this is one of those days

bad day (a Jane/Kurt drabble)

It was one of those days. The days when nothing was going right. And it wasn’t the big things. Those had been fine. They’d cracked a tattoo and got the suspect in with no trouble at all.

But still, all Jane wanted was for that day to end. First, they woke up to the coffee machine at home for some reason refusing to work and the neighbor upstairs informing them there’s a burst pipe in his apartment that might start leaking into theirs. Then, the barista had gotten her order wrong. And after waiting another fifteen minutes, she finally walked out of the coffee shop only for some teen with his eyes glued to his phone to walk straight into her and spill everything on her clothes. And after that, she got her thumb caught in the lock of her locker as she tried to open it to grab a change of clothes and now had a blister that she swore was more painful than any injury she’d ever suffered.

And that had all been before 8am.

The day only got worse after that.

For thirty minutes, she was on the verge of tears when she misplaced her ring in the ladies’ room. And things just kept piling on after that. Small, insignificant things that had her sulking by the end of the day.

Kurt had suggested she go take a shower once they got home and promised her he’d take care of dinner. She took a long shower, hoping the spray of warm water and the sound of it would make everything just disappear.

And it almost did, until while she was stepping out, she kicked her little toe against the edge of the shower.

She walked out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel with silent tears streaming down her face.

And then, the tears only got worse when she saw what Kurt had done.

In the dining room, he’d set up the table with candles and what looked exactly like the table setting from their little place in Venice - the place where he’d proposed. And cooking, she could smell her favorite vegan lasagna.

He walked up to her carrying two wine glasses, and a sweet smile on his face. He handed her the glasses and gently kissed her cheek, wiping away the tears.

“You’re going to be ok,” he whispered as he pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her.

ok all jokes aside though, i just want to thank dan and phil for doing gamingmas for 2 years in a row. lots of people don’t associate the season with good things and festivity for various reasons, and it gets worse when everyone around you is anticipating the winter holidays. so it’s nice to have a video to look forward to every day, get away from your troubles watching DanAndPhilGames and know that these two dorks want to help us get through december one video at a time

miap*pkin: I think it is unrealistic for that many LBGTQ+ people to be in the same place in a story.

Thanks for the heads-up. Once you decide how many LBGTQ+ people are realistically allowed to be in the same place at the same time, please let me know. Is it more than three? Less than six? Is the situation affected by major celestial events or the presence of Ian McKellen? If you could also let me know how many straight people can be in the same place at the same time — oh, an infinite amount? Most of them should be straight? Ideally all of them, you know, like in most books?

I’ll make a note.

3

@ that couple of people that have been writing for my favorite bnha crack ship: I dunno what I did to deserve it but thank you and bless you

10

The jacket origin story that no one asked for

fun parts about being trans
  • relatives treating you like a bomb at family gatherings; like you’re just some controversy that exists to make holiday dinners more awkward for everyone else
  • feeling like each time you go to the bathroom other people think you’re making a political statement
  • not being able to defend yourself when people disrespect you because they’ll think it’s funny if you get offended
  • people acting like your existence is an inconvenience for them- like your name and pronouns are a hassle- like it’s your fault.
  • having cis people tell you what “gives you away” like you haven’t already spent every moment of your life hating your body
  • they laugh at your confidence and they laugh at your insecurities. you feel like no matter what you do, you’ll be laughed at.
  • knowing that no amount of hormones will change your height, your hips, your hands…
  • hearing “attack helicopter gender” jokes and “bun/buns/bunself pronouns” jokes and “did you just assume my gender” jokes and “traps are gay” jokes and knowing that people see you as the punchline for each and every one
  • watching people go out of their way to tell you that they’d never be attracted to someone like you, and realizing that they want you to validate their repulsions
  • knowing that people will always see you as a trans (man) first and as a man second
  • fighting the urge to scream every time you see a mirror because you know the exact location of every little flaw and you despise all of them 
  • wanting to vomit when you come across old photos
  • missing out on so many things because you were been too busy feeling trapped in your own skin
  • feeling like you were deprived of a childhood by the person you weren’t supposed to be
  • everyone telling you that you should empathize with transphobes because, really, don’t they have a point??
  • “you’ll always be [deadname] to me”
  • cis people constantly measuring you up against their standards for what a trans person //should// look like
  • hearing well-meaning cis people call you “they” because calling you “he” is too hard for them to stomach
  • you can’t get upset when complete strangers ask you invasive questions about your genitals, your transition, your sex life, ect. because the instant a cis person deems you ‘rude’ your pronouns become 'optional’.
  • wondering if forcing yourself back into the closet would be worth it because you’re tired of dealing with people’s reactions

ahah ahah 

AHAH AHAH IS RIGHT ALY AHAHAAHAHAHHAAHACRIESHAHA

tried something a little more spicy and ambitious 💦💦💦

“Hey, Barold?” 

“Yes, dear?”

“Are you dead?”

Barry’s head pokes into the dining room table, the Neverwinter Times folded into his hands. He looks down at himself, pokes his own nose. “I don’t think so? I don’t look dead.”

Lup looks him up and down, then says, “Yep, you really don’t.”

“Why?”

In response, Lup takes the package she’s been holding, grabs it by the ends, and turns it on its head. Letters - bundled into packs bound with black ropes, spare ones scratched on torn napkins, envelopes-within-envelopes written in deep dark ink - spill all over the table.

“What are these?”

“Consolation letters,” Lup says, grinning. She plucks the first one off the table, slits it with a brightly-painted red nail, and begins to read. “‘Dear Lup Taaco, my cult and I would like to express our condolences for your loss.’ Aww, that’s so sweet, they’re cult-bonding.”

Barry narrows his eyes. “Is that a necromantic cult or a religious one?”

“Dunno.” She tosses it aside, picks up another one. “‘Dear IPRE, sorry for your loss. We hope Barry feels better soon. We know most people don’t feel better after being dead but he’s done it before.’”

Barry drifts forward, looking at the stack in apprehension and slight awe. He picks one up at random, skims it, and turns white. “Why do these people think I’m dead?”

“Don’t know, but there’s definitely a consensus, babe,” Lup says. “Aww, someone sent a bunch of dead flowers! I’ll pass them onto Merle.”

“Lup, no, this is weird. This - this is weird.”

“Yeah, for sure,” she says, leafing through the next letters. The mound grows intimidatingly the more Barry looks at it. “What did you do?”

“I - I don’t know.”

“Huh. Maybe someone started a dumb rumor. You never know the kinda shit floating around Faerun these days.”

True? Okay. Okay, no, this is just another mystery. Maybe there are clues in the truly preposterous number of letters sitting on the table. Carefully, Barry picks the first one up, a letter wrapped in a satin ribbon and addressed in dark ink so black it almost looks tar. He tears it open gently and sets the envelope aside, then begins to read.

Dear Miss Lup,

I’m really really sorry your husband is dead. I want you to know that my mom and my dad love him too and that if you ever need someone to talk to because death is a really really bad thing then you can send us a letter any time. I’d give you my mom’s frequency but I don’t know it.

Love,

Carnila

Below is an address. It’s from the far east, a remote village that Barry only knows because he passed through there while hunting for Lup a couple of years into his search.

He’s not freaking out so much as very, very confused. He’s certain he’s alive. Pulse beating in his throat and everything. So why does everyone think he’s dead?

He goes through a couple more without finding any clues. Most are of the same vein - sorry for your loss, hope you’re doing better. A couple recommend Lup some therapists in Neverwinter. Two cite him as his inspiration for practicing necromancy. He’s gonna need to pay those fans a personal visit. Probably with his scythe.

“Barry?” Lup says after a little while. She’s set the letters down and is now looking at him strangely.

He opens another one. This one’s written in blue ink. All the others have been black. Really goes to show what kind of person picked Barold J. Bluejeans, lich and necromancer-turned-reaper extraordinaire, as their favorite of the seven birds. “Yes, dear?”

“When you died, you picked up your bodies, right?”

Barry freezes. He thinks back to those ten years on his own, dying repeatedly. He’d had a process - he’d freak out, flicker a little bit, and pull himself together - with admirable speed and courage, of course. Then he’d grab his jeans (can’t leave those behind), a couple hairs, a bunch of blood (which wasn’t typically too hard to collect), the coin, some supplies, and take off for Wave Echo Cave.

He’d leave the body, though. He didn’t need it.

“Barold J. Bluejeans,” she snaps, setting down her letter with a thwack on the table. “Did you leave your corpses strewn all around this continent?”

“I only needed a little blood to make a new body!” he yelps. “I was a lich, it wasn’t like I could pick up my body and carry it with me!”

“You managed to keep the same clothes for ten years!”

“I’ve had these jeans for a hundred years, they’re precious to me!”

“That’s fair,” Lup says, grinning too widely to be angry. “So you’re telling me, these people stumbled across your dead body and thought it was you?”

“Probably,” he replies sheepishly. “I mean, in my defense, I didn’t think anyone would find it. I kinda fell off a mountain range.”

“And you didn’t go collect them when you got an actual body?” she asks, gesturing toward him.

“I was a little busy creating your body.”

Lup sighs, exasperated. She throws an envelope at him. It drifts unimpressively down to the table. “This is it, Barold. This is what you get when you don’t show up at press conferences ever. People start to think you’re literally dead.”

“I hate them,” he mumbles. “Too many spotlights and reporters and questions. I get all sweaty.”

“You’re one of the seven birds, babe. People want to know your story.”

“They already do, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, but they want to hear it from you.” She glances over her shoulder at the Taako Time™ calendar hanging on their wall and grins. “Babe, there’s one tomorrow and you’re going.”

“I don’t wanna,” he whines. “Lup, they…they suck. All the reporters and the microphones and the spotlights….”

“No arguments, dear,” Lup says, standing and crossing her arms over his head to rest her cheek on his hair. “Lucretia hates them too and she goes.”

“She was the Director of the Bureau of Balance, she’s good at that shit now,” Barry grumbles. “Besides, Davenport doesn’t have to answer questions.”

“Davenport’s at sea, babe. Getting to interview him is like finding a Shiny.”

Barry groans, tugs on a strand of Lup’s hair. It’s dyed red toward the ends. “If you loved me you wouldn’t make me go.”

“I love you,” Lup affirms, “so I’m making you go.”

“Can I at least - ”

“No, you can’t wear your tuxedo T-shirt. You have to wear the sweater vest I bought you.”

Barry slumps his head toward the table. Lup slides down his neck to rest her chin on his shoulder. “Cycle forty or sixty-eight,” he asks, words muffled by the table.

“Forty,” she decides. “I won’t make you do sequins.”

“Thank the Queen.” He straightens. There’s ink on his forehead. Lup laughs, then licks a thumb and wipes it away. “Gross.”

The letters flare in the corner of his vision. Sighing, Barry tugs Lup onto his lap. She sits with a laugh, gleeful and teasing, and reaches reaching for a letter of her own. Leaning her temple against his, she slices open another letter, and begins to read.

“Wow, babe,” she says after a couple minutes. “You’re really an inspiration for some up-and-coming dark magic babies.”

“I know,” he sighs. She chuckles and ruffles his hair affectionately. “I’m gonna have to go talk to them.”

Lup’s counterproposal is cut off by her Stone of Farspeech buzzing against her collarbone. She picks up without looking and says “Heyo, Blupjeans household, whaddya want?”

Barold J. Bluejeans!” screeches her brother’s voice through the receiver. Barry jumps. “You wanna explain to me why my dining table is fuckin’ swamped with condolence letters?!

Lup and Barry turn to stare at each other in horror. Then, right on cue, Barry’s Stone rings. He checks it. It’s Magnus’s signal. They stare at it.

“Oh Gods,” Lup groans, and picks up.

Barry? Barry, are you okay?” comes Magnus’s voice. There are a couple of dogs barking in the background, as there always are when Magnus calls. “I heard you were dead, I know it sucks, like, serious ass to be without a body, I wanted to check in, and also tell you that I’ve got a ticket for Neverwinter on hold if you need me down there - ” he says.

Lup and Barry exchange glances. Barry begins to laugh.