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May or may not be a tiny follow-up fic to the epic love story of Jet's Two Gay Dads.
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May or may not be a tiny follow-up fic to the epic love story of Jet's Two Gay Dads.
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By luck, or chance, or maybe fate, I was the only wait-er in the waiting room when the neurosurgeons came in, one walking, one wheeling. The latter had the blank, semi-human almost-face of cutting-edge medical droid technology. Maybe its partner had brought it along so she could teach it how to tell friends and family that a loved one had passed away. Empathy lessons in real time, with me as today's case study.
The human surgeon pulled a white mesh down from over the bottom half of her face. "The surgery was a success, and Senator Rask is in stable condition."
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seven two six five one five zero three five two zero two one four one
seven two six five one five zero three five two zero two one four one
seven two six five one five zero three five two zero two one four one
seven two six five one five zero three five two zero two one four one
seven two six five one five zero three five two zero you one four one
seven two six five one five zero three five two zero you are four one
seven two six five one five zero three five two zero you are not one
seven two six five one five zero three five two zero you are not imagining this -
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In her ninety-fifth summer, Mayrat af-Qash met the dragon.
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“All right,” said Malcolm, drawing his knees up to his chest, “who’s first?”
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At first, Paul didn't understand what was happening, so all he said when he looked up from his desk and saw Percy standing in the doorway was, "Don't forget to pick up paper towels if you're going out."
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"The what?" I asked.
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He didn't look that heavy, but Taiye had been doing this for long enough to know one of the secrets of the universe, which was that a man doubled in mass as dead weight.
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Jack Johnson, M.D., lowers the personnel file and narrows his eyes.
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JULIA: It's just a little-- Oh, shit.
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"Velly solly, honorable sirs," he said, all the while thinking, fuck your mothers.
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Ianaver Swordhand is a human fighter. Standing a majestic six and a half feet tall, he has high strength and charisma balanced by relatively low speed and dexterity. He wears a dwarf-forged breastplate, a gift from Nortiln Giantcrippler, the party's other fighter (and himself a dwarf); he wields a sword that has a plus-three in dragonslaying, which is reputed to be very handy should he ever be approached by a dragon.
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This Story Is Full of Scorpions: Seriously, Dude, Don't Read It by ladysisyphus
Fandoms: Original Work
26 Aug 2012
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According to Multiverse Theory, you, in an infinite number of universes, right now, are fucking Rick Santorum.
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Isaac didn't make mistakes. He was a very thorough and hard worker, and had been praised for that by his supervisor on so many occasions that he'd lost count, and something had to happen very many times before Isaac lost count of it.
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Les was late because, God damn them, they'd switched the room again without proper notice, and he'd arrived seven minutes ahead of the scheduled conversation to find an empty table. Finding a secretary who knew anything took him another five minutes, and when she told him they were the next wing over and three flights up, he clenched his fist to keep from shouting in disappointment and anger. Any other attorney, client, or whole man in the whole building could have gotten there in five minutes with three to spare, and probably some of the women too. Nobody else would have had a problem.
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It was the war's fault that she was there, in dungarees and with all her wavy red hair tied back in a kerchief, her hands grubby in the crevices of her knuckles and palms, holding pneumatic tools she hadn't known had existed two weeks before, wearing a gold locket with Tom's picture in it the way his letters promised he kept what few pictures he had of her wedged in the crevices of the metal that held his bunk to the wall. The war was responsible for how the nails she'd always kept so nice were ragged at the tips and cuticles, and rimmed around and beneath with heavy black-brown grease; the war was why she came home to an empty house and cooked supper for one and jumped in the middle of the night at every unexplained noise and sometimes stayed awake until dawn, hugging Tom's pillow to her chest and telling herself it was going to be all right.
She wouldn't complain; she was a good girl who never complained. She just wanted God and the rest of the universe to be clear on the point of the matter of her suffering. She had done nothing wrong; it was the war.
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Vengeancers Vassemble!
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Sid Stills' Blues (Three-Quarters in the Bag in Alphabet City) by ladysisyphus
Fandoms: Original Work
18 Dec 2011
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The headache wasn't what woke him, but it was what kept him from going back to sleep once he was up. It rolled through his head like a drum line, pounding its high school marching band arrangements of some once-golden oldie across his brain with all the embarrassing force of the time he'd been sixteen and nearly killed himself with his father's Jack. He hadn't been hung over like this in years, decades. Just one more shit side effect, he supposed, of getting old.
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There was a demon at the end of the table, sitting upright like a man, hands folded atop the polished wood, wearing a storm-grey uniform with shoulder patches and bars that no doubt indicated rank to those that could read the language of insignia, skin sickly pale, easily half a head taller than anyone else around it; and its strange yellow eyes fixed on Tenzjin the moment he walked into the room.