s exhaustion. frustration on both your parts - you want. you want to enjoy a lazy morning in your boyfriend’s arms without that bastard cecil stedman’s call ripping him away from you. he wants to be there for you. that’s why you both rent a small little flat - hero work had him dropping out of college, and he couldn’t bear to watch you deal with it alone.

so you make it work. it’s not perfect, it’s messy - mark’s eyes are growing sadder and sadder, bags deepening under his eyes until he breaks down under the weight of it all. 

(he came to you. after thraxa. after levy. after his variants. after conquest. he came to you, bloodied, half-mad with grief, a feral dog seeking its master’s tender touch. you’re no master of his, but your hands are the gentlest things he knows, so he buried himself in your arms and let himself break , knowing you’d pull him back together.)

you make it work. 

doesn’t mean you’re still not eyeing the clock, frowning a little. you’ve rummaged around in your closet until you found the outfit, changed said outfit because it was too much for a date at that small, homey italian restaurant that mark organised, then changed it back because it was too casual. you are not spending your three year anniversary in your hoodie. well, mark’s hoodie. finders keepers.

so here you are, pacing back and forth in your living room under the watchful, curious gaze of nero, one feline eye half-opened on the couch. an hour passes. two. you settle on the couch and run your fingers through nero’s fur, the cat purring as he settles on your lap. three hours and all restaurants are closed. three am stares you straight in the eyes, the clock on the wall ticking away minute after unforgiving minute.

mark is late. 

you’re not mad at him - dammit, he’s a superhero. that’s his job, and you’re proud of him for it. you are mad at cecil for not allowing him to rest after sending him on four back to back missions in a week right after he almost got stranded in a sordid wasteland dimension with three of his other variants.

a rasp at the window. 

you jump on your feet, immediately dashing to the window to open it. in stumbles mark. blue and yellow suit in shreds, bloodied, bruised, one broken arm hanging limply at his side, two teeth missing, the plexiglas of his broken goggles having dug in his skin, a small shard embedded under his eyelid. 

in his free arm, takeout. 

the bag’s stained red from the blood coating his hand, slowly seeping into the brown paper.

he looks at you with a little smile - a little hiss escaping him when his split, swollen lips stretch painfully.

“hey,” he croaks, floating towards you, feet brushing the ground. “happy three years to us.”

then, after looking at the bag:

“still hot.”

you sigh fondly, cupping his face, watching as he melts into you, nose brushing yours. priorities. gently, you manage to dig out the small plexiglas fragment, earning a mournful sigh from him.

“m’sorry, m’staining the carpet again.”

“fuck the carpet.” you gently peck the spot under his ear, the only patch of skin left unbruised. “i’m just glad you’re alive.”

“mm. managed to snatch take-out at the italian before it closed. ordered your favourite.”

“aw, baby… you’re an angel.” 

you peck his nose, lips a soft breeze over the crooked slope of it, taking the bag from him and setting it on the coffee table. nero purrs, tail rubbing over mark’s calf. mark is watching you, mask in hand, gaze soft. he makes a move to drape himself over you and stop, wordlessly looking at you, big brown eyes imploring.

“don’t wanna mess up your outfit.”

your heart melts .

“fuck my shirt. c'mere.”

your fingers close on his valid arm and you pull him towards you, giggling as he effortlessly slides in the air. mark thinks he’s never seen you look this beautiful, eyes sleep-soft, love pouring out of your heart straight to his. you’re happy, he realises. happy that he gets to come home to you. to come home at all. 

he drapes himself over you, chest to your back, still careful not to put blood on your shirt- oh , you’re pulling him closer, craning up your neck so your cheek brushes against his. his hand rests on your waist, fingers hesitantly laying on the silk of your shirt until you press your hand against his, until he feels the warmth of you blooming under his palm like his blood on your shirt.

“love you,” he mumbles, pressing a soft kiss to your neck.

“love you too, baby.”

you feel him against you, body relaxing, melting into you as you pull out the clothes he’s laid out for himself before heading out, six hours ago - black slacks, black shirt. he eyes his limp arm, his shattered knee, and bite back a groan, forehead pressed to your nape, sweat-slick hair brushing the sensitive skin. not having both hands for that will suck. unless-

“look inside the pocket,” he mumbles.

you hum, intrigued, and comply, reaching for his pocket - you freeze when your fingertips brush the corner of something small. 

you pull out a small velvet box, eyes wide. 

“mark?”

he smiles, reaching out from behind you to open it, taking advantage of you holding it. 

“yeah.”

gently, he takes the box from you and floats in front of you, half-kneeling, smile bloodied and unbearably soft.

“marry me?”

you think you’re crying. you might have tackled mark into a hug, then profusely apologized as you effectively crushed his bruised ribs. nero meows, confused.

“yeah. yeah, mark.” you kiss him. "i wanna marry you."

tagging: @tokoyamisstuff @gaiasmight

[ginsdelusions]

You sighed deeply. It has been many, many years since your husband, the King of Castrum Kremnos, Mydeimos, had went to war - leaving you alone with a son, a rebellious nation and a throne to attend to. His whereabouts were unknown; the only thing that kept you going all these years was your faith in the man you married and fell in love with. At first, the people were fine with your temporary rule - until more and more time started passing. At first it was only a small group of advisors and assistants asking you to remarry or give up the throne, since Mydeimos ‘evidently wouldn’t return’.

Soon though, many more fractions, ranging from small groups to big organisations started demanding that you choose a new king to rule alongside you. You’d managed to buy him some more time as you claimed to choose a new king once you’d finished weaving your shroud. The people first seemed fine with it, since they never found out that you unthreaded the work you did daily once the sun dipped below the horizon and was replaced by the moon.

In the past few years, you’d dealt with a variety of riots and demonstrations, but this time they had crossed the line by beating up your son. When the poor thing came home, he was limping terribly and had a black eye, amongst many broken bones and other injuries. ‘This can’t go on’, you thought to yourself. “It seems the time for the challenge has come.”

Now, standing before you were all the suitors, 108 men in total. A silent prayer rushed through your mind before you stepped in front of them. Clearing your throat, you welcomed them before you explained what they had to do. “Whoever can raise my husband’s own spear and slice through twelve targets cleanly, evenly and with a single strike, will be the new king, sit down at the throne, and rule Castrum Kremnos with me as his queen.”

Cheers erupted, and the first man already approached the intricate weapon. It was a gorgeous golden spear, adorned by sapphires and rubies, reminiscent of its owner. However, aside from being bejewelled, it was also blessed by Strife — the very Strife that only your husband was worthy of being. The first challenger gripped the spear, his confident grin soon disappearing as he could not lift the weapon, no matter how hard he tried. Laughter roared through the stadium. Enraged, the suitor gave up, claiming that the challenge is rigged.

The next suitor was less cocky, and methodically approached the weapon. A firm grip, a proper posture - someone who clearly trained the usage of the spear. Yet, all he could do was struggle to move the golden artefact, unable to lift it, let alone strike targets with it.

Similarly to the first two, the contesters following them did not succeed either; no one was able to wield the weapon.

“This is rigged!”

“Shame on the queen!”

“The weapon is enchanted!”

Screams echoed through the stadium, a multitude of voices blending into a chaotic and loud mess, drowning out all sense of reason. Some of the suitors joined the audience, some others even started throwing things, yet again some others got up and started approaching you. Threats were being thrown at you left and right. The crowd turned into a kaleidoscope of anger, chaos and pure outrage, when amongst the commotion a steady, metallic march made itself evident; an army of soldiers led by a tall, armoured blonde with a less than unpleased expression on his handsome face, heading to the arena at a relentless pace.

But the crowd kept screaming and yelling, not noticing the 43 men who’d returned from a battle that lasted 20 whole years. It was only when their leader entered the arena, lifted the weapon and sliced all targets in half in one clean strike that silence found its way into the stadium, an icy shiver creeping up on all the spectators as the man turned around, surrounded by hundreds, if not a thousand people. His golden eyes that resembled the sun, though, were only focused on a single person.

After 20 years, your husband returned home to you. It felt like a distant dream came true, a hope that dimmed in your heart finally becoming reality. He was back. Was this really him? Or was this a mere dream? It felt like time ceased to exist for a moment, like everything froze in place except for you two.

“Mydei? Is it really you?”

Instead of answering, Mydei walked up the stairs of the arena where your seat was located.

He stopped in front of you. “See for yourself if I am an illusion, or if I am the true Mydei.”

Overjoyed, you didn’t know what to say - you had envisioned this moment all the time, and yet, you still couldn’t think of anything to say. Your eyes met his as he turned to his people.

“Kremnoans, you have disappointed me. Instead of choosing to trust in your king and trust in my leadership and might, you decided to make an enemy of my wife, your queen, and thus betray me. Now that I, Mydeimos the Strife, have returned, be prepared to pay for your crimes with blood. Let it be known that your king has returned!”

Cheers erupted yet again, but for you, it didn’t matter. ‘What if it’s an imposter?’, your thoughts went rampant with doubts, ‘What if that is not my husband that has returned? There is only one way to find out…’

When he turned toward you again, he immediately picked up on the mistrust in your eyes. “You really don’t think I am the real deal?”, his frustration was evident, his eyes were tired after venturing for 20 years. “Mhm, I do, but… Can you throw our wedding bed out, first?”, you anticipated his reaction. “Our what? I come back after 20 years and that is what you think of? Besides, I made that thing from the olive tree where we first met. I’m afraid you have to fight me if you wish to get rid of it”, Mydei seemed perplexed.

You definitely knew it was him now. He was home.

“Welcome Home, love.”

Inspired by the Ithaca Saga of Epic: the Musical, mainly ‘the challenge’ and ‘hold them down’, since I’m listening to those right now… by the way, I didn’t even play the Amphoreus quests yet, so if this is extremely ooc I sincerely apologise! I literally googled his voice lines for this.. and I didn’t want to give him too much trauma so Scylla and Zeus just.. didn’t. It’s 2am, I should go to sleep

[miedei]

the bau come over to dinner at you and roommate!spencer's apartment and make some observations <3 (aka spencer is sososo used to receiving love from you and they can't wrap their heads around it)

drabbles mlist | roommate!spence fic

The BAU team knows Spencer Reid. They know him to be brilliant, sweet, and kind. They also know him to be excessively clumsy, like a puppy unaware of it's now-long limbs.

They see him flounder in the office, in various police departments. They see him knock over chairs, mugs, stacks of paperwork.

They see it so often, that this sight in front of them is truly alien.

Spencer is moving through the kitchen with practised ease. His hands move without his eyes following them, grabbing and organising little jars on the counter. And, of course, he weaves his way around you, as if his body was crafted to work alongside yours.

Emily and JJ sit on the well-worn sofa, each half-heartedly holding up a conversation as they stare unabashedly through the open kitchen door. Their eyes track him as he passes behind you to get to the sink, softly brushing his hand over your back to let you know that he's there. They watch him handle plump tomatoes with care, washing them under the water with deft fingers as he rambles to you.

It's a strange feeling, to watch him so comfortable. To have never seen him in such a state. The two of them love Spencer, and they know he loves them, but this is something they've never experienced with him. They lock eyes, exchanging small smiles as they settle in to watch further.

Hotch and Derek are arguably the members on the team who have worked the closest with Spencer. From the day Gideon recruited him for the team, they've worked case after case with the younger man. Although they are so close, they've never been able to spend much time at his home, usually opting to gather at Rossi's.

It's a shock to finally see inside his apartment, and see this.

The two stand on the balcony, leaning against the railing as they take in the room beyond the french doors. Spencer has now floated to the cabinets in the living room, calling out softly to you as he attempts to locate the dish you're looking for.

"Is it the flat one we got last weekend? The one with the Delft Blue artwork?"

"No, the one next to it! Same size, but different— Oh, that's it! Thanks, Spence."

They observe as you appear in the doorway, delighted smile spreading over your face as you're presented with said dish. You turn back into the kitchen after planting a peck to Spencer's cheek.

The two profilers watch intently, expecting a flush to creep up Spencer's face any second, but— nothing. He barely acts as if anything is out of sorts.

They look on incredulously as Spencer doesn't cease his chattering, now delving into the history of Delft Blue pottery as he wanders back into the kitchen after you.

The endearing sight of Spencer in his home clues them in. This is his element, here in this apartment, with you. The disconcerting actions don't deter them. Instead, they also wander into the kitchen, playing at getting refills as an excuse to glimpse more.

Penelope is seated across from Spencer, Rossi across from you. The small dining table is barely big enough to fit the eight of you, but no one seems to mind. The surface is overflowing with plates, a seemingly random mish-mash of dishes laid out in front of them.

A record is playing softly, a rendition of Hungarian Dance No.5 melding in with the conversations that float around the room.

Both David and Penelope were just in a heated debate about the taste of scotch (she insists it's disgusting, despite allowing him to refill her glass every time), but their attention has been snagged elsewhere, and neither seem to be in the mood to look away.

Across the table, two heads huddle in closely. Spencer is angled towards you, his hands coming out to grasp your cutlery, and repositioning them repeatedly around your plate.

"...and if you place your knife horizontally, then your fork with the tines pointing to the top of the plate and the base of the knife, that means you don't want to engage in the conversation. A Victorian noble would never say it out loud, so they signalled instead."

Spencer is leaning into you without a care in the world, his entire body focused solely on his demonstration. He bends at the neck, bringing his face closer to yours as he shifts the cutlery again.

Rossi can't help but elbow Penelope, gesturing to your face when she looks at him questioningly.

Your eyes flicker from the plate to Spencer's eyes, wholly captivated by his words and movements. The lack of space between the two of you doesn't seem to register, or you don't care about it. Instead, you're listening carefully, interjecting with soft questions as he cycles through multiple iterations of cutlery placement.

The two of them can't seem to tear their eyes away from the domestic little scene. You are comfortable, not bothered by anything as the pair of you reside in your little bubble.

Penelope can't help but grip Rossi's arm when you reach a hand to brush a lock of hair away from Spencer's eyes, but he doesn't miss a beat. The sight in front of them is evidently commonplace, unremarkable to either of you.

It's run of the mill, comfortable and intimate. But not for a pair of roommates. Something else.

[timmydraker]

During a Gala for raising awareness about women’s healthcare, a few heroes show up in both costume and civilian persona.

Wonder Woman is proudly walking around in a Greek style toga and talking about how the women of her home land care for one another and never doubt each others word on health issues. She is shamelessly challenging the men in the audience to better understand the women they claim to love and advocate for.

She’s the most obvious one in attendance, though if you look closer you will see Raven and Miss Martian talking with a the most obviously sexist group of men and making them all sweat bullets.

Others, like Zatana and all of the Bat kids, are in their civilian uniforms.

The most important guest in this line up, in the sense that her husband is making Bruce pout like an angry kitten, is Dinah.

Because Dinah is there to make a speech so naturally her husband Ollie is there to support her.

Yet when the speech is done and the wandering around begins, Bruce watches as Ollie hangs around one person like they’re old pals.

Tim Drake, Bruce’s most professional son during public events, is laughing and clinging to Oliver Queen like he’s some kind of celebrity or cousin he only gets to see once a year. The blond man had his arm around the younger Luke a parent and is chatting away with Tim as the two half talk with business partners and other socialites or so obviously just between themselves that the other people politely leave them to it.

Bruce had never seen Tim so relaxed at a Gala, the growing young man usually taking the time to go full business and organise meetings, deals or just the usual routine of holding reputation.

Yet there is Oliver Queen acting like they’re old friends.

Like Tim is his son.

Naturally, Dick and Barbara notice how Bruce is glaring at Queen and trying to hold back a frown of genuine hurt and jealousy. Part of them feels bad, but Tim and Oliver Queen are both made for this world, so it makes sense they get along in it.

But then Diana, who doesn’t mean any harm and is just talking to Bruce Wayne about how she approves of his work on the ecosystem casually leans down and whispers to him as Batman, “It’s always so nice to see how those two get along.”

Bruce’s eye twitched a little and he doesn’t bother trying to feign curiosity and grumbles out, “explain.”

Wonder Woman laughs loud and cheerful, which the room is now sued to hearing and jsut assume Brucie Wayne is trying to flirt with an Amazon which is not at all surprising.

“Oh, Bruce. Haven’t you noticed how Tim follows Jim’s round whenever they are at the tower? He’s like a little duckling. One time I heard him asking if Ollie wanted to come to his school event to see his science project!”

She goes on to talk about how Ollie must seem like an uncle to him and doesn’t pay attention to Bruce’s internal spiral.

By the end of the night Bruce looks like he might start crying, though only his children can see that.

Tim and Ollie finally make their way towards him after having a talk to some older woman about something or rather and Bruce puts on a mask quickly, acting as if he isn’t about to strangle Oliver Queen as they get ready to leave.

Dick steers Damian away and asks Duke to get the girls and wait in the car, knowing full well Bruce is going to embarrasses himself.

Rather quickly, Tim picks up on his distress and pulls away from Ollie’s side hug and approaches Bruce, “Is something wrong?”

Bruce smiles a terrifying thing, full of teeth and hidden malice, “Not at all. Tell me, when did you two get so buddy buddy?”

Oliver pales a little, but luckily Dinah is there to stop him from saying the wrong thing.

With a smooth voice she speaks, coming forward to press a kiss to Tim’s head and then back to her husband, “Tim and Ollie met at one of the Drake’s charity events years ago. This really was lovely, but we must be going, I don’t trust the younger kids to bot cause you or with Captain Marvel.”

With that there gone while Bruce is faced with the fact that Oliver may ah e met one of his babies before him.

But Tim isn’t a fool and he loves his dad, so he hugs Bruce around the waist and clings to him like he’s ten instead of twenty two. He leans back just slightly and gives a cheeky grin with a softness in his eyes, “I love you, dad.”

Dick coos while Barbara snaps a photo as Bruce squeezes his son and somehow manages to not cry.