a little reminder and perhaps inspiration

                                 FREE DAILY PLANNER PRINTABLE

Hey guys! I made this daily planner this morning for myself, and thought some of you might be able to benefit from it? So here you go!

Features:

  • Hourly planning section
  • ‘To do’ section for little odd bits and pieces
  • ‘Important’ section to remind you if you have to call someone or eat something
  • ‘Notes’ section for any inspirational tidbit you may wanna write for yourself, or perhaps to keep track of food and drink intake :)

Hope you guys find this useful, send me an ask if you want something changed or another type of planner made! 

Have a good day :)

Nursing Motivation - For the Tough Days

1. Grades do not define the nurse.You can still be a C + student and an extraordinary caregiver.

2. Your strengths as a nurse may change on a day to day basis. Be kind to yourself if you aren’t on point with your favorite skills. Maybe today’s the day you nail another skill instead.

3. It’s ok to want a time out, and escape from nursing, or studying. It doesn’t mean you’re a slacker. It just means you are human, and recognize that in order to safely take care of others, or excel in school - sometimes you need to avoid the world for a bit, process things and refresh.

4. Apologizing to others when you don’t understand something is a disrespect to yourself. It actually takes a lot of guts to admit when you’re uncertain and need assistance.

5. If it’s taking you longer to do things, do not become disheartened. Speed may be essential in time management, however, so is accuracy. Speed may come when you feel comfortable, and a little confident, but it may well be that slow and thoughtful is your way.

6. Recognize what you are doing well. There’s an awful lot of negative commentary already around. When you make your list of things you’d like to improve upon - make a matching one of the things that are uniquely your strengths. Remember them on the toughest days.

7. The difficulties you are experiencing are legitimate. It’s ok if others do not understand. It doesn’t minimize the importance of these concerns to you. Believe in yourself, even when others do not.

8. Begin a reflective journal. It may feel more comfortable to write out your concerns. Also write on the days you are doing ok, and have made small steps in progress. Read over on your toughest days, see how far you’ve come, reflect on things you’d like to work on from time to time. Reflect on those small things you’ve accomplished. They’re not as small as they appear.

9. Remember that every nurse was a beginner at some point. Every nurse questioned their abilities at one stage in their career. Every nurse has made mistakes. Every nurse has experienced overwhelming frustration. Perhaps every nurse has considered, what’s it all for? What every nurse may have in common, is endurance and fortitude.

10. Choose 50 of your favorite motivational quotes - and maybe a few humorous ones. Print out each one individually, and seal each of them in separate envelopes. On the tough days, failed exams, days you’re burned out, days you just want to quit it all - choose one envelope randomly. At the very least, the humor will distract you a little, and the inspiration will remind you of your goals.

(A table of contents is available. It will be kept updated throughout the series. This series will remain open for additional posts.)

Part Two: Where Inspiration Lives

As far back as the Greeks, and even earlier, creative souls have called the source of their inspiration a muse. In fact, part of the Greek pantheon were the nine muses, personifications of art, history, drama, music, and other topics besides. In literature of the time, as well as many of Shakespeare’s plays and other literature going forward, a plea to the muses to inspire the writer, creator, actor, etc., was often put at the beginning of the work. This invocation has continued on a thousand other fronts and transformed from the Muses as mythic goddesses to muses as whatever a person’s source of inspiration. For some people, a muse can be a literal person, for others it may be music, or a specific genre, a theme or idea, or even a set of colors, pictures, or images. A muse can be anything that give you inspiration.

I have never been a big proponent of the idea of muses. There are plenty of shows, movies, anime, and real life stories of people who depended on that muse, and as soon as there’s any kind of chance of losing that muse, the person depending on it loses the capability of doing any of those creative endeavors that they’d built themselves on. They lose their very essence of creativity and feel that they no longer match up to their internalized sense of self. That’s awful, and there’s no reason for it.

A thousand quotes exist that say something like, “You can’t wait around for inspiration to strike or you’ll never get anything done.” All of us who are set on creating things need to learn a very vital ability: creating and seeking out our own inspiration. When you put all the power into the hands of something or someone else, you give up all your own agency. You must learn to seek it out yourself and how to bring yourself to the point of inspiration. Keep that power close and guard it jealously by evaluating what makes you feel inspired.

The first step to coming up with plot is to seed an idea in yourself. That’s where inspiration comes in. Inspiration dwells within you. You feel it stirred by something you see or read, but it wouldn’t inspire you unless you already had a leaning toward it. Know yourself. Know what you’re passionate about. Take time to sit with yourself and consider what things you love: the images that make you pause, the feel of the music you play to bolster yourself up, the things that happen in the world that you find yourself thinking about.

What kinds of stories do you want to tell?

Knowing that is the first step in being able to shape a story and a plot that you are passionate about writing and inspired to keep writing. To help develop the skills to inspire yourself, consider collecting the things that spark ideas. Maybe it takes the form of a block box where you stash little cards and pictures and lines and song titles, or perhaps it’s a blog where you have a good tagging system, or a Scrivener file filled with it, or a bulletin board where you have visual reminders. Changing the medium from virtual to physical or vice versa can be a helpful change of pace. Store all those little details so that when you’re running low, you can look at them, read them, listen to them, and remember what you were going for, or find a new idea to work with, or discover something that might be worked into what you’re already doing.

Give yourself the key to your own inspiration.

Next up: Tailoring story length!

All These Dying Things

> > > > >

Thank underbellamy for this inspiration for this! She made some awesome edits and had the idea for it! :)

(Summary : Clarke is the emperor’s daughter and Bellamy is his favourite gladiator. Who else was she going to fall in love with?)

A Gladiator/Princess Bellarke Drabble No longer a drabble (AU)

Part 1

She noticed that they were the same colour.

The dark, crimson substance flowing freely from the man’s neck, it matched the confident, swirling patterns lying almost carelessly on the ropes of her falling gown, their vibrant red now belonging to a memory of cruel death.

His breaths grew laboured, his body lay dying, and she saw the light finally fall from his eyes, diminished. She had never been one to shy away from the torment of the Coliseum, but at this particular display of unwavering brutality, she threw her eyes from the sight.

She found no comfort in the crowds, their hunger for sanguinary a most dictating sight.

“Does this not please you, my child?” Her father questioned, capturing her skin between his rough, calloused fingers. His eyes were as they had always been, cold and calculating, happiness a foreign concept.

She tried to stretch her lips forward in some kind of helpless smile.

She failed.

“I am fine, fath- Emperor.” She corrected quickly, forcing her eyes back onto the warriors locked in battle.

Battle? She found herself wanting to laugh. A sharp sound, a mockery. The way her father laughed. Because this was not battle- this was merely entertainment.

They caught in a grapple, the entertainers, tearing away at each other like predators over a kill.

The dark haired boy, (no, not boy, for he clearly was a man) the one whom Clarke had seen fight and kill all his opponents today, he threw the other boy (this one really was a boy, thin and frail, hair so blonde it could be kissed a winter white) down, over his shoulder and to floor so fast and so hard, the sound of his bones shaking and cracking echoed in her mind, imprinting on this savage memory.

He didn’t look like a beast, this dark haired boy – man. No, not a beast, she thought. But a broken toy, lost without purpose or matter.

A murderer, and he was broken.

What a sadistic little world this was.

She wanted to turn away again, repel from the sight, but suddenly he was looking at her, staring at her, with those dark brown eyes.

And he didn’t like her, that much was clear from the perpetual hatred that shone bright in his eyes, but something lay underneath that, something as innocent as a child’s curiosity, layered and hid with such an expert hand, she found herself both appalled and transfixed that she could peer inside a murderers eyes, teeter over the edge.

And the revulsion came again, quick and sticking to her like tar, when she found herself wanting to hurl her body over the edge, see deeper into those eyes.

No.

He tore away his gaze before she had a chance too, and she drew in a shaky breath, ignoring the pecking study of her father’s coal-eyed inspection.

She truly did turn her head again when her father plunged his thumb downward and the man delivered his next kill, and the roaring of the crowd tore away at the little purity left of her.

“Come, daughter! Meet my favourite!” Her father beckoned, the arena empty, save the few gladiators scattered across the bloodied ground.

She fought a shiver.

She repulsed anyway.

She came to a standstill in front of the dark eyed man.

 The Emperor laughed heartily beside her, and Clarke was reminded of the tales she’d be told as a child to keep her from causing trouble- talks of man-eating bears, blood-thirsty beasts.

Perhaps her mother had sought inspiration from her father.

The dark haired boy fell to one knee in front of them, though Clarke noticed the stiffness in his movements, and that when he kissed her father’s hand, it looked as if though he wanted to sink his teeth inside it instead.

The Emperor smiled warmly, though the sadistic glint never left his eyes, gestured for the dark haired boy to stand.

“Clarke, my child, this is my finest gladiator. My strongest fighter.” Clarke recalled the way he had looked on prideful as the fighter had slain his opponents mercilessly, and fought down the choking bile.

The fighter looked at her once again, and his gaze consumed her. Not in the way of lovers, but in a passionate hostility, fraught with familiar specks of enquiry.

She gulped silently.

A crash sounded behind them, and the Emperor took off quickly, shouting and cursing obscenities, and leaving the two.

Alone.

Together.

It was silent for less than five seconds.

“Do you have a name, finest gladiator?” She asked, studying him as he did so to her.

His response was to raise an eyebrow in loud sarcastic question.

“I would not think the Emperors daughter would concern herself with such triviality, of a gladiator’s name.” He replied, his arms crossing over his chest in a glaring surprise.

“If you are favoured by the Emperor, it is a daughter’s duty to act in an acceptable manner, the Emperor, if he here, would order it so. Does my asking of a name displease you?” She explained herself quickly, and then added on, in curiosity.

His dark eyes betrayed no emotions, and locked away thoughts, his face remaining stoic under her scrutiny, unwilling to surrender anything but little speech and mocking words.

He scoffed lightly. “As if you would follow any orders told to you by a man.”

She was not expecting that.

“I’m afraid I do not understand.”

“Oh, I’m afraid you do.”

She took a step back now, unsure of how his attitude towards her has changed.

“Clip your tone, fighter. And speak not in riddles, when I’m sure simplicity would suit you far finer.”

He smirks now slightly at her rebuttal, seeing the flame spark beneath her words.

“Do I intrigue you, princess?” It’s a sudden question, and she sees he enjoys the game that he is playing with her.

“I can promise you do not.” She lies slightly, and it is only with slight, because his complexity only bothers her little.

She tells herself this, anyway.

He doesn’t believe it, anyway.

“Why do you lie princess? I will be truthful when I say you intrigue me so.”

She glares at him now, unsure of how the conversation had reached this point.

“Do the whores that fall into your bed intrigue you also?”

He is stunned for only a second, before his features fold back into a smirk, and he leans against her ear.

“No.” He whispers, his breath hot against the cold skin of her ear, and she remembers the spray of the blood in this gladiator’s hair.

She pulls away quickly, unnerved, and begins to walk away from him.

“Princess!” He calls, and she turns back only slightly, only seeing the raging curls atop his head, the dark focused eyes, and the lips stretched into a grin.

“Bellamy.” He says. “My name is Bellamy.”

She leaves very swiftly after that.

Part two in the all these dying things series >>

 

WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?

Are you just waiting for someone to enter your life? Someone who will make such an impact that will suddenly change your entire life? Someone who will take you places and make you feel things? Someone who will make you feel like you’re the most important person on the planet? Someone who will love you, take care of you and make you feel safe? Someone who will listen and make a genuine effort to understand you? Someone who will transform all your pain, scars, fears, weirdness and loneliness into something great? Someone who will encourage and inspire you to become great and follow your dreams? Someone who will believe in you? Someone who will prove to you that exceptional people still exist in this world? Someone who will make you believe in soulmates? Someone who will remind you that the best things in life are free? Someone who will make you appreciate all of the little things and moments that make life truly wonderful? Someone who will provide you with the greatest gift of all, that of their time and undivided attention? Perhaps someone who will stay? - The truth is you’re already that, you’re all of that. And if you still don’t realize it, you can become all of that. So whatever you want for someone else to be in your life, first you become that yourself.

SHINEXVIVIDLY

I don’t know why I got so emotional today. But when it hit me that so many of you wouldn’t even be here had I not decided to continue drawing, I almost cried. But it was because of some people, both on this site, and some off, that I kept going. Drawing ponies and posting them on a blog feels a little silly sometimes, but when I see all of you liking and enjoying my work, it makes me so incredibly happy. I love having all of you taking time out of your day to view what I do, and appreciate it.

I would never have made it without a few people, though.

@askprosecutie was a blog that I instantly fell in love with. The art style absolutely inspired me, and the characters were so well developed. They were my very first follower. The mod quickly became a close friend of mine, and even though we haven’t talked for a while, I’m still so happy to have them as a friend.

@chippedtune was a blog that was another early follower of mine, but the mod is a person that I have only recently become friends with. Not only are their art style and characters amazing, but they are absolutely lovely, give good advice, and have become a sibling to me.

@askneonflight is another blog that is very close to my heart. The mod is such an inspiring and comforting person, helping me through panic attacks, and aiding me with their advice. Their characters are so colorful and diverse, and they are someone I look up to very much.

@ask-the-french-olive has always been a delightful ray of sunshine, with adorably sweet characters, a wholesome story, and bright color palettes. Their soft style never fails to cheer me up, and I hope to become closer friends with them. Their style encouraged me to try different and new body types, and despite this still being a challenge for me, I welcome it with open arms.

@askstarlightsong has a mod with a heart of gold. They have a wonderfully streamlined style, elegant characters, and a sweet personality. They manage to capture so much in a single profile, and it’s incredible to see their finished work. It has been my pleasure to speak with them, as well as befriend them.

@wingspiral has become a pillar of hope in my life, with extremely relatable storylines, characters, and events. Their storytelling is something that I can only dream of achieving, but I will continue to work on bettering myself. I haven’t been able to read the story as of late, but in moments where I needed it most, the comforting dynamics of their characters reminded me that good is still out there.

There are hundreds of other creators out there that have inspired my art, work ethic, and goals. Many of you viewing this have brought joy into my life, perhaps even without you knowing.

Thank you.

The Domestic Life of Mr. and Mrs. Rogers - Part 29

This one is for MysticFantasy who asked for James’ first word. Warnings for a little stronger language than normal.  And for completely ridiculous stupidity :-).

29.  The ‘R’ Is Important 

              “Can you say it, James?  Come on. Say ‘Tony’.  ‘Tony’.  ‘Toneeee’.”

              “Saying it slower isn’t going to make him actually say it, Stark.”

              “How do you know, Barnes?  You ever taught a baby to talk before?”

              “You’re not teaching him now.”

              “Bucky’s probably right, Tony.  The way babies learn language is not well understood, but I highly doubt one morning of you working on this is going to sway him.”

              “But we shall applaud you for a truly masterful effort.”

              Natasha shook her head from where she sat at the breakfast table, desperately trying to spoon oatmeal into James’ mouth.  He was seven months old now, all sweet smiles and chubby cheeks and sparkling blue eyes.  And while he was exuberant and thrilled, she was rather exhausted.  It was the second day Steve was away on an assignment for SHIELD with Clint and Sam.  She’d had a mind to spend the duration of his mission at their house, but Pepper had immediately suggested she come stay with them.  Normally she wouldn’t have taken the offer, but this was the longest Steve had been gone since James had been born, and she was feeling unsettled (probably more than she should have been, but it was hard not to worry).  So here she was, allotted an entire floor in the Tower (honestly, how much room did Pepper think she and James would need?), and she’d arrived to find their rooms fully stocked with enough baby supplies that one would think they’d be staying for weeks, maybe even months.  She knew this was Pepper’s way of trying to make them feel comfortable, but it had something of the opposite effect.

              And she wasn’t quite accustomed to continually having an audience while she was taking care of James.  Sure, the others had seen him before.  Plenty of times, in fact.  The Avengers, this mismatched group of superheroes that had somehow become friends and family, were constantly around for bottles and diapers and feedings and whatever else came their way.  They’d even been to the hospital the day James had been born.  Tony and Pepper had come almost instantly, bearing hugs, smiles, flowers, and balloons.  Thor and Jane had arrived shortly thereafter, the Asgardian booming so proudly that Natasha had feared the entire hospital would hear him.  Sam had been so excited and happy for them, practically beaming as he’d cradled the baby in his arms.  Bruce had also held James in the first hours of his life, afraid to be so close given the monster within but with Natasha and Steve’s calm encouragement, he’d done beautifully.  And Clint had been the one to drive her to the hospital while she’d been yelling at him and yelling for Steve (there’d been a lot of yelling – that she remembered with embarrassing clarity).  Even Bucky had crept in to see the new baby.

              And they’d all been at their house off and on since then, coming over for dinner (sometimes unannounced and sometimes uninvited), pitching in when either Steve or Natasha was needed by SHIELD or the Avengers (sort of), taking James for an evening (once) so Steve and Natasha could go out.  Offering their own brand of “help”.  This was like that.  Their way of aiding her, of keeping her company, of making sure she knew she wasn’t alone.  Not helping, per se.  Not dealing with the mess or getting up for the bottle during the night or changing diapers (God, no) or doing anything aside from being around her constantly and playing with the baby.  But at least they were staying close.  She wasn’t sure if Steve had asked them to do that, but even if he had (and, Lord, would he be paying for that later), they were all taking that responsibility very seriously.

              So she’d come down that morning early (James had been up at five o’clock, same as every morning, crying in his crib for her attention and ready to start his day – God bless the super soldier serum), exhausted and grouchy.  She’d been hoping to get him through breakfast by herself, only to find the team was already there.  Tony and Bucky (both of whom were notorious late risers) had already been starting breakfast, preparing eggs and pancakes (Bucky was surprisingly a good cook, which she supposed made sense since Steve was so atrocious at it.  How would they have eaten back in Brooklyn otherwise?). Stark had actually been setting the table, placing the plates and silverware, filling glasses with orange juice. Coffee had already been brewed, and they were already drinking it.  She’d groaned inwardly as she’d gotten James in his high chair and gotten herself a cup.

              Now the others were all gathered around and feasting.  Bruce had the paper, and he was partly reading, partly eating, and partly watching Tony’s antics with James.  Bucky was leaning back in his chair, grinning openly.  Despite Natasha’s weariness, she had to admit it was nice to see him finally so relaxed around the rest of the team.  Thor was on his fourth or fifth helping of pancakes, shoveling them in at a record pace.  And she was just trying to get James to finish his breakfast, which was quite a challenge with his uncles so animated and fun and distracting around him.  It didn’t help that Tony had been going on for a while now, trying to get James to say his name.  “Perhaps you should try your alter ego,” Thor proclaimed around a mouthful of pancake. “Iron Man sounds far more important and inspiring than Tony does.”

              Tony scoffed.  “Yeah, well, anything is better than the usual.  ‘Mama’.  ‘Dada’. Too boring for a little Avenger.”

              “He’s not a little Avenger,” Natasha reminded, gritting her teeth in irritation when James turned at the last second and the spoonful of oatmeal ended up all over his cheek instead of in his mouth.  From there it went right into his hair when he got his little hands into it.  She groaned.

              “He’s Captain America and Black Widow’s son,” Tony reminded, as if anyone could forget that.  As if to emphasize the point, James banged the tray of his high chair so hard that it nearly rattled the adjacent breakfast table.  “Whoa!  See?  Avenger.  Therefore, his first word needs to be Avengers-related.  And, let’s face it, Iron Man is the coolest of all of us. Hawkeye?  Lame.  The Hulk?” Bruce cocked an eyebrow. “Somewhat lame.  Thor?  Totally lame.”

              “One word, though,” Bucky threw in.  “One syllable even, so it’s easier to say.”

              “I doubt he’ll be able to produce the ‘th’ sound,” Bruce reminded, flipping a page of his newspaper.  Thor scowled a little.  “And if we’re going to continue down this road of stupidity, shouldn’t his first ‘Avengers’-related word have something to do with his parents?”

              “Lame,” Tony dismissed again.  He turned back to James.  “Say it with me, kiddo.  ‘Iron Man’.” Again he drew it out, annunciating every sound very carefully.  Bucky rolled his eyes.  “You try it, James.  ‘Iron Man’.”

              “Maaaa,” James said.  He banged his tray again, sending his sippy cup of juice flying and a glob of oatmeal splattering right onto Natasha’s shirt.

              Tony grimaced at the mess.  “Oops?” Natasha glared at him, pouring every bit of what she knew to be legendary wrath into it, before standing and searching for a paper towel to clean off her blouse.  Tony didn’t even hand her a napkin, despite the pile being right next to him.  He was already babbling on.  “Hey, he said half of ‘Iron Man’, though.  So that’s cool.”

              “You’re full of crap, Stark,” Bucky declared, shaking his head.

              Tony looked aghast.  “Hey, Steve doesn’t like that kind of talk.”  He glanced over his shoulder at Natasha, like he thought she wasn’t listening where she stood the other side of the kitchen island, rinsing and wiping her shirt.  She was. Oh, yes, she was.  “You know, things like crap.”  When Natasha said nothing, he got bolder, like it was okay for him to finally run his foul mouth now that Mr. “Language!” was absent.  “Crappity crap crap–”

              “Oh, grow up, Tony,” Bruce said, setting down his paper.  “Maybe it was just ‘ma’ for his mother.  Who is trying to feed him.”

              Thank you, Bruce.  Natasha came back to the table and took up her bowl of oatmeal again.  Determinedly, she grabbed the little spoon, gathered some of it, and went back to trying to get it into James’ mouth.  He cooperated more this time, opening wide, and she smiled at him and slid the spoon right in.  Thor downed the rest of his orange juice before setting the glass down loudly and hard enough that it was a wonder it didn’t shatter.  James laughed, raised his hands, and slammed them down again, sending more oatmeal flying.  Natasha gritted her teeth harder. “If his first word should be a member of our team,” Thor said, “should it not be his father?”

              “Cap?”  Tony winced, like he was really considering the merits of that.  “I guess Cap is easier to say.”

              “Or his mother,” Bucky added, giving Natasha a gentle smile and a wink. It was unlike him to be so relaxed around her.  He always seemed to be walking on eggshells, hesitant as though she’d cast him aside for what he’d done to Steve.  To them both, really.  Natasha wished they were past this; at this point it was Bucky’s insecurities driving him more than anything else.  He never seemed to believe her, no matter how many times she assured him that they weren’t so different, that they both had dark and difficult pasts, that they’d both been given a second chance to be someone better, that what was done was done and Steve loved him without reservation and they wanted him in their son’s life.  Bucky never seemed capable of letting it go, of rising above his anxiety over this danger he thought he was or this legacy of anguish and misery he believed he symbolized.  So having him there, giving her that little knowing smile – Black Widow is every bit the Avenger as Captain America is ­– meant a lot.  Now if only he could see that about himself.  “And while we’re on the subject, don’t you guys think we should wait for Steve for this? I don’t think he’d appreciate missing James’ first word.”

              “Guys,” Bruce said in exasperation, “you can’t control what he says or when he’s going to say it.  Like everything else with babies, it’s completely unpredictable.  He’ll say his first word when he’s ready to–”

              James banged his tray yet again, looked right at Tony, and very loudly proclaimed, “Crap!”

              The entire kitchen went silent.  They all glanced among each other, faces lax with shock, eyes wide. Then they looked to James, who giggled and reached for his juice cup.  Bruce leaned forward, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, his lips pursed questioningly.  “Did he just say–”

              “No,” both Bucky and Tony replied immediately.  Normally they didn’t get along all that well for obvious reasons (not the least of which being Bucky’s involvement with Tony’s father’s death), but at the moment they were desperately closing ranks, sharing sidelong glances and stuttering.  “No,” Tony said, whiter than a sheet.

              “No way,” Bucky added.

              Tony shook his head.  “No, he didn’t.”

              “He said ‘Cap’,” Bucky insisted, “so Thor was right.  First word was his dad.”

              “Yeah, so that was cool.  Let’s–”

              James giggled.  He babbled a second, and then it came out again, as clear as day.  Clearer. “Crap,” he said, smiling and drooling. “Crap.  Crap!”

              Tony reached over, lifted up his juice cup, and stuck it in the baby’s mouth. “We got it, kiddo.  No need to keep saying it.  ‘Cap’.  Right. Yeah, your dad’s the best.”

              Bruce shook his head, eyes narrowed in suspicion.  “I think there was an ‘R’ in there.”

              Thor smirked, enjoying his companion’s disquiet immensely.  “I, too, heard it.  He did not say ‘Cap’.  He said–”

              “Nothing.  Nothing!” Tony floundered.  “Right, James?  Nothing.” James grinned around the cup, juice dribbling out onto his bib.  Natasha had to restrain herself to stop from laughing.  She was supposed to be angry (and she was, no question about it, that her son’s first word was that, that this monumental occasion had been ruined by a bunch of potty mouths who didn’t have the common sense to censor themselves around an impressionable baby without the language police there to enforce the rules).  “It was nothing, right, Barnes?”

              Bucky was nodding vehemently.  “Absolutely, Stark.”

              “No, there was definitely an ‘R’ sound in–”

              Tony moved fast, interrupting Bruce.  “Nope.  Uh-uh. Get your hearing checked, Banner.” Bruce shook his head as Tony stood up, rushing over to Natasha’s corner of the table.  “Here.  Lemme, uh… Lemme finish this for you, Tasha. You know, give you a break.  Uncle Tony can shovel in some grub.”  He practically snatched the bowl of oatmeal out of her hands, horrified, begging her forgiveness with his stare as he waited for her to get up.

              Bucky was moving, too.  “And I’ll get you some more coffee.  Cream and sugar, right?”

              Well.  She smiled sweetly as she slowly rose from her chair and let Tony take her place.  “Two cream, two sugar,” she corrected.  Bucky nodded, rushing into the kitchen to fetch it.  Thor chuckled before going back to his plate of pancakes, and Bruce shook his head again, a smile plastered all over his face.  “And some orange juice, too, as long as you’re getting it.”

              “Sure,” Bucky said, and he skittered out of sight.

              Natasha took a seat away from the mess, and her grin turned devious.  She might as well get what she could out of this. “And if you’d be so, so kind, Tony, as to change his diaper after this and give him a nice bath, I might not tell Captain America all about his son’s first word.”

              Tony blanched, the spoon of oatmeal halfway to James’ mouth.  Then he rolled his eyes.  “Ugh.  Fine.”

              “Toneee,” James gurgled.  “Crap.”

              Tony sighed.  “You said it, kid.”