#he knits them himself with extra soft wool so that he can give people the best hugs he can to cheer them up when they’re sad

[missyedits]

Felix x Hufflepuff

Skz as Harry Potter - Part 4/?

#man wears so many soft jumpers #he knits them himself with extra soft wool so that he can give people the best hugs he can to cheer them up when they’re sad #he loves curling up in the hufflepuff common room with his cat and a book on herbology from the shelves #so he can maintain the plants growing in his dorm room #he loves waking up to the smell of the plants in the air and the crunch of dead leaves underfoot #skz as hp #skz as yellow #missyedits #lee felix #stray kids #skz moodboard #stray kids moodboard #felix moodboard #skz felix

[sarahwroteathing]

Stockings, fluff, Steve Rogers

You were half-frozen and half overheated by the time you reached Steve’s apartment, bundled to high heaven in two shirts, two sweaters, a scarf wrapped all the way up to your nose, a puffy coat, and a hat that almost covered your eyes entirely. You knew you looked ridiculous, but the look Steve gave you when he answered the door, amused but undeniably endeared, made it hard to mind so much. While you tossed your hat onto the small table by the door, he hooked a finger in your scarf, tugging it down just enough to press a smiling kiss to your lips.

“Excuse me, pal. At least take my coat first,” you said, laughing as you followed his defensive point to the mistletoe he had tacked over the doorway. 

“You decorated!”

“I did!” he said, looking extraordinarily proud of himself as he helped you out of your coat and one of your sweaters. 

“You do realize you’ll be giving out a lot of free kisses with that mistletoe placement though, don’t you? The poor mailman is going to fall in love with you.”

Steve snorted, and you couldn’t help but break into giggles thinking of his elderly mailman with his silver braid and curly mustache. 

“I just hung it up when you said you were on your way. I can move it.” 

You smiled, finally getting your wet bootlaces untangled and wiggling free of the heavy snow boots with a relieved sigh. Finally feeling human again, you looked up at Steve, who was leaning against the wall watching you with a little smile on his face like he’d be perfectly content to stare at you all evening. 

“Hi,” you said, dragging him away from the wall for a long hug, snuggling your face against his soft, green sweater.

“Hi,” he whispered back, giving you a gentle squeeze until there was no space between you at all. 

“Wanna show me your decorations?”

“Mm… One more minute?”

“Retirement is making you soft, Rogers,” you laughed.

“Yeah. I’m okay with it.”

When Steve was satisfied, he let you go with a kiss to the forehead, taking your hand to lead you farther into the apartment. 

It was cute, what he’d done to the place. Understated but cozy. There were extra blankets on the couch, a maroon chenille and a deep green wool. A neat row of red votive candles sat on the coffee table, and a surprisingly tall Christmas tree was tucked into the corner, more garland and lights than ornaments. But it was what hung from the two little hooks on the wall that made you press your hand over your mouth to hide a smile.

“What?” Steve asked, having spent the last few moments looking at you while you looked over the living room.

“Nothing! It looks lovely. Very cozy!”

But when you walked over to sit on the couch, he followed you with slightly narrowed eyes.

“Did I leave a price tag on something?”

“Not that I can see.”

Steve grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch just as you reached for it, holding it behind his back.

“No soft new blanket for you until you tell me.”

You bit your lip, glancing again at the socks hanging from the wall by the loop of ribbon safety pinned to the top. 

“I just um… Did you hang socks on the wall?”

Steve followed your gaze.

“Yeah? But they’re the nice fluffy ones you like. They’re not… running socks or something.”

“Okay…” you said with an endeared smile. “Just asking.”

“People don’t do that anymore, huh?” he asked with a self-deprecating smile. 

“I’m sure some people do! Most probably get the stockings they sell in stores though. They’re bigger and easier to put stuff in. But I remember we used knit socks one year when I was a kid! We had just moved and didn’t know where the Christmas stuff had ended up.”

“One year when I was about… ten, maybe? Ma had a few dresses that needed to be retired. It was getting too obvious how many times she’d had to mend them, I guess. So she had me cut them up, and we used the fabric to sew stockings. They kinda looked like quilts.”

He smiled at the memory, and you squeezed his hand. 

“I love that.” 

“I can go buy some stockings tomorrow. You want to come? Pick out your own?”

“Absolutely not. Leave the socks. They’re cute,” you said, kissing his cheek. “Just like you.”

“Cute?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Mhmm. And charming. Also like you.” You gave him another kiss. 

He shook his head at you, but he was smiling now. 

“And if you want…” you started hesitantly. “I mean, I have a few old shirts and things that could be retired. If you wanted to maybe make some little quilt stockings together. But I don’t want to barge into an old family memory so -”

You didn’t get to finish your overthinking spiral because Steve took your face between his hands and silenced you with a warm and enthusiastic kiss.

“Oh!” 

“I love that idea,” he said, leaving you with one, two, three more soft little kisses.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers imagine

[tagsecretsanta]

From @MissSquidTracy

to @scattergraph

Secret Santa does not own this work, full credit to the author above!

Gordon liked to think of himself as the fashionista of the family.

Sure, his Hawaiian shirts sometimes drew attention of the unwanted kind, but the aquanaut was a firm believer in using clothing as a means of non-verbal communication. John was living proof of this theory.

Unfortunately, all of the freedom associated with self-expression went down the toilet with a resounding ‘flush’ when tradition dictated your attire, even if only for a day.

“Seriously, grandma?” Alan grouched, his bottom lip poking out to form his signature pout when he spied the Tracy matriarch descending the stairs with an armful of colourful sweaters.

“Zip it, kid,” Sally rasped, her tone offering no room for negotiation, “This year marks the tenth anniversary of the Tracy Christmas Album, and I’ll not have your attitude souring the occasion.”

Scott and Virgil shared a look of mutual disgust as Sally handed them two hideously baggy and itchy looking jumpers.

“Don’t you two start as well,” Sally warned, yanking a loose thread off the sleeve of John’s before tossing it towards the redhead, “Anyone caught sulking will be in the kitchen with me for the rest of the afternoon. I’ve just finished a fresh batch of liver and onion stuffing and could use a taste tester.”

Five jumpers were yanked over five heads in perfect unison.

A nod from Sally affirmed her satisfaction with her grandson’s new-found cooperation.

Gordon grimaced and scratched absently as the coarse fibres tickled the soft skin of his neck. Posing for the annual Christmas album photograph was a tradition that stretched right back to their days on the ranch, yet he found himself becoming more disillusioned with it the older he got. Maybe it was the discomfort of wearing an unnecessary extra layer in Tracy Island’s heat. Maybe it was the disappointment of no longer having snow to wake up to on Christmas morning. Maybe it was the absence of his parents, and for the last three years, at least one of his brothers.

“Who’s on the roster for today?” Kayo asked, striding into the room and wordlessly scooping up the one remaining jumper that was equally as ugly as the abominations adorning the torsos of her male colleagues.

In an effort to preserve the family element of the season, Scott had devised a strategy where just one member of International Rescue acted as the primary point of contact for any rescue calls that came through on Christmas Day, be them sea, earth or space based. Last year, Virgil had volunteered and been called to Nigeria to deal with a flash flood. The year before, Kayo had drawn the short straw and ended up assisting with the evacuation of a small town in Chile when a nearby volcano blew it’s top. The year before, Gordon had helped clear away the debris caused by a three-way semi collision on one of Australia’s busiest highways. The aquanaut had been instrumental in ensuring three hundred people made it home in time for Christmas, despite it coming at the expense of his own.

Fairness dictated that Virgil, Kayo and Gordon were exempt from being called upon this Christmas unless absolutely necessary. Accordingly, the honour of being ATD (available to deploy) fell to Scott, John, and Alan to hash out.

One quick round of rock, paper, scissors later, and Scott found himself wondering what brothers three and five would look like with their heads shaved.

“Alright, scoot in!” Sally ordered, returning with Alan’s tablet which she held aloft in an attempt to get a good angle, “Scott and John, you two stand at the back. Gordon and Virgil, you kneel in front of your brothers. Kayo and Alan, I need you both to sit at the front. We’re going for a tiered approach this year.”

A healthy amount of shuffling ensued as each Tracy (plus Kayo) moved into position and tried desperately to make himself/herself look decent. Scott yanked on the hem of his jumper in an attempt to cover up his belt. Virgil tried to hoist his up so that he wasn’t rocking the off the shoulder look. John scrubbed at his nose as the acrylic material began to trigger one of his many allergies. Gordon fanned his face with a hand as sweat began to bead across his forehead. Alan tugged fruitlessly on sleeves that fell woefully short of his wrists, and Kayo demanded that Virgil tell her honestly whether the shape of her jumper made her look fat.

Sally was firmly of the opinion that jumpers had to be vomit-inducingly ugly in order to be ‘festive’. The designs adorning each of the six knitted atrocities in front of her offered indisputable visual evidence of this belief.

Scott was brandishing a bright blue snowman, while Virgil sported a dark green reindeer (complete with light-up antlers). John was the unwilling wearer of an orange gingerbread man, and Gordon was proudly modelling a yellow penguin (complete with a squeezable beak that sang Jingle Bells if you so much as looked at it). Alan appeared indifferent to the red elf plastered across his chest, and Kayo was trying to make the best of her rapidly unravelling black turtledoves.

“Smile!” Sally sang, her finger poised, “On the count of three, everybody say cheese! One…two…three!”

“CHEESE!”

Click.

Flash.

The end result was less than impressive. Scott had blinked at precisely the wrong moment. The grin plastered across Virgil’s face was nothing short of horrifying. John’s eyes were almost as red as his hair. Gordon was shamelessly modelling a chunk of leftover spinach in his right canine. Alan had twisted his head to peer at Virgil at the last second and was a blond and red blur…

Unsurprisingly, Kayo was the only one who’d managed to look straight at the camera and smile like a normal person. 

After reviewing her rather substandard snap and tutting in disapproval, Sally tightened her grip on the tablet and ushered her dispersing grandsons back into formation with a ‘shoo’ motion of her free hand, “Come on you lot, form up. Nobody leaves this room until we have a decent photo. How you boys can look so good in real life but so bad on canvas is beyond me. Your dad always said-“

The sudden departure of an elf wearing Tracy brought all dialogue to an abrupt halt.

“Sorry, grandma!” John yelled as he made a beeline for the stairs, the redness of his nose akin to Rudolph, “But this wool is giving me a nosebleed. You’ll have to take the next shot without me, or just make the one we have work. It might be for the best, as you know how Alan gets unforgivable gas whenever he’s forced to pose.”

The youngest Tracy let loose a honk of outrage, but was dutifully ignored as, one by one, his other brothers began to filter out of the lounge. Excuses of varying degrees of believability bounced off the walls as three more bodies scampered to freedom.

It took all of ten seconds for most of the lounge’s inhabitants to disperse, leaving Kayo and Alan alone with a somewhat disappointed looking Grandma Tracy.

“Oh well,” the Tracy matriarch sighed, reaching to pick up the blue snowman that had been ejected over the first floor bannister, “There’s always next year.”

Kayo smiled thinly and made a mental note to spend next Christmas with her father.

-x-

As well as being the family fashionista, Gordon was also a self-appointed expert in gift giving.

His affinity for making people smile helped tremendously, since it made the process of choosing something his recipient would find meaningful much easier. He wasn’t adverse to buying his brothers practical gifts that they could use in their everyday lives (the tea cosy he’d bought for John the Christmas of fifty four was still in active service), but he knew they had all of the utilitarian gadgets they could ever want or need, courtesy of Brains and their nine figure bank account.

Cue unicorn poo bath bombs, flamingo slippers, and personalised face cushions.

This year however, he’d outdone himself.

Unbeknownst to anyone outside of the family, Gordon was quite the expert on upcycling. He had a knack for seeing potential in things that other people had written off as trash (like Scott, for instance), and took great delight in working with his hands. 

It had taken several days, but he’d finally managed to relocate one of their dad’s old hoverbikes from the ranch to Tracy Island. It had taken up most of the room inside Thunderbird Four’s dry tube station, however he’d managed to offload it in the hanger and perform the desired modifcations in the (relative) privacy of Four’s module. 

Alan had stopped believing in Santa when he was seven. With Lucy dead and Jeff away for three quarters of the year, Scott had taken it upon himself to safeguard whatever remained of his youngest brother’s innocence. Every year on Christmas Eve, without fail, the eldest Tracy donned a red suit and beard and made a big (and often loud) show of depositing presents under the tree. Unfortunately, a rather heated debate one year over Santa’s handwriting (which looked suspiciously similar to Virgil’s), had culminated in the death of Alan’s wide-eyed belief.

Gordon had found the whole debacle rather heart-breaking. Sure, he’d been a year younger than Alan when he himself had stopped believing, but the process had been much gentler. He’d made the innocent mistake of asking John one year to help him with some basic calculations regarding the speed and size of Santa’s sleigh, however had ended up on the receiving end of a lecture from his redheaded brother on reindeer anatomy and wind resistance.

His belief had died peacefully in its sleep nine hours later. 

Still, having a belief squished verbally was a lot less harsh than having it squished visually. Poor Alan.

Gordon smiled to himself as he inspected his handiwork. He’d outfitted the storage compartment on the back of the red hoverbike he’d abducted to look like the back end of a sleigh. He’d toyed with the idea of enlisting the help of a couple of real life reindeer (or ponies) to act as draught animals, but had decided against it after reviewing the vaccination and transport requirements. 

Despite managing to complete the modifications inside Four’s module, Gordon had been forced to relocate his creation elsewhere when he and Virgil had been called away on an impromptu rescue involving a couple of unqualified divers. With his back against the wall, the aquanaut had picked the first alternative hiding place that had come into his head.

The roof.

As ridiculous as it sounded, the glass roof of Tracy Island’s lounge was anchored into numerous rocky outcroppings that, when utilised effectively, provided excellent cover. So long as nobody glanced up, of course.

A sigh of pride bubbled up Gordon’s diaphragm. He might not be able to reverse the damage caused by Virgil’s handwriting gaffe, but he could at least give his youngest brother a laugh and deliver his gifts in style instead.

So preoccupied was the aquanaut with buffing out an imaginary mark from the hoverbike’s bumper, that he failed to notice the Island’s automated weather system bark out the alarm for a storm warning.

Thankfully, John didn’t.

-x-

Scott had checked high and low.

And then high again, just to be sure.

The eldest Tracy was stumped. Gordon had somehow managed to vanish clean off the face of the earth.

Not that such a discovery would usually cause the eldest Tracy any concern (the aquanaut had a knack for evading capture), but Christmas lunch was due to be served any minute and they were one body short at the kitchen table.

“Gordon?” Scott called, shoving his head into the bathroom for what felt like the billionth time that hour. He’d tried calling the aquanaut’s phone, but had been sent to voicemail both times. His biometric tracker showed that he was still on the island, however couldn’t generate an exact location for him. EOS’s heat signature scans weren’t much better, courtesy of the wonky connection brought about by the oncoming storm. 

“I’m stumped,” Scott huffed, admitting defeat with a bemused shrug, “He’s gone. I’ve checked the hanger, the changing rooms, his room, the bathroom, and the gym. Nothing. It’s like he’s poofed into thin air.”

Virgil opened his mouth to reply, however was cut off by the arrival of John, whose expression was an expert blend of concern and flippancy. 

“I’ll give you three guesses as to his location,” the redhead began, “If you win, I’ll do your laundry for a week. If you lose, you have to eat my portion of grandma’s stuffing.”

Scott quickly did the math. It was a risk he was willing to take.

“Is he stuck inside his launch chute?”

“No.”

“Is he swimming in the lagoon?”

“No.”

“Is he hijacking Thunderbird One again?”

“No.”

….

“Well?” the eldest brother demanded, hands on hips. He had no interest in John drawing out his victory for any longer than necessary.

The redhead allowed a small smile to grace his face before gesturing with an index finger towards the ceiling.

Scott blinked as his blue gaze clapped onto a jean-clad butt scrabbling around atop the reinforced glass, oblivious to the small audience he’d amassed as he tried to evade the rapidly intensifying rain.

“The roof?” Scott honked, one hand fisting itself through his hair, “I take my eyes off him for two minutes, and he ends up on the roof?”

“Whoa, whoa!” a new voice piped up, it’s baritone depth failing to bring Scott any relief, “He’s where?!”

The eldest Tracy said nothing, opting instead to stab a finger upwards. Ever the cooperative one, Virgil cast his eyes in the desired direction, a small frown infecting his face as he did so.

“We should probably get him down,” the engineer announced, cringing when Gordon slipped on the now wet glass and starfished on his back, “He’s still wearing his Christmas jumper, and the blasted thing will short-circuit if it gets damp.”

A loud ‘thwack’ echoed around the lounge as Scott’s palm got itself well acquainted with his face.

-x-

John had never been one for big displays of emotion.

A polite smile or, in extreme cases, a shoulder pat were usually the preferred methods his brothers employed whenever they wanted to convey feelings of endearment towards him. 

Christmas was an exception, however, and it was without a shred of his usual awkwardness that the redhead enveloped his fish brother in a tight hug, the scent of singed fabric tickling his nostrils.

Virgil’s extraction of their younger brother hadn’t quite been quick enough, and it was with a suitable amount of humility that Gordon shuffled back into the safety and dryness of the lounge, a thin trail of smoke rising from the beak of his thoroughly soaked penguin jumper.

“How bad was it?” John queried, biting his cheek to keep his humour in check as he took in the static strands of hair atop Gordon’s head. The aquanaut looked as if he’d just stuck his finger inside a plug socket which, on reflection, wasn’t as much of an inaccurate analogy as the redhead had originally thought.

Gordon ignored his space brother in favour of slowly shuffling towards the staircase, an involuntary yelp escaping when his traitorous jumper suddenly gave off a stray spark.

Virgil snorted and flicked a hand through his hair to rid it of the rainwater it had collected, “Nothing to worry about on the health side of things, but man John, you should have seen it. He nearly took off like a firework.”

The redhead quirked an unimpressed brow, “Serves him right for skipping over the electrical safety briefings I sent down last week. You’d think he’d have a better understanding of how water and electricity don’t mix, what with his ‘Bird being the only one kitted out for aquatic reconnaissance.” 

  A shrug was offered by Virgil in lieu of a response, “I’m sure all will be revealed once he’s properly earthed himself. Meanwhile, I’d better get that hoverbike down before it crashes through the roof and lands on someone’s head. Can you send Scott up to help? I could use a couple of his grapples.”

John threw his brother a mock salute before breezing off towards the kitchen, only to stop when he caught sight of a familiar blue outline on one of the sofas.

“Be there in a minute!” Scott mumbled, his cheeks bulging like an oversized hamster as he chomped his way through an indulgent looking doughnut.

John felt his gaze darken as he took stock of the stray sprinkles in the corner of his eldest brother’s mouth, “Where did you get those?”

Scott held a finger up as he swallowed, thumping his chest when a stubborn piece of dough got lodged, “Mainland, to make up for grandma’s sprout and salmon tart. Help yourself, there’s plenty left. I’ve only had three.”

The lack of control Scott had when confronted with unhealthy snacks never failed to amaze his brothers.

“You want to take it easy,” Virgil warned, motioning with one hand to his waistline, “Too many of those could send you to an early grave.”

Scott flicked his hand dismissively and reached for a fourth doughnut.

“Don’t care. I won’t be the one carrying the coffin.”

- FIN -

#thunderbirds are go #Gordon Tracy #alan tracy #Scott Tracy #Virgil Tracy #John Tracy #tag team secret santa #secret santa 2020 #MissSquidTracy

[honeymoonwriting]

Skyrim Companions making love with the Dragonborn for the first time. ❣

NSFW

• Lydia

- She isn’t clueless about sex and has had opportunities in the past to engage, but she always politely declined. In truth, it’s the last thing she could care about since she's so busy protecting the Thane and training, but there were times when traveling with the Dragonborn that she thought they might become something more. She admires and respects them greatly and wouldn’t hesitate to throw herself into harm's way. It’s silly to think of them in an affectionate way but Lydia can’t help the way her heart swells when they’re near or how much her face hurts when she’s smiling.

- She is very insecure when initiating intercourse the first time with them. Undressing the layers of clothing and pieces of iron armor makes her feel nervous, but the Dragonborn certainly has a way of words and comforts her during every moment.  Lydia’s body is scattered with scars, both faint and dark and clusters of freckles and beauty marks. She never really paid much attention to the appearance of her body before, but completely bare in front of someone she loves, makes her feel tiny. The Dragonborn senses the discomfort and drapes a wool blanket over her shoulders. 

- Lydia eventually relaxes more during the session. The Dragonborn’s honeyed words and soft kisses to her warm skin increase her confidence and she finds herself melting into the mattress. 

- Their fingers trail and tease her wet entrance and Lydia shudders with excitement at the sensation. Then, the Dragonborn presses their lips to Lydia’s in an intoxicating embrace as they enter her. Lydia moans into their mouth and her tongue dances wildly against theirs as they increase friction into her warm walls. 

- She finishes first with an intense and sharp orgasm that leaves her face flushed and her body glistening with sweat. They soon finish after her and press their hot body into hers.

- “I love you, Lydia."

- A sentence that dared Lydia’s eyes to swell with tears. She'd never thought in their journey together that she was going to fall deeply and madly in love with someone so important. Lydia was just the housecarl and bodyguard to the Thane, but she feels so much more than that now. 

• Vilkas

- He can't lie about how eager he is to be with them, and it shows, like when he gets so close to them during training that his hot breath tickles the back of their neck or when he touches knees with them in the dining hall. He wants them, and it boosts his confidence knowing that they want him too.

- Only, the Dragonborn can fluster him during such a sensual moment. Vilkas was laying on top of the mattress with the Dragonborn straddling his naked body. They rode his length in gentle strokes, almost like they're savoring the feeling of his fullness inside of them. Meanwhile, Vilka's fingers were cutting deep into their hips, pleading for them to add more momentum but they didn't give any reaction and continued their achingly slow pace.

"W-hy must you tease me?" Vilkas spoke through gritted teeth.

"Do something about it then."

- With that invitation, Vilkas flips them onto their back and begins to mercilessly pound into them.

- The sound of wet, slapping flesh and animalistic growls are the only sounds in the room, and the occasional yelling from other Companions for them to shut up.

- Vilkas can feel himself edging near euphoria, so his hips thrust more erratically.

- He pulls out just in time for his cum to spill on the inside of their thigh. He plops himself on top of their sweaty body and he can feel their fingers comb through his black locks.

- Vilkas had always been fond of them, when he first sparred with them and when they made Kodlak's soul at peace and now even more. He wouldn't trade this moment with anyone else.

• Jenessa

- She is an artist with her craft and she's grateful that you recognize that, for so many people don't appreciate the way her twin blades slice through delicate flesh or the way her arrows shatter the skull of a poor unexpecting victim. She's good at killing, and the Dragonborn is about to find out something else she's good at..

- The Dragonborn laid on their back on top of the soft mattress and Jenassa was placed right between their thighs just admiring their face and the way their eyebrows slightly knit together or the way they bite their lip in anticipation.

- She grazes her lips near the most sensitive bits, loving the way they shudder against her mouth but she never gives them what they want. A constant string of pleasure.

- The Dragonborn grows restless with the idle pace and Jenassa notices this and begins to lap her tongue on their sex. Slowly than fast, and back again. Jenassa moans into them knowing that the vibration will cause extra sensations, and with this added pleasure, the Dragonborn bucks their hip into her face causing Jenassa to chuckle.

- The stamina she has for them is endless. She relentlessly continues even after they already had an orgasm, or two.

- Jenassa removes her face from between their thighs and moves them on their side, so they can spoon each other with Jenassa being the big one.

"I am very glad that I paid that 500 gold." The Dragonborn breathlessly says.

"As am I, my love."

Without warning, Jenassa begins to pump/finger them harshly while nipping at their neck.

- They finish, for good, this time and Jenassa kisses them tenderly. Life used to be so simple for her when she was a mercenary. Blood and gold. The two ingredients of her life, but being with the Dragonborn now, and allowing herself to be loved, proved to her that those weren't the only things in life that mattered.

#skyrim #lemon #ns/fw #jenassa #vilkas #Lydia #reactions #imagines #skyrim imagines #skyrim reactions #hcs #fanfic

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Imagine Willie (not the jackass we see in the books) calling Jamie “Da” and Claire overhearing it

Homecoming - Part Thirteen

Book 9 speculation; William arrives at the Ridge with his cousin Dottie the same day that the MacKenzie family has made their unexpected return.

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve

**********************************************

Claire finished the row and spread the stitches on the needle to gauge her progress. They were looser than they should be and something didn’t look right…

She cursed quietly to herself and threw the knitting to the floor. She had dropped a stitch and it had run. Her options were to try and fix it by going up the column of dropped stitches or to pull it all out and start fresh. Given that it had only reached about three inches in length, it would probably be easier to start the scarf over from scratch. With a frustrated sigh, she leaned down from her chair to retrieve the tangled mess of wool. 

The door creaked open and Claire peered around to see Jamie entering their bedroom as quietly as he could. 

“I thought ye’d be asleep by now, Sassenach,” he whispered, bending to kiss the top of her head and eaming the knitting in her lap. “What have ye done to it?” he asked, sympathy and amusement evident in his tone and smile. 

“I think you can see what I did without my telling you,” she snipped at him. Taking the balled yarn in one hand, she began wrapping the loose end around and around, watching the sloppy stitches of her work slip out of each other’s grasp. Reversing the process was far faster than creating it in the first place. She would set it aside for now and begin afresh in the morning when her mind — and fingers — were rested and flexible. 

“I still cannae believe Bree told him we exchange gifts at Christmas,” Jamie murmured, shaking his head and crouching by the hearth to put another log on the fire. 

“The children have come to expect it having been in the 20th century for so long,” Claire reminded him. “Mandy never spent a Christmas here on the Ridge so she truly doesn’t know anything else.”

“Aye, but ye could make William somethin’ else. There’s plenty ye could concoct in yer surgery that he’d appreciate. He’ll no be used to such a hard winter as he’ll see here on the Ridge. A balm or something for when his hands and nose are chapped wi’ cold.”

“And what are you making him?” Claire turned the tables as a challenge. “Don’t think I don’t see you whittling away at a new chess set. There’s only the two of you and Ian that play and you already have a perfectly fine set. I’m making him a scarf and I’m knitting it both because I need the practice and because he’ll know and appreciate the effort that went into it.”

“Do ye no worry that he’ll be put in an awkward spot wi’ our gifts to him?” Claire could hear the doubt in Jamie’s voice. “I ken Bree gave him warning but I cannae think he’ll have luck wi’ making ready gifts for the rest of us. I… I wouldna want him to feel he had to do something in turn.”

“I think he knows by now that we don’t keep score with such things,” Claire asserted. “And we don’t have to put him on the spot when the children are given their gifts. We’ll find a time that’s right.”

Looking resigned more than confident, Jamie nodded and pushed himself to his feet. He bent and twisted a moment before the fire, the popping of his joints mingling with the crackling of the burning logs. 

“Come to bed, Sassenach?” he requested, reaching a hand out to help Claire from her seat. 

She took it, yawning as she stood. Jamie tucked her against his chest for a moment, letting his chin rest atop her head. She felt the tension leaving him — and leaving her as well. The worries and uncertainties of the day dissolved in the night as they went to bed and found reassurance and comfort in each other. 

**********************************************

Christmas morning arrived and, as Claire had warned Jamie, Mandy and Jem were in an excited frenzy with Germain catching some of the excitement. It was just the Mackenzies and William at the big house with Claire, Jamie, and Germain. Fanny had gone to stay with the Murrays to serve as an extra set of hands about the kitchen or with the babies. For most of the folks on the Ridge, Christmas was treated as just another day.

Brianna and Roger insisted the children help with breakfast and the chores before there would be even a discussion of gifts. William watched just behind where Claire stood as the three small bodies dashed about without complaint but with Roger reminding them that if they went too quickly and mucked things up, they’d find themselves doing everything twice. 

“I don’t know as I’ve ever seen them in such a state,” William remarked quietly to Claire as he helped her tidy the kitchen. “Is Christmas really treated so differently in Scotland?”

“Not exactly. It’s more to do with how Bree was raised. She enjoyed celebrating the day that way and it’s something she’s carried on with her children,” Claire explained carefully. 

“Family tradition, then. Though I understand from Roger that marking the new year is a wider celebration and that more of the people here on the Ridge participate…?”

“Hogmanay,” Claire smiled wider. “Yes, that’s more what you’d expect the Scots hereabouts to celebrate. We’ll be having a larger party here for that. Christmas is a smaller, practice run, I suppose,” she chuckled. 

“But there are no gifts for… Hogmanay?” he hesitated, pronouncing it carefully.

“Nope, no gifts. Just a lot of wonderful company, music, and dancing. Food, of course, and whisky.” 

The growing noise outside indicated the children were returning from their chores and would not be deterred much longer, and not without voicing their discontent. 

Claire ushered William from the kitchen and into the main room where Roger, Brianna and Jamie had fetched the gifts from hidden places and stood guard waiting for good behavior and everyone’s presence before beginning to distribute them. 

William quietly excused himself and hurried up the stairs for a moment, leaving Claire, Jamie, Brianna, and Roger exchanging silent questions back and forth about whether or not they should wait for him to begin. Before the wordless conversation was completed, William’s footsteps could be heard descending the stairs once more. 

Mandy scurried to his side before he managed to find himself a seat.

“I want yers first, Uncle William,” she declared loudly. “Please?”

William looked to Brianna and Roger who nodded. He brought his sackcloth bag from behind his back and retrieved a child-sized cloak that had been lined with fur. 

Mandy’s eyes went wide and her mouth formed an O. She bounced with excitement as she reached out to let William help her try it on. 

“It’s sae warm,” she purred. “No wonder we’ve had sae much rabbit stew!”

The adults all laughed. 

“Your mother helped with the sewing,” William explained with a grateful nod to Brianna. He reached in to his bag again and pulled out matching knives for Jem and Germain. They were only short blades made by the local blacksmith, and would primarily serve for chores as well as hunting and trapping. But the boys were eager to head outside to practice throwing them at the side of the barn.

“Uncle Ian kens how to throw knives,” Jem exclaimed. “He’ll teach us how!”

“Ye’re all stayin’ put till we’re through here and ye’re no goin’ to be disturbin’ Uncle Ian wi’ demands he teach ye anything,” Roger warned. “Ye’ll ask politely and ye’ll offer him help so he’s no losin’ more time than he can afford, aye?”

Jem and Germain promised then looked to see what other gifts were waiting for them (which turned out to mostly be practical and necessary items like new and warmer clothes, securing the knives’ place as their favorite gift of the day). Mandy bounced around the room in her new cloak, brushing the soft rabbit’s fur against her cheek. 

William ducked his head to hide the prideful smile the sight brought to him. 

Claire slipped along the outer edge of the room till she came up beside him. 

“You’re a hit,” she told him quietly, her eyes still on her grandchildren. 

“I’m glad there was something I could give. It’s a nice tradition to mark the day and the children certainly enjoy it,” William remarked. 

“I’ve a little something for you as well,” Claire said, offering him the neatly folded scarf. It wasn’t as precise as she would have liked, but it was long and above all, warm. “Jamie can tell you, I’m not the best knitter, but if you’re going to be here through the winter, you’ll need some warmer things.”

“Thank you, Mother Claire.” William grinned and then leaned over to kiss her cheek.

“Jamie has something he’s been working on for you as well,” she told him, “but I think he’ll give it to you later, when the children have gone to bed.”

William’s cheeks darkened. “I don’t have anything to actually give either of you,” William explained, self-conscious. 

“You don’t have to—”

“No, there is something I want to do for you… that is… From what Brianna and Roger have told me about Hogmanay, there’s a… a role or service I might perform—what did she call it… Frost foot?”

“First foot,” Claire said. “And I think she’s right. You would be a good fit for it. I know it would mean a lot to Jamie.” She spotted him nestled in the doorway to the kitchen and nudged William gently in that direction. “He can explain it better than I can and the children are distracted.” 

“Thank you, Mother Claire.” William slipped away from her side and into the kitchen, Jamie following a moment later. 

Claire began inching her way closer to the doorway as soon as they disappeared, stopping as soon as she was close enough to hear what they were saying. 

“Claire can go wi’ ye if ye’re certain ye dinna mind,” Jamie said as he finished explaining the responsibilities to William. 

“I don’t. Since I’m to stay her through the winter, it will be a good way to introduce myself to more of the local residents,” William mused. “And I wanted to thank you… for making me feel welcome here and… allowing me to stay–”

“Ye’ll always have a place here,” Jamie interrupted. “Whether ye want it or no, it’s here for ye.”

“Thank you… Da.”

Claire pressed her lips into a tight line to keep the tears that sprang to her eyes from sliding free. It was a good thing she couldn’t see Jamie or William just then because it would have undone her completely. 

She waited until she heard Jamie’s steps leave the kitchen before she made her way around to the front of the house and slipped out the door. 

She found Jamie standing in the side yard, staring out across the clearing. 

It was cloudy but didn’t smell like there would be more snow just yet. The little bit of light was magnified as it reflected off the snow. Paths had been cut through the otherwise pristine scene. Dirty trails to and from the barn and other outbuildings, the shortest distance possible to keep the time in the frigid air to a minimum. 

Claire hurried to Jamie’s side and nestled against him, pulling her shawl tighter and wishing she’d grabbed a cloak on her way out. Jamie opened his coat to her and drew her close, sniffing to control his tears and runny nose so he wouldn’t drip on her.

“I heard,” she whispered, reaching up to wipe away the wetness before it could freeze in place. 

Jamie just nodded and rested his forehead against her crown, sharing his happiness with her.

#only an epilogue left to this one #Anonymous #;mod lenny #homecoming au #featuring: william #featuring: brianna #featuring: roger #featuring: mandy #featuring: jem #book 9

[shon-ha-lock]

Sweater Weather (harry/niall)

It’s that time of year! I had a blast participating in this year’s 1D Secret Santa. @silveredsound i hope you like my gift! 

It was a super cheap flight, in Niall's defense. A real deal. So what if the connection was in a tiny regional airport? In Wisconsin. Three days before Christmas. In the middle of a week of record low temperatures and snowstorms. 

Okay. In retrospect, maybe he should have expected something to go wrong. 

Niall's plane is the last to touch down in Chippewa Valley before it starts rerouting its incoming flights to airports not currently being blasted by the polar vortex. This is also, of course, when it grounds its outgoing flights “indefinitely”, leaving him and around one hundred other travelers stranded.

The whole airport has just two gates, with one shared, cramped waiting area. A line has snaked itself around that entire space, leading up to the customer service desk, where everyone is waiting for a chance to yell at a single beleaguered United Airlines employee about their flights being cancelled. 

Niall contemplates joining the line, but he’s more the type to wait until he can vent his anger by giving the lowest scores possible on a ‘how did we do?’ survey. And besides, just standing near the desk for a few minutes gives him all the information he needs to know, on repeat. 

“We sincerely apologize for the inconvenience this is causing our loyal customers,” is the current opener every time someone storms up to the little old lady working the desk. Her reedy voice is placating and increasingly nervous as she assures everyone that United is “currently working with Chippewa to arrange accommodations for anyone whose flight has been delayed by the storm.” 

This is comforting until Niall realizes that this means they don’t currently have hotel rooms set up for travelers with missed connections the way larger airports do. No shuttles, no vouchers, not a goddamn thing. 

They’re only twenty minutes outside of the little city of Eau Claire, Wisconsin, which probably has at least a few hotels with vacancies, but the odds of finding an Uber driver to brave the storm and get him there are slim to none. 

Niall’s not really the type to just stand around in a crisis and twiddle his thumbs, but if he’s being honest with himself, he hasn’t a goddamn clue what to do right now. He flies relatively frequently but he’s never actually had to deal with a flight being cancelled because of the weather, and he’s struck by a childish urge to call home and ask his mother for advice about what to do. 

At the moment, it’s looking like he might actually need to call her anyway, because she’s expecting to pick him up from Albany International in five hours, and that’s definitely not happening now. God, he hopes he’ll make it back to New York at some point within the next three days. He’s never spent a Christmas away from home in his twenty six years of life, and he doesn’t want to start now. 

He’s well on his way to an anxiety spiral when he notices that there’s one other passenger besides him not angrily crowding around the service desk. He looks to be around Niall’s age, and he’s pawing through a backpack with a resigned expression on his face. After a minute, Niall figures that he must be searching for warmer clothes to put on; the man’s short sleeved shirt is well-equipped to show off all the strange tattoos on his arms, but isn’t exactly appropriate for December in Wisconsin. 

Niall, by contrast, is dressed and packed for two weeks of winter in upstate New York. He looks down at his own backpack, aware that it’s stuffed with four different Aran sweaters, and makes a decision. It’s the season for doing good deeds, after all. Making a stranger a little less miserable surely counts. 

“Hey there,” Niall says as he walks over to the man, who’s given up looking through his luggage and is now sitting forlornly on one of the waiting area’s cheap plastic benches. He looks up, and Niall’s breath -- well, it honest to God catches in his throat. This guy must be some kind of model, because he’s got just about the most gorgeous face Niall’s ever seen. Green eyes, red lips, the works. 

“Hi?” the guy ventures after a few seconds of Niall staring down at him like a lunatic. 

Niall can feel himself go red as he hurriedly unzips his backpack, feeling around until he grabs a fistful of wool.

“Here,” he says, pulling out a sweater at random and basically throwing it at the guy’s head. 

“You looked cold, so.” He shrugs. He watches this ridiculously good-looking stranger hold out the sweater to examine it, smiling widely for a second before his expression shifts to concern. 

“Oh, this is hand-knit, isn’t it? I couldn’t possibly take this,” he says, trying to hand it back to Niall, who takes a step backwards and shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Really, I insist,” he says. “Seriously, you’d be doing me a favor. My grandma still thinks we live in Ireland and makes one for me every year; I’m drowning in the things.” This seems to make the guy only more determined to hand it back to him, but Niall perseveres. 

“I’d feel guilty just getting rid of them, but if I tell her I passed one on to a chilly traveler I’ll be grandson of the year, so.” 

Niall narrowly avoids pumping a fist in the air in victory when this makes the guy giggle, bite his lip, and finally, reluctantly pull the sweater on over his t-shirt. It’s a sea green that matches his eyes perfectly, which is great, because what Niall really needed was to be even more distracted by a random person’s good looks. 

“I can’t thank you enough,” he says once it’s on, his chin-length hair now attractively rumpled. “I was worried I was going to freeze solid the second I went outside.”

He holds out a hand; Niall takes it. Soft palms, manicured and painted fingernails -- this guy might really be a fashion model. 

“I’m Harry,” he says. He smiles wide enough when he says it that his cheeks dimple. Niall’s heart is in some serious trouble now. 

“I’m Niall,” he replies, letting go of Harry’s hand a second later than is probably appropriate. 

He’s not sure how, but he wants to keep the conversation going somehow, just so he has an excuse to look at Harry’s face for a little longer. Before he can come up with something, an ancient intercom crackles to life and makes them both look around.

“Attention, travelers. In two hours, the storm is expected to dissipate enough to start offering shuttles into Eau Claire. Chippewa will be providing vouchers for the following lodgings.” 

The announcer rattles off a list of local hotels before repeating the entire message over again. This announcement seems to renew the stranded travelers’ agitation, and they start swarming the service desks with complaints about the wait. Harry and Niall both stay where they are, clearly on the same page about not bullying the elderly. Harry doesn’t seem any happier than the people yelling, though.

“I didn’t manage to sleep on the plane because I was so nervous about the weather and the turbulence,” he confesses to Niall. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to pass out before that shuttle actually gets here.” 

“Where are you coming from?” Niall asks. They’re making small talk! Success! 

“Well, I started out in Italy thirteen hours ago,” Harry says ruefully. “Then I had a connecting flight in Boston, and from there, I should have gone all the way out to LA, which is where I’m spending Christmas. But I had to book last minute, and the only flights left had an extra connection. So I took a chance on this one, and of course now I’m stuck here.” He pouts as he says it, and it should make him look immature but instead he just looks like he’s posing artfully for Covergirl or something. 

“So we’re heading in opposite directions,” Niall says. “I’m coming from LA, and I’m on my way to New York.” 

Harry’s eyes light up at this.

“Oh my god, do you live in NYC? I love spending time there, it’s one of my favorite cities in the world.”

Niall sighs and shakes his head in mock-disappointment. 

“Everyone loves NYC so much but they always forget about the actual capital of New York.”

When Harry just stares at him blankly, Niall relents and laughs out, “I’m from Albany. My whole family immigrated there from Ireland when I was six months old." 

Niall feels a bit awkward at first, talking about his life with someone he just met, but he quickly learns that Harry is the type of old soul who loves to make conversation with strangers. And by the time the shuttles start actually arriving he can't say that the two of them are strangers anymore. 

He learns that Harry's lived in LA his whole life, and so traveling anywhere that's cold knocks him off his feet. Niall's only lived in California since he started attending UCLA (at first as an undergrad and now for post-graduate work) but it turns out he and Harry have several mutual acquaintances, which delights Harry to no end, and he seems more interested in Niall's classes last semester than Niall was, asking questions about what he learned and whether the professors were cool or boring. 

He's in the middle of a rant about early morning lectures when the intercom starts announcing that they'll be able to start shuttling people into the city soon. Which of course means that the two of them are going to have to go their separate ways. 

Harry starts fussing with his luggage again, seeming almost shy now, and thanks Niall again for the sweater.

Niall scrambles for something else to say to forestall a goodbye. 

“How did you know it was hand-knit?” is the only question he comes up with, but it's effective.  

"Oh!" Harry exclaims, going all smiley again. 

"The pattern was really detailed, and I could see how tight the stitches were. Didn't seem likely that a machine made it," he says. 

"Wow, you've got a real eye. Do you work in fashion or something?" Niall asks, wondering if his initial impression was right after all. 

"Or something," Harry says, seeming embarrassed for some reason. "I um, do modelling work sometimes. Shoots for Gucci, mainly, but other brands too. It's why I was in Italy, actually." 

Holy shit. There’s an actual Gucci model wearing one of his grandma’s sweaters right now. What a thought. His mom is going to flip when he finally gets to New York and tells her all about this. 

"That's really cool," Niall tells him, scrambling to think of a segue into asking for his number that doesn't come off like he's just trying to hook up with a model.

As luck would have it, Harry provides one for him - by asking for his grandmother’s phone number.

“Or even just her mailing address,” Harry rushes on when Niall bursts out laughing. 

“I’d like to personally thank her for making such a pretty sweater that’s doing such a good job of keeping me warm.”

“Well, I’m going to be seeing her for Christmas in a few days, if the weather calms down. You could call me and I could just hand my phone over to her.” 

It’s not particularly subtle, but luckily Harry doesn’t call him out on it. In fact, his face goes a bit sly, and he looks Niall up and down for a moment.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Harry says, and then whips out an honest-to-god gel pen from nowhere to physically write his phone number on Niall’s hand. 

“Text me when you get a chance, and we’ll have each other’s numbers that way,” he says cheerily. 

A few minutes later, they go their separate ways - Niall with Harry’s phone number written in bright green ink on the back of his hand, and Harry with a signature Grandma Horan sweater to keep him warm. 

As he passes the service area, Niall cheerfully plucks a survey card from the desk. Seems like he’s going to give United a glowing review after all. 

#hs #narry #my fic #1dficsecretsanta #harry styles #niall horan #fic

[sariastrategos]

Shout out to @janzoo and my wife for reading all my shit for me.

This all started in a conversation with my wife @mimicryoctopus where we were talking about how sweet and soft Geralt is and how AWFUL most people are to him. It blew up into a 1400+ word headcannon. I’d been playing the game and every random npc was saying the MEANEST things to him unwarranted, like honestly my feelings were hurt FOR him.

I just needed someone to show Geralt a SMIDGEON of kindness.

Like some mother figure just sees him eating a weak broth in the tavern because it’s all he can afford, not even any meat in it, and drags him home, gives him a proper stew. While he’s eating she digs out some of her husband/son’s things to give him.

And he doesn’t know what to do with the kindness, can barely remember what he’s supposed to do with the stew and he's so thrown. But eventually he lets himself be led to a chair by the fire, his bowl refilled twice and a mug of ale sat on a little table next to him. He thanks her, a little awkwardly.

When she comes out of the curtained off area that must be a bedroom and hands him some clothes he’s confused. She takes his empty bowl and puts them in his hands. They’re not new but they don’t have a use around here anymore and they’re still in good condition. He holds the rough fabric and asks how much she wants for them, because she must want something. His entire life, nothing is ever given to him, not even the amount of coin agreed upon for a job. She tells him letting her take care of him is all she needs, they’re a gift.

And he tries to argue but she firmly refuses to take anything from him, not even the few coins he has. She just refills his stew and ale and happily drapes a blanket on him, even though he’s right by the fire and puts out heat like a furnace.

She won’t take anything but Geralt isn’t blind and he sees the state of the little cottage. There’s holes in the roof that need fixing, the door is off kilter from its hinges. So he agrees to accept the gifts so long as he can do a few things in return.

She doesn’t want to accept the offer but she can’t fix these things herself and he’s just as stubborn in returning the kindness as she is. So she lets him climb on the roof to fix the tiles, straighten and repair the hinges and door. She warms water for him to wash with and takes to mending his ragged cloak so it isn’t so frayed.

He washes, changes into the new clothes and she takes his old ones to wash and repair. She’s thankful her husband was on the bigger side, his shirt fits comfortably over Geralt’s large frame.

He agrees to stay for dinner but says he’ll provide the meat and goes out hunting. Comes back a few hours later hauling a deer that he makes quick work of, stretching out and cleaning the skin so she can sell the hide, carving the meat and setting some to dry so it won’t spoil. He intends to leave most of it here for her, only taking enough with him to hold him over in case hunting is scarce between this town and the next. or in case the next town drives him out before he can even get a meal.

They talk over dinner and late into the night. It’s the most he’s talked in years but he finds it easy with this woman who took him in and cared for him. Asks about her family and listens when she tells him how her husband was a farmer that got caught up in the war and died, her son married and half the continent away. He tells her what he can of the road, stories of monsters he’s killed and people he’s met. There aren’t a lot of fond memories, although he has a few that leave him chuckling. Mostly things he and another Witcher, Eskel, got punished for together back at Kaer Morhen when they were young. Most of his fond memories are winters at the fortress, about Vesemir, the closest he’s had to a father, about his brothers. And she listens with a smile on her face.

He avoids stories about the hardships as much as he can, glossing over rocky receptions and times he wasn’t paid. She knows this and doesn’t press. Wants this to be a nice evening for him.

It gets late, she offers him the bed but he quietly declines, happy enough with the blanket and floor. She puts what extra blankets she has on ground anyways, so it’s at least softer for him. It’s the best sleep he’s had in ages, warm, relatively soft and with a full belly.

He’s surprised at how sad he is to leave the next day but he only had enough to stable Roach for the one night. He retrieves her and returns to say goodbye. A first for him. And finds she’s loaded his bags with all she can spare. A jug of ale, plenty of the deer, a few potatoes. She’s rolled up an extra blanket that she insists he take, as well as any other of her husband's clothes she can find.

She pulls him in for a hug and whispers “Take care of yourself”. He wraps his arms cautiously around and says “you too”. Holds her a moment longer before letting her go and walking away. He looks back twice and she waves each time.

He decides he’ll visit, someday.

He does. At least once a year. Brings her game and repairs what’s falling apart. Hides coins he can spare around her house. She feeds him, mends his clothes, talks, listens, laughs with him. He brings her little trinkets, tells her she can sell them but he always sees them on the mantle when he visits. She takes to making him new clothes, always black, but she sometimes embroiders little things on the hems of his shirts that will get tucked in, it’s not for decoration, just for them. Just a show that she cares to take the time.

He’s furious when he finds out her son doesn’t keep in touch. She maybe gets a letter every few years with a brief update. She has three grandchildren she’s never seen and barely knows anything about. She stopped sending regular letters years ago since she never gets replies.

He finds out where he lives, pays him a little visit. He doesn’t threaten, not really. Just says it would be nice if he could write his mother more frequently. It would make them both very happy. Maybe visit. He knows the roads are dangerous, especially with children, but offers to escort them. Escorts her a few times. The happiness in her face when she meets her grandchildren is added to his small collection of good memories.

He starts sending her letters, starts receiving bundles of them in the last village before Kaer Morhen. Spends all winter rereading them and makes his way to her house first thing when the snow allows them to leave in the spring.

It’s the longest he’s stayed in touch with someone who isn’t one of his brothers.

He reluctantly brings Jaskier to meet her. He’d mentioned her a few times and Jaskier’s curious, been pestering him about this woman that makes him smile when he talks about her. He hopes Jaskier won’t be too much, too energetic, she’s getting very old. He brings extra meat to feed them all. He needn’t have worried, she delights in knowing he isn’t alone anymore. She’s heard the songs Jaskier’s been singing for years and she hugs him immediately, thanking him for all his hard work.

Jaskier’s energy is toned down but very welcomed and he’s enchanted with this woman that’s taken care of Geralt for so long. They gossip and gab for hours, lots of it about Geralt who sits there trying to look surly but inside he’s warm and happy that they get along. There’s music and laughing and they stay for a week.

Geralt finds out Jaskier visits even when they aren’t travelling together. Brings her stories and music from around the continent. Sends her letters and has her send her replies to Oxenfurt where he has friends to hold onto his mail. She makes him simple sleeping clothes, she doesn’t have the money to make him any of his usual fine things. Embroiders some handkerchiefs for him.

He treasures everything as if they’re made of the finest silks and brings her sweets and good stockings, a pretty shawl he came across at a market that my dear, you would look simply stunning in! He sings a few songs about the kind old lady who cares about strays and laughs when she smacks him for calling her old and her lovely boys strays.

She knits them both hats, scarves, mitts and even sweaters when she can get enough wool. Worries endlessly over them in the winter and they’re terrified every year that she won’t make it through. So they pool their money and when they visit in late fall Roach is pulling a cart with thick blankets and warm furs. They’ve bought her a splendid wool cloak, heavy and warm and as much dry goods as they could get their hands on. They spend a week making sure the house is in the best condition possible, no drafts or gaps, make sure nothing is amiss and stock enough firewood in the shelter to see her through into late spring when they can come back.

In return she makes them baked apples and squash soup, pours them ale all night. She presents them with their new clothes and they agree to call everything early solstice gifts.

On their last night they roast nuts by the fire and Jaskier surprises them both by mulling wine. Geralt didn’t know how he’d gotten his hands on the sugar and spices but the drink was delicious. They talked and laughed and ate until the wee hours of the morning when she couldn’t keep her eyes open and they shooed her off to bed. Geralt added another fond memory to his now surprisingly large collection.

Geralt never says it out loud but he thinks of her as family.

#writing #the witcher #geralt #jaskier #witcher headcannons #thanks for the formatting fuck ups

[ltleflrt]

prompt please: dean/cas panties

Okay so fun fact about this story:  This is actually the first seed of an idea that developed into Satin and Sawdust, but I ended up not being able to use the premise for Reasons.  I always wanted to do this little meet cute ficlet though, so thanks for giving me an excuse.  Also thanks to @pallasperilous for helping me get over the tiny hurdle that I ran into with the plot :D

Working from home means pajamas as a uniform. There’s a lot of advice against it; stuff about “getting into aprofessional mindset” by “dressing like you’re going to the office” and otherbullshit that probably works for others, but Castiel doesn’t subscribe to thosenotions.  Especially not before he’s on his third cup of coffee, and eventhen, why dirty another set of clothing? He hates doing laundry.

Of course, he does haveto leave his apartment sometimes.  For meetings, or to deliver thefinished product to the office.  But for the short trips to the office topick up his mail and deliveries, pajamas are just fine.  It’snot like a t-shirt and some Ninja Turtle patterned sleep pants are indecent, oranything.

Not that he cares whatpeople think about how he’s dressed.  He’s only on coffee number two, andsocial functioning doesn’t start until halfway through cup three.

He’s more alert thanusual this morning though, even if he isn’t awake enough to justify changinginto normal daytime clothing.  A new neighbor has moved in across thehall, and Castiel catches him leaving for work sometimes.  The eye candy is almost equal to a third andfourth dose of caffenation.  Brown hair, scruff, freckles, and eithergreen or hazel eyes--maybe light brown?--plus a body built to kneel before inworship and supplication… The guy’s practically built to Castiel’s taste.

And oh how he’d like ataste.

Maybe he should startthe caffeine infusion earlier.  So he’ll feel fortified enough to start aconversation one of these days instead of just exchanging a smile, a wave, anda quiet hello before they go their separate ways.  And he can finally getclose enough to figure out the guy’s true eye color.  It would be worth getting up earlier.  He’s not a fan of mornings, but he’s a fan ofhot potentially single guys.  He can make an exception.

Unfortunately he seemsto have missed the object of his desire this morning.  The door across thehall stays firmly closed for the few minutes Castiel lingers, hoping to get hisother morning fix.  But he decides it’s just a little too chilly out toloiter any longer, and he heads down to the office to pick up his mail.

There’s three packagesfor him today, and he’s pleasantly surprised because he wasn’t expecting one ofthem for another day or two.  That means he can get started on the nextproject earlier than he’d promised.  Hecan use the extra time that saves him to stock up a few pre-made things for hisEtsy shop.

He goes over a mentalplan for what kind of crazy sweaters he can design for the shop as he opens theboxes.  He smiles as he unpacks the Alpaca yarn, pausing to pet the softgreen.  This one is for himself, and hepromises he won’t use it for any commissions this time.  He’s got a lovelyscarf in mind, and since the weather is getting cooler, he needs to get startedsoon if he wants to use it this winter.  

The second box is fullof regular wool, and he checks to make sure all the colors he requested wereincluded.  Last time his order had been short a few hanks, and it had beena huge pain in the ass to get everything straightened out with his supplier. Everything is fine this time though, and he’ll still be on track for hiscurrent projects.

The third box shouldcontain the vegan yarns.  Not his favorite to work with, but he respectsthat people choose a lifestyle that requires it, and they still want mittens,scarves, and sweaters.  Plus they’re usually okay with paying extra forthe cotton yarn instead of the acrylic. So as long as they’re willing to shell out the cash, he’s willing to knitout the goods.

When he opens the box, hesmiles when he’s greeted with a rainbow of colors and reaches in to pull outthe plastic wrapped skeins.  He rips at the plastic, and then hissub-optimally caffeinated brain catches up with reality and he realizes thathe’s not holding yarn at all, but something satiny.  Whole cloth, not thematerials to make it.

It’s a pair of panties.

Castiel blinks at thered satin in his hand.  “This is not what I ordered.”

He pulls out a few moreplastic wrapped bundles.  All panties. What the hell?  

Finally he reaches theorder sheet.  And when he reads the information printed at the top, horrorcreeps through him.  This package wasn’t meant for him.  He doesn’t recognize the name, but hedefinitely recognizes the apartment number.  It’s for… his new neighbor.  

“Oh, no.”

 ***

 Dean is more than readyto get home and relax after the day he’s had.  Too many fires to put outat the job site, and feathers to unruffle when he had to advise the client thatthe new timeline they were requesting wouldn’t be tenable.  Seriously whatis up with folks agreeing to an estimated finish date, and then wanting it donein half the time?  Entitled bastards.

At least it’s Friday,and he shouldn’t be needed for anything for the weekend.  He’s going tocozy up to a few beers and the episodes of Doctor Sexy building up in his DVRand relax.  

Plus, he’s got a packagewaiting for him that he’s been looking forward to for days.  Just thethought of it puts an extra bounce in his step as he locks up his car and headsfor the office.

Ten minutes later, hisgood mood goes up in a puff of metaphorical smoke.  The package isn’tactually there.

“Are you sure the emailsaid it was delivered today?” the receptionist asks for the third time.

He waves his smartphoneat her.  “Got the delivery notification email right here.”

Her vaguely hopefulexpression crumbles and she shakes her head.  “I’m so sorry, it’s reallynot here.  I even checked to see if itgot left on someone’s desk instead of in the mail room.  There isn’tanything addressed to you.”

Dean sighs and tucks hisphone away.  Well there goes part of his weekend plans.  And on topof it he has to deal with reporting a lost shipment to the vendor.  Funstuff.  “Thanks for checking anyway.”

She smilessympathetically.  “Have a good evening.”

Despite hisdisappointment about the missing package, his plans aren’t totally ruined. So his smile is mostly genuine. “Thanks, you too.”

A few minutes later helets himself into his apartment, and he leans back against the door and justbreathes for a few seconds.  It’s quiet and dark and it’s nice not havinganyone needing his attention.  It reallyhad been a rough week, and he feels like he hasn’t had a minute to stand stillfor days.  The only bright spots in his week have been the notificationthat his present to himself had been delivered, and the few times he’d caught aglimpse of his hot neighbor across the way.

Those are always gooddays.  It’s become something of an obsession for him to see what kind ofwacky pajama bottoms the guy’ll be wearing each time they meet.  Dude’sgot quite the collection, ranging from bumble bees, to kittens, to hammers andsaws, to superheroes.  Plus he’s fuckingsexy with his sleepy eyes and mumbled greetings.  He never quite lookslike he’s all the way awake, but he always greets Dean with a warm smile and adorky little wave that leaves Dean feeling light and bouncy all the way to hiscar.

Maybe when thisconstruction project is done he’ll take a few less intensive jobs. He can seeif his hot neighbor wants to hang out a bit.  Even if he’s not into dudes,it would be nice to make a friend in the new place.  Dean’s used to having a roommate, but nowthat he’s living on his own, it’s a little lonely in his down time.

“Oh well,” he says intothe empty apartment.  “At least I’ve still got Doctor Sexy.”

A light knock betweenhis shoulder blades startles him away from the door.  He looks at itsuspiciously for a moment before putting his eye to the peephole to see who’sknocking.  When he gets a glimpse of wild dark hair and blue eyes, hejerks back in surprise.

Why is Hot Neighborknocking on his door?

Only one way to find out.

When he opens the door,Hot Neighbor seems startled.  He stares up at Dean with wide, very blueeyes, that immediately make Dean’s world fall away for a few seconds.

“Oh,” Hot Neighborbreathes.  “Green.”

The non-sequitur bringeverything back. “What?”

“What?” his neighborparrots, squinting in confusion.

Oh no, he’s cute. Dean’s internal monologue sometimes has a knack for stating theobvious.  He shakes his head, dislodging the thought and dismissing the previousexchange.  “Uh, hi.”

Hot Neighbor shakes hishead too, apparently also needing the mental reset.  “Hello,” he says, anddamn his voice is just as sexy when he’s fully awake as it is when he’s sleepy. “You’re Dean, right?”

“Yeah, that’s me. How did you--?” The question cuts off when he realizes that Hot Neighboris holding a box.  That’s been opened. “Oh.”

Heat rushes into hischeeks when he realizes that this guy has probably seen what exactly is in thatbox.  It’s only slightly reassuring when he also blushes, all the way tohis hairline.  At least Dean’s not alonein his mortification.

“Sorry, I picked this upwith my other packages,” his neighbor says, holding the box out to Dean. He clears his throat and smiles. It looks forced.  “Your girlfriendhas excellent taste.”

Maybe it’s because he’stired, or maybe it’s shock from the situation, or maybe he’s just a dumbass,but Dean’s mouth opens and the truth comes out.  “No, these are for me.”

If the increased heat inhis cheeks is any indication, he’s about to spontaneously combust.

“Oh, um…”His neighbor lifts the box in Dean’s direction again.  His smile turns tosomething far more genuine.  There’shumor there, but also… maybe interest?  “Well, you haveexcellent taste.”

Okay yeah that’sprobably interest.

Dean finally takes thebox, unsure how else to respond to the compliment other than “thanks, man.”

The guy nods and grinsbrightly.  “Anyway, uh… have a good evening, Dean.”  He does hisdorky little wave and turns back to his own apartment.

Before he can open thedoor, Dean’s brain finally shifts into the correct gear.  “Wait, what’syour name?”

Hot Neighbor turns withhis hand on the knob.  “Oh, I’m Castiel. Or Cas.  People call me Cas.”

“Castiel,” Dean says,relishing the way it feels to say.  “I was going to veg out with a beerand some trashy TV.  I got a few extrabeers if you’d like a drink.”

HotNeighbor--Castiel--Cas, beams so brightly that Dean’s a little dazzled by it. “Yes, I’d like that.”

Thrilled, Dean stepsaside and gestures for Castiel to come inside.  When he shuts the doorbehind them, his eyes fall on Castiel’s ass. Through his admiration of the shapely body he notices that Cas is stillwearing pajamas.  They’re covered in Ninja Turtles.  “Dude, your pants are awesome.”

Castiel turns and flickshis eyes down at the box in Dean’s hands then meets his eyes.  “Yours too.”

“Maybe we can do afashion show for each other some time,” Dean suggests, feeling brave.  IfCas was going to be weird about the panties, he wouldn’t be here now, right?

“I think I’d like that very much.”

Oh yeah, they’re goingto get along great.  

Unless…

“I’ve got a bunch ofDoctor Sexy on the DVR.  That sound okay?”

Castiel practicallyglows with excitement.  “It’s my favorite show.”

Dean grins. “Awesome.  Have a seat, I’ll getyou that beer after I put these away.”  

Yup.  Definitelygoing to get along like a house on fire.

#destiel #oops i ficced #au mashup #queenandthree

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Turn ‘Em Out

A/N: Soooo. I recently posted a list of questions for you to pose to my characters. (I got so many good ones! I’ve worked through about half of them but I have a few more to get to and you know me, I tend to ramble.) Well there was one in particular that I truly hoped someone would ask when I posted that list, and was strongly considering writing the answer to it regardless...but then it DID get asked! And I was pumped! But then I started writing it and...well...it got LONG. And it came with a slew of other asks, so I decided that it was best to answer this particular one separately, and I’ll finish the rest that came in that batch next. Anyways. How’s that for rambling, huh? 

Prompt: @something-tofightfor asked What’s in Ryan’s pockets? 

Word Count: 2,667

Ryan’s got a lot of pockets, which is great because there are a lot of things that he needs and space in his pack and guitar case is limited. He can literally only take with him what he can carry, and he can’t carry too much because he needs to be able to quickly get on and off the trains, so he can’t be too weighed down. This means that every single thing that Ryan Brenner has in his pockets is absolutely essential. 

Let’s start with what he’s got in his jeans. While he’s out and about, his wallet is in his right back pocket. There’s an outline of distinct wear and tear in the shape of the thin, brown leather billfold where he keeps the cash he makes from busking, two pictures, and his driver’s license. Currently, on your floor, he’s got about $168 in cash, most of it made that very day on the 16th Street Mall. The two pictures both have curled, torn edges, the older of the two has a thick crease down the middle from where it had been folded when it lived in a different wallet with a smaller pocket. The older photo was of Ryan with his cousins on the beach from the time he got too drunk and fell asleep without sunscreen. He and Taylor, both red as a radish, were in the center wearing grimaces to go with their burns, surrounded by Patrick, Fitz, Zach, Jimmy and Tommy with wide, goofy, drunken summer grins on their faces. The second photo was from his first year on the rails, out in Oregon with the group of friends he shared his first tattoo with. Oz, Robin, Louie, Nikki, Georgie, Cowboy and Kissie with Ryan mid step to get back into the frame before the timer on the camera went off. The crew was camped out by the bay, two tents that belonged to Oz and Nikki popped up behind the group with a makeshift clothesline and a rock ringed fire pit visible to the left. Cowboy, Robin and Georgie all wore frozen laughs, Ryan’s mouth quirked to the side and his eyes narrowed in a comeback to whatever smart ass comment Oz had just made. Both of them reminded him that he had his tribe of people scattered across the country and back home in Georgia, and he’d pull them out on cold, lonely nights on the train or sleeping in a park, and looking at them would always make him feel less alone. He could almost hear their laughter and feel their embrace, and when the hour was appropriate the next day, he’d give someone a call just to fill his ear with a familiar voice. 

His driver’s license was issued in Montana about four years ago. At that point he still had about a year on his Georgia license before it would need to be renewed, but he didn’t want to limit himself and have to go back if that’s not where the road was taking him. He’d be back soon enough for another cousin reunion, and he didn’t want there to be a lapse in valid I.D.s. They were hard enough for him to get when they weren’t expired; without a permanent address, the amount of paperwork you need to bring to the DMV is astounding. So since he had planned to spend a whopping 4 weeks in Livingston, MT to help Georgie’s uncle’s friend repair fences and patch the roof of the barn after a particularly harsh hail season (the price was RIGHT so even though it meant sticking in one spot for much longer than he was used to, Ryan couldn’t pass it up) he decided that it was as good a time as any to get a new license since Byron, the owner of the ranch and the man who was putting him, Cowboy, Virginia and Georgie up in the guesthouse, had allowed Ryan to use his address to have some mail forwarded, so voila! A “permanent” Montana residence. Montana licenses are good for eight years, too, so he’s still got a while before he needs to decide where to renew. 

Ryan’s back left pocket held a pair of thick wool gloves, palms tucked in and fingers waving free. They’d been a Christmas gift from Cowboy and Virginia (Ryan knew it was really Ginny who’d chosen the gloves with him in mind.) and they saved him from frostbite on plenty of occasions. They were bulky with insulated lining sand reinforced deerskin palms, and when his hands had all but cracked and bled from playing for hours in winter weather, they were a welcome reprieve. He couldn’t wear them getting on or off the trains, because the knit stitching was liable to snag on some part of the car. Ryan has heard his share of stories about what can happen when your clothes get caught in a chain or a rough, weathered edge of the steel, so he slips them off right before hopping and shoves them in his pocket. (He’s got a pair of canvas work gloves, too, but they’re inside the main part of his pack with his clothes. Those are for odd jobs and things that crop up along the way) 

Ryan’s knife is in his front right pocket. It’s small, with a carved wooden handle. It’s old. Older than Ryan. It belonged to his grandfather and His aunt (Patrick’s mom) gave it to him when he was home around his 22nd birthday. It wasn’t a secret that Ryan was granddaddy’s favorite; he saw the same spark of mischief and excitement for life that he had as a younger man. Some of Ryan’s favorite memories from his childhood are of summer afternoons, when the sun was too hot to be out for too long and he and his cousins would be forced to find shade for an hour or two, and he’d sit on the porch next to his grandfather as he whittled whistles and figurines. He’d pile up the curled shavings, wrapping them around his fingers as he watched forms of bears and birds appear out of solid blocks of wood. Once he asked him if he could teach him how to carve. 

Granddaddy laughed and ruffled Ryan’s mop of soft brown locks, lightened from the summer sun. “When yer older, Ry’n. You’ll chop yer fingers clean off, I teach ya now.” 

Ryan never got to learn. The time was never right before he left, and there never seemed to be enough when he was home, and then time ran out and Ryan was left with one of the biggest regrets that he’ll carry; that he didn’t make the time. So when his aunt gave him the knife when he was home around his 22nd birthday, Ryan’s eyes went wide before blinking fat tears from the corners, and the knife instantly became his most prized possession. He still doesn’t know how to carve, but he uses it almost every day. 

His left front pocket is for random extra necessities, which vary by season. In the winter there might be a few hand warmer packets, cough drops or some kind of hard candy, maybe some tissues or a handful of paper napkins. 

The heavy canvas coat he wore held some of the most vital items as those pockets closed with zippers or buttons. The inner breast pocket housed his black plastic flip phone, the charger cable wound around it. It was by far the most important item he carried in terms of survival. The ability to call for help should he need it was crucial, making the charger cable just as important as the phone itself. It was also his link to the people that mattered most to him, his way to let them all know that he was okay, a way for them to do the same. Radio silence from time to time was normal, but contact through the network every few weeks or so put everyone’s hearts at ease. Right now, around your third or fourth song on your floor in front of the fireplace, Ryan’s wondering if you’ll be added to that network… wondering if you want to add him to yours. 

The lower inside pocket is larger, so it can hold a few of the bulkier things that he carries. There’s a keychain sized flashlight that may have been attached to an actual keychain at one point. Ryan’s not even sure where it came from, but it has come in handy on more than one cloudy night when he couldn’t rely on the moon or stars for visual assistance. A standard Bic lighter (currently a plain red one) and a book of matches from a motel he’d stayed in with Georgie and some of his new friends down in Jackson, MS a few months back. He had about twelve matchbooks in a plastic zipper bag in his pack, habitually taking them anytime they were offered- motels, diners, truckstops. Plenty of smoke shops that he’d stopped in offered a free book with a pack of papers. Being able to start a fire for cooking or warmth was crucial, and having fire to light an expertly rolled smoke was a bonus. There was also always a length of twine, coiled and tied off to avoid tangling into a knot. It was useful in dozens of ways, some of the most used being as additions to fire starters, makeshift clotheslines, and replacement shoelaces. Loose or untied shoes due to a broken lace are unacceptable for a number of reasons, but all purpose twine works as a stop gap until he can get new laces. Whenever he gets close to running out, Ryan visits a local hardware shop and restocks. 

There’s one more inner pocket on the opposite side. It’s small but it only has very small items in it, and they almost never leave their place so it works just fine. Ryan’s not a superstitious man, but he’s not about to turn down good luck, so this pocket serves as a tiny treasure trove of things he’d acquired over the years that have supposedly been partially to blame for his continued good fortune: a lucky penny Taylor had given him before he left the very first time. She was only 14 then, but she swore that penny was with her on “the best days of her life” and she wanted Ryan to have it so only good things would come to him on his travels. She probably doesn’t remember it anymore, but Ryan’s kept it the entire time. Tucked in with the penny is the first guitar pick he’d ever used, his own little charm that he wasn’t sure was lucky per say, but that he couldn’t seem to part with. There was a four leafed clover that Robin had sent him from somewhere outside Seattle along with a postcard. (When he’d make it back to Georgia, usually every three years or so, he’d always have a small bundle of letters and postcards from his road family. Maybe someone spent a week longer than planned in a city that they fell in love with and they wanted to share the recommendation. Maybe someone saw something or heard something or felt something that reminded them of him. Maybe someone just missed him and wanted to write it down. Ryan tried to scribble notes now and then, too.) 

The last item in that pocket was a flint arrowhead that he’d been given as a gift a few summers ago. He’d been staying in Kentucky for about a week or so with Cowboy and his cousin Nate, and Nate’s ex wife had unexpectedly dropped their son Julian off about two days in to Ryan and Cowboy’s stay. Aat first Ryan’s inclination was that he and Cowboy should hit the road and change their plans, maybe head on up to Ohio or Pennsylvania for a stretch, but Nate insisted that they stay. Julian was 9 but had the attitude of a 19 year old, and Ryan couldn’t really blame the kid from what he’d seen of his parents. (He was grateful to Nate for letting him have a place to crash, a shower, somewhere to cook and rest up. But it was clear from the way that he and Maya, Julian’s mom, screamed at each other, neither of them were mature enough to raise a well adjusted kid.) By the third day, Julian was bored as all hell, and Nate had no real clue what to do with him. Ryan figured it wasn’t that hard, just offer to include him in what you’re doing and see if he bites. “Hey Julian, I’m headed into town to hit the hardware store. Need to get some twine. You wanna come?” “Hey, Julian, I’mma sit out back and play a little, maybe see some constellations if you wanna join.” “Julian, we’re goin’ fishin’ later, you in?” By the end of the stay, Julian’s mood had improved and Nate was left dumbfounded, asking Ryan if he had kids and how he knew how to get through to his son. 

Ryan shrugged. “Just treat ‘em like people.” 

Julian had found a handful of arrowheads on that fishing excursion after Ryan showed him what to look for and where he was most likely to find one (along the banks of the small river), and when he and Cowboy were getting ready to head out, Julian shoved one in Ryan’s hand with a nod of his prematurely serious head. If his granddaddy’s knife took the number one spot, and his guitar held number two, Julian’s arrowhead, Taylor’s penny, Robin’s clover and his pick collectively took the number three slot in the things that were most important to him. Ryan wasn’t superstitious. Not at all. But whether those items brought him luck or not, he wouldn’t be caught without them. 

The two front pockets of his coat were usually empty unless his scarf was stuffed into one- depending on where he was, if the sun was high sometimes it was warm even in winter, and he’d find himself sweating in the thick, cable knit scarf. But in just an hour or so the weather could change drastically, so rolling it up and securing it away in his pack would be inconvenient if he’d be needing it again so soon. The old Carhartt’s front pockets were deep and wide and the entire scarf fit in one with no problem. The other would sometimes have a granola bar or a bag of nuts, something quick he’d picked up at a convenience store or gas station that he could munch on through the day, in between songs or while seated in the back of a pickup hitching from the train yard to wherever the next destination was. 

It would be too much to get into every item in his pack, but the essentials in the top front pocket include a toothbrush and paste, small travel sized bottle of mouthwash, bar of soap stored in a seafoam green plastic clamshell holder, and a travel sized shampoo. In a separate zipper bag in that same portion is a small tube of sunscreen, one of moisturizers, a few band aids, some tape and an antiseptic cream for small burns, cuts and nicks. In another of the front pockets he keeps his leather bound notebook, two pencils and a pen, along with a small print out map that boasted stars and circles for all the places he’d traveled to- circles meaning he’d been there once, stars indicating multiple visits. His harmonica also had a home in that pouch for easy access on long quiet stretches of rail.  

There wasn’t a stitch of extra space anywhere on him, but somehow Ryan always managed to fit anything and everything that he needed. He’d left things with people and gained new items along the way, but somehow the amount of space he had always accommodated exactly what he needed it to. 

.

@something-tofightfor @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @suchatinyinfinity @lexxierave @thesumofmychoices @songtoyou @traeumerinwitzhelden 

apologies if you didn’t want to be tagged in this essay, i just went with the Passing Through taglist :) 

#ryan brenner #jackie and ryan #what does ryan have in his pockets? #passing through #ryan brenner fanfic #ryan brenner story #character asks #thank you so much for caring about the contents of this musical angel's pockets #because i clearly had a lot to say about them

[placesyoucallhome]

Never-Ending Survey: Q’ruhka

Tagged by: @voidsentprinces

Tagging: Fuck, idk, anyone else who wants to do this

Rules: Repost, do not reblog, tag 10 blogs! 

BASICS.

FULL NAME: Q’ruhka Tia

NICKNAME: Ruhka, Rui, RuRu, Trash Cat

AGE:  He assumes about 24-25

BIRTHDAY: 21th Sun of the Fifth Astral Moon, probably

ETHNIC GROUP: Seeker of the Sun Miqo’te

NATIONALITY: He primarily considers himself a Limsan

LANGUAGE/S: Common, sign language, some Garlean, bits of Hingan and Ishgardian,

SEXUAL ORIENTATION : Demisexual

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION : Panromantic

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Single

HOME TOWN / AREA: Sagolii

CURRENT HOME:  Topmast apartments

PROFESSION: Admiral, merchant, bar owner

PHYSICAL.

HAIR: Cream white just past his shoulders

EYES: Blue and gold

FACE: Diamond

LIPS: Full

COMPLEXION: Copper

BLEMISHES: Not particularly

SCARS:  Crossed scrapes on his cheek

TATTOOS: Tribal tattoos done when he was a child

HEIGHT: About 5 fulms

WEIGHT: 140 ponzes??? (I’m terrible at weights, I actually have no idea)

BUILD: Well toned

FEATURES: Well kept, long, fluffy tail

ALLERGIES: None that he’s aware of

USUAL HAIR STYLE:  Long, slightly wavy, well kept but generally left to whatever style it falls into

USUAL FACE LOOK :  Kind smile, curious eyes

USUAL CLOTHING: Business casual button up shirt and black slacks for most days, or long boots and gloves with a cropped top while working, or recently, a sweater because this sand cat still can’t deal with cold.

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEAR/S: Namazu, otherwise, very little

ASPIRATION/S: He’s not sure at the moment, a crew, but beyond that he hasn’t decided. Finding someone that’s willing to put up with his bullshit for the rest of their lives maybe.

POSITIVE TRAITS: Kind, patient, giving, willing to consider new information and change opinions.

NEGATIVE TRAITS:  Guarded, no self esteem, there are certain things he lies about

TEMPERAMENT: Generally presents himself as a happy shoulder to lean on, ready to help as a moment’s notice. 

SOUL TYPE/S:  Server

ANIMALS: Angora cat

VICE HABIT/S: Drinking

FAITH: Doesn’t follow the twelve, has mixed feelings on deities in general

GHOSTS?: Yes

AFTERLIFE?: Well, he does now

REINCARNATION?: According to his readings on the aetherical cycle, it seems a given

POLITICAL ALIGNMENT: Pirate

EDUCATION LEVEL: No formal education, but plenty trade education

FAMILY.

FATHER : Qu’halha Nunh He claims to not know

MOTHER : Qu’mazh

SIBLINGS : 6 half sisters, one full sister he’s unaware of

EXTENDED FAMILY: Q’ tribe in general

NAME MEANING/S: Q’ is the Puk tribe, Qu’ was meant to stand for the Quetzalcoatl, which as a child he was fairly certain the adults had made up just to sound cool. Otherwise, there was little effort put into his name as he wasn’t particularly desired by his mother.

HISTORICAL CONNECTION?: None of note

FAVORITES.

BOOK: Whatever he’s picked up most recently

DEITY: None

HOLIDAY: Any with food or drinks

MONTH:  Fifth Astral moon (September)

SEASON: Summer or fall

PLACE:  The Willow’s Meet

WEATHER:  Thunderstorms

SOUND / S: Opening a bottle, the rumble of thunder, the whirl of a spinning wheel

SCENT / S: Heavy rain, coffee, something baking in the oven

TASTE / S: Savory, salty, sour

FEEL / S: Soft wool, worn wood, dark glass bottles

ANIMAL / S: House cats, dogs, bats

NUMBER: 36

COLORS: White, black, gold

EXTRA.

TALENTS: Crafting, decorating

BAD AT: Initiating conversations

TURN ONS: Conversation, humor, trust

TURN OFFS: Aggressiveness, ignorance, arrogance

HOBBIES: Knitting and drinking

TROPES: The Everyman, possibly The Watson

QUOTES : “God damn it Gen.” (I need to start actually saving some of the shit Ruhka says)

MUN QUESTIONS.

Q1 : If you could write your character your way in their own movie,  what would it be called,  what style would it be filmed in, and what would it be about?       A1 :  Possibly some Treasure planet type romp with Wes Anderson type humor/cinematography and probably steampunk thrown in. I honestly don’t have much of an idea.

Q2 :  What would their soundtrack/score sound like?           A2 : Modest mouse with other odd smatterings thrown in, I’ve started a playlist on spotify

Q3 :  Why did you start writing this character?         A3 : He’s particularly new as my characters go, actually, just about a year old, started him in fall/winter of 2018, started attempting to rp him at the turn of the year I think.

Q4 :  What first attracted you to this character?         A4 : He’s so goddamn normal I thought it was funny. He’s not got any magical powers, he has a shitty backstory but it’s pretty bland comparatively, all he’s got to get by on is whether he can charm people and he’s not got much confidence in that. So now he’s the basically the one normal guy surrounded by immortals and magic and warriors. Also it was an excuse to actually put my crafting knowledge to use as he’s a merchant that deals quite a bit in weaving and carpentry. Q5 :  Describe the biggest thing you dislike about your muse. A5 : Well, he’s pretty fucking normal isn’t he? Sometimes I wonder if he’s just too boring for anyone to particularly care about. I’ve always cared more for the ‘odd man out’ characters in series, but I perhaps I was in a small minority there. Q6 :  What do you have in common with your muse?           A6 :   We both short as hell, five foot fuck you. Also crafting, always making something. Q7 :   How does your muse feel about you?         A7 :  He’d probably offer me a drink and condolences, hah Q8 :  What characters does your muse have interesting interactions with?       A8 :  All characters have something interesting to them, I like to think Ruhka’s a way for them to get there, he’s got bit character mcguffin energy. But for him to have an interesting interaction, it usually comes down to humor, and he’s particularly easy to fluster.  Q9 :  What gives you inspiration to write your muse?     A9 :  Redemption, I guess. Still being worth something even if you aren’t anything more than normal. Q10 : How long did this take you to complete?   A10 : Fuck, idk, an hour?

#q'ruhka

[wolfie-dragon-rider]

Bursts of Light, Day 8: Shopping

Hiccup often wished Toothless could talk. It would help with flying, training dragons, and just when Hiccup wanted to vent about something. But right now it would be especially useful. Normally he'd have Astrid to help him with this, but since this was supposed to be a surprise, that wasn't an option.

Snoggletog was just around the corner, and he still had to find a gift to put in her helmet. In previous years he had smithed her new weapons and armor, but by now her set was basically complete. Sure, he could always make her another type of weapon, maybe a warhammer, but she probably wouldn't use it anyway. The pike he had made her two years ago was still gathering dust.

"What do you think, Toothless? Which stall should we check out first?" he asked the dragon by his side, and got only a warble in response. He guessed it meant 'the fishmonger's stall', but Astrid wouldn't appreciate rotten fish in her helmet.

So he sighed, before going to the first stall. It was market day, people eager to buy and sell all kinds of goods before the feast next week, so the plaza was full of stalls. If he could see what each person sold it would be easier, but he supposed he'd just have to ask each one individually.

"Good morning. What are you selling?" Hiccup asked, scratching at his blindfold. The cold air made his scars itch.

"Toys of all sorts! Dolls, figurines, animals on little wheels, and anything else your child could ever want! How old is your girl now, Hiccup? Time to get her a new doll, maybe?" the woman behind the stall said, and he frowned. Nothing here for Astrid, but he should get something for little Thora. She was nearly three now, and while he had smithed her some toys like the moving animals on display here, and Stoick had carved little knights and vikings from wood, maybe she'd enjoy a doll. He should really discuss that with Astrid first, but as he felt some of the soft dolls he was very tempted to just get one now.

"This one… is this a dragon? A Nightmare?" he asked, feeling a plushie toy and marvelling at the soft appendages he guessed were spikes.

"Indeed it is! Let me guess, she's already got a favorite dragon? I've got a whole set of dragons, they're quite popular!" the woman said enthusiastically, and he nodded.

"Do you have a Nadder? She quite likes those. They're fast and full of energy, just like her," he laughed, digging in his pocket for coins. This wouldn't be cheap, but it'd be worth it. Hiccup just couldn't make something like this himself, and neither could Astrid. She was hopeless with sewing, even after years of practice. Repairs and simple clothes like shirts were doable, but not something complex like a plushie dragon.

"Good choice! Though maybe don't give her a real Nadder baby just yet! That'll be ten silver coins," she said, and he winced before handing over the money. The thought of his daughter's squeal when she'd see the gift made it sting less.

He put the toy in Toothless' saddlebag before moving to the next stall. The fragrance made it quite clear they were selling meat, and Hiccup quickly moved on despite his dragon's protest.

"You'll get some more fish when we get home," he muttered when Toothless whined dramatically. The dragon grumbled, but didn't argue.

They passed more stalls, Hiccup mostly avoiding the food, though he stopped at a pastry stall to buy some sugary cakes. Astrid would never admit it, but she had a massive sweet tooth, and they would always make her a relax a little. Especially now that she was pregnant with their second child, she always craved things that gave her energy.

Honestly Hiccup was having fun shopping without Astrid. She was more… responsible with money, and would definitely have protested the cakes and probably the toy as well. He understood why, she had grown up in a household where every coin had to be spent with care. But the Haddocks had a lot more spending money, and he just couldn't get enough of how happy these little luxuries made her.

But a few stalls later his happy mood was draining away again. He was at a jewelry stall, and while Astrid didn't like jewelry whatsoever, he wasn't sure what else to get her. His wife wasn't someone who needed much. She didn't indulge in hobbies that required a lot of supplies, and certainly didn't care for 'things that were pretty but pointless', as she put it once.

Still, maybe she'd like the pendant in the shape of the rune for strength, or the bracelet with the axe symbol on it. Toothless growled softly, and Hiccup sighed.

"You're right, Toothless. She'd hate this stuff. Sorry, mister," he said, putting back the pendant and moving to the next stall. It went on like that for a while, him rejecting books and gems, engineering tools and complicated kitchen supplies. Nothing Astrid would use.

He was about to give up and go home when he reached a clothing stall. This one was interesting. Winter was upon them again, and Astrid clung closely to him in the night. He didn't mind at all, but he hated the idea of her being cold. She shouldn't get sick, especially pregnant.

"What do you have?" he asked the merchant from beyond the sea, and the man chuckled.

"All sorts of smaller items of clothing. Scarves, underwear, socks, caps, gloves, all made from the finest English wool!"

Hiccup frowned, feeling gently. Astrid had complained of cold and aching feet lately.

"What kind of socks? What color?" he asked, lifting a sock while trying to figure out what it looked like.

"We have some plain white ones for two silver coins per pair, but for an extra four silver coins you can get some with special designs, knitted by the finest seamstress in Norway. You can have pictures of dragons on your socks, or maybe you want some other animal. How about a god? Let's see, we have Thor, Odin, I believe this one is Njordr, and Freya of course, she's popular with the ladies," the man said, and with the way his voice became teasing at the last sentence Hiccup had to assume he was winking at him.

"That's perfect! Can I get a pair with Thor, and another with Odin?" Hiccup shouted, relief washing over him. Toothless warbled, nudging him and becoming restless with the long day of shopping.

Alrighty then! That's twelve silver coins, please, and come again! Maybe a nice scarf, eh?" the man chuckled, and Hiccup was fairly sure this was an outrageous price for socks, but these special designs weren't easy to make, so he wasn't going to argue.

"Let's go home to wrap these presents, and then we can go for a flight!" he told Toothless, and the dragon was suddenly eager to go home, not even letting Hiccup put the socks in the saddlebag before running off.

---------------------------------------------------

"Aaaaaah, it's a dragon! It's just like Stormfly! Look, Mommy! I love it!" Thora cooed over the gift from her father, who smiled widely at her reaction. Astrid frowned a little, not entirely happy that Hiccup had bought that without consulting her. It looked pretty expensive, and while Thora's laughter was priceless, she didn't want to spend too much money.

"That's right, it's a Nadder!" she told her daughter, who was already setting up the little knights she got from her grandfather for a glorious battle with her new dragon. Stormfly chirped, looking curiously at the family sitting around the fireplace.

"Now, let's see what you got for me. Looks like it's not a weapon this year," Astrid said as she took the small package she immediately recognized was wrapped by Hiccup. His wrapping skills were… special.

"I hope you like them. I know you like Odin and Thor, so…" Hiccup's sentence was interrupted by her hard laugh when she saw the socks.

"These are supposed to be… HAHAHAHAHAHA, Hiccup! Really? These are Odin and Thor?" she laughed, holding up the crude designs of something she could vaguely recognize as a man with a hammer, and another man with an eyepatch. Honestly they looked more like pirates. Thora looked up, but quickly got bored and turned back to making her new dragon eat the knights.

"The man who sold them said so…" he stuttered, clearly startled by her response.

"Oh, Hiccup. I know you meant well, but please… just don't buy any clothing without someone present who can see?" Astrid asked, and he sighed.

"Toothless was there," he muttered softly.

"You know what I mean. Look, I get that you don't want me there when you shop for my presents. But maybe take your parents, or a dragon rider," she said, reaching down to untie her boots and take off her socks.

"I guess you're right. I just thought… Your feet are always aching, and you said they get cold in the morning, so I figured…" he said, head dropping.

"Don't feel bad! They're really thick, I'm sure these are super warm! I can wear them inside the house, okay? Or when I'm wearing my thick boots," she said as she took her socks off.

"I figured you'd like this more than jewelry at least," he said, and she chuckled.

"Definitely. And they're certainly warm and comfy!" she said as she put them on, already relieved at the feel of soft wool on her aching ankles. This pregnancy was harder than the last one, the child inside her constantly moving, and it was remarkably heavy. So she'd take anything that would make it easier.

"Next year we're shopping together for the children, though. I don't want you spoiling two kids!" she said, and Hiccup laughed. Thora knocked over another knight, and made burning sounds as she mimicked the Nadder breathing fire on a king.

"I can't wait. To meet this little one, and to spoil them rotten," he said, rubbing her belly.

#Bursts of Light #fanfic #hiccstrid #blind spots #hiccup #astrid #shopping #snoggletog

[azurexalacrity]

Care Package: A red scarf, some blueberry muffins from Tattletales along with a thermos filled to the brim with her homemade hot chocolate, a drawing Bails had done from school, and a photo. Wasn't just any photo though; a polaroid, in Abadat. With a little light gaia in the foreground... and a werehog in the background. Written on the back? 'I've been hanging onto this cuz I didnt want u to throw it away since its past tense now and all. Call it a souviner. H.Z. 🔥'

Send me “Care Package” and include items you would give my muse to cheer them up! | @kildriia

 The door to the apartment room opened with an uneasy creak, but not one to show of some intruder waltzing in the place (or, at least, a harmless intruder). Sneakers were dragged across the floorboards, not caring in the slightest for getting leaves and possible grains of dirt to coat the flooring. Normally, this visitor would have the common courtesy for that, but oddly enough, he didn’t for this particular day.

His sneakers were kicked off to the side, now having their straps hang loosely off the sides of them. They were placed right beside the couch. The same couch where the hedgehog flopped right on top of it and buried his face into a nearby cushion.

All ten of his fingertips drilled into the cushion, beginning to poke tiny holes into the fabric and cotton. They shake slightly as the hero facepalmed himself with the pillow before just allowing his body to lay flat. The grip on the pillow eventually loosened and the usually proud hero became quiet. Quiet enough to raise some eyebrows, that’s for sure.

It was a rough day. A rough day that was nothing more but a discussion about his mental health. About his consistent nightmares, about his sudden spike of anxiety, and probably plenty of other things that he didn’t want to talk about. He knew he had to, though. He knew he had to talk with somebody about this. He knew it could get him to feel better.

But… he didn’t understand. Why isn’t he getting better?

He flipped to where his back is now on the couch. His hands clasped together as he stared at the ceiling and seeing all the dust that’s on it. He would rather watch that than to constantly have his thoughts nag him.

An irritated sigh emitted from him and he rammed his forehead against the couch. He curled himself up. Arms around his legs and legs close to his chest. He was now just a blue spec on the couch. He didn’t care. He didn’t want to be bothered anyway, and keeping himself hidden this way was the key to that.

“I thought I was gettin’ better…” he muttered; his voice barely audible and raw with emotion, “Why… aren’t I gettin’ better? I made it this far… so why aren’t I gettin’ better?”

Tears started pricking his eyes. He always hated that about himself; becoming emotional no matter what is thrown at him. If he can nearly break down at the expense of having a bad day, then… he’s not so sure how on Earth that he will get better.

He’s not so sure how he can be as strong as people make him up to be.

Before he knew it, he passed out on the couch. He was still in his curled position, just like a harmless little hoglet that’s snoring almost as loud as a bear’s roar. His feet twitched from time to time, antsy to move, but unlike his said feet, he didn’t respond to that movement. Instead, he was kept on the couch. No sleepwalking or sleep running involved.

Despite that, however, he still heard things outside of his dream world. There were faint whispers, the noise of handling objects, and Sonic could have sworn his nostrils caught something sweet. Whatever it was, he cannot tell.

He didn’t let it sit there, though. He wanted to find out what was going on. Bad day or no bad day.

His eyes, now raw from whatever tears he spilled from earlier, opened in a heartbeat. Slowly but surely, he pushed himself up from the cushions, rubbing one of his eyes as he raspily yawned.

“Mmm… guys? Wha… what’s goin’ on?” He questioned in between another yawn, stretching out his stiff limbs, “Don’t tell me ya made all da goodies without… me?”

No one was there to answer him. No one was there to tell him what was happening. The only thing that gave him any answers… was the box that sat on the table.

It was covered by about a wad of scotch tape. It taped the corners, the sides, everything except for the flaps that will open the box. It made Sonic tilt his head to the side, squinting in suspicion.

That’s odd. He didn’t ask for a package today. Heck, he didn’t even order a package. Maybe Harper did, but he doesn’t see why it should be on the table and untouched. If anything, it should be opened.

Sonic blinked. His fingers gingerly took a hold of the flaps of the box, eagerly waiting to open the darn thing.

Well… it couldn’t hurt to take a little peek, now wouldn’t it?

And like a child opening a Christmas present, Sonic opened the flaps and poked his head into the box.

What he found inside was anything and everything he didn’t expect to come from an ordered box. Nothing like all those weird little styrofoam-like thingies that he used to play with when he was little. What was there instead of that was a whole assortment of things.

A red scarf was stuffed in the corner. It was made of wool and it looked brand new. Brand new as in someone knitting it pretty early. Alongside it was a paper bag filled with muffins. Blueberry muffins. His favorite muffins. The kind that made his stomach rumble.

Okaaay, what’s going on here?

He brought out the scarf and took out the muffins. Of course, he bit a chunk of it before getting through the rest of this box. And Chaos, it’s a big box.

He attempted to be extra careful when grabbing the thermos. It steamed with that rich scent of chocolate and reminded Sonic of the coldest days of winter. If it wasn’t beginning to warm up right now during the season, he wouldn’t have minded it one bit. Now to say that he would mind it now, but he can’t help but wonder what brought this on.

Usually getting care packages like this weren’t common (unless they’re from Amy… or a fan).

The one thing that didn’t make him question was the drawing. A drawing that was made entirely with crayon. It almost reminded him of Cream in a sense, and he can’t help but chuckle fondly at the thought. He kept the drawing close to him and make sure it won’t get stained by hot chocolate.

He’s not sure where to put it up, but he’ll definitely keep it in mind.

And just when he thought he was done… a photo was the last thing in the box. A photo that came from a polaroid. It was kind of old-fashioned, yet colored in a way that looked like it came from this day of age. And without a moment of hesitation, Sonic grabbed it.

He leaned back against one of the cushions, using it as support in case he would collapse from spiraling emotions. He held the photo close to his chest, blinking. He blinked so many times that he’s not so sure that he can even blink anymore.

Small huts and wooden flooring was what surrounded the two individuals in the photo, with them staring out into the distance of the island. One of them was what Sonic recognized the most: His nocturnal form. The werehog. The werehog that stood there, taking in the view of the night. Sonic wasn’t sure what he was exactly doing that night. He guessed that maybe he was just taking in the scenery, but that wasn’t what was important to him right now.

Nope. It was the little chihuahua in the picture. The one who would flap around with those ridiculously short wings and would offer bars of chocolate at the most sudden of times. The one who created a golem out of the Gaia Temples and did whatever it took to defeat his counterpart: Dark Gaia.

Not once did Sonic look away from the photo. He didn’t even take a glimpse at the amulet he’s wearing. The same amulet that Chip had. Rather, he reached a hand to the photo, touching it and dragging his fingers across it.

“Chip…” His voice came out in a way that was foreign. Soft-spoken, light, and nearly choking from tears. He sniffled, keeping the photo as close to him as humanly possible.

He didn’t break down, despite how he looked he was about to. A smile adorned his muzzle and he stared at the photo fondly, finding something special about this photo. Something special that was the words imprinted on the back of it.

He… didn’t know what to say about it. Heck, he didn’t know how to respond to all of this. He didn’t know what to say to his freckled friend who helped him out on this rough day.

But what better way to do it then to show it?

Show it by having that Polaroid photo framed up in his room.

It was one thing that the speedster will never forget. Not in a million years.

#kildriia #( This is pretty long so... hold on to your starship! ) #( Ngl this boi is touched by this ) #( He loves all of it sm <3 ) #✪ ᵀʰᵉ ᴬᶰᶳʷᵉʳᵉᵈ : Answered✪ #✪ ᵛᵉʳᶳᵉ ⁰ : Main Universe✪ #/// trauma tw ///

[tachinanabananase]

Can you maybeee write a drabble based on the latest trailer and what you think their life is like

Unbeta’d because im impatient af and wanted to post this for you as soon as possible lol. Also I completely ignored the fact that Kisumi is in Tokyo with them but it’s okay it’s for added dramatic tension 

Haru shudders as another gust of icy wind howls outside, rattling the window screen violently and drowning out the drone of the monotonous meteorologist on television who is about three hours late in his warning about the apocalyptic cold weather. Haru eyes the window uneasily. That time it definitely sounded like something broke. He curls defensively into his corner on the couch, as far away from the window as possible in the modest living room, and tugs his blanket up to his chin in an effort to keep out the threatening chill that is seeping into the apartment at the moment. And a valiant effort it is, although there isn’t much more he can do when it’s practically -3 °C outside in the midst of the coldest January in recent Tokyo history.

He calmly reminds himself that no, it’s not Tokyo’s fault that it’s this cold on this specific day, and that it’s just merely a coincidence this is happening only three months after moving into the city. Yep, it’s just purely by unlucky chance that his own apartment lost all power and heat during the first snowstorm of the season after only three fucking months of living there and he should absolutely not hold a grudge against the city itself for something so unpredictable happening.

Apparently Haru is just full of valiant efforts tonight. 

The doorknob jiggles suddenly. Haru almost jumps at the sound, his armhairs standing on end, but he relaxes just as quickly when he realizes there’s nothing to be worried about. 

“I’m back,” Makoto calls from down the hall. Haru counts absently in his head each stomp as he shakes the snow off his boots at the door. When the brunet appears around the corner a minute later in his knitted wool sweater and army green puffy overcoat, it’s with flushed cheeks and a tight smile. “You weren’t kidding about that wind. It’s brutal out there.”

Haru watches with concealed concern, eyeing the redness painting the tips of Makoto’s nose and ears, the shivers that he fights while removing his jacket after setting a plastic convenience store bag on the kitchen table. 

“You didn’t have to go out for me. I could have gone.”

“Nonsense,” Makoto waves Haru’s pout off with a gloved hand. He drapes his jacket over a chair, favoring the unconventional spot over the perfectly functional coatrack next to the front door. “You were practically Jack Frost by the time you got here, I wasn’t going to send you back out to suffer more. Plus, I was running low on snowstorm supplies anyway.”

“Still…” Haru grumbles, but his argument dies on his tongue because no, he still can’t totally feel his toes after trudging to Makoto’s place nearly an hour ago in the blizzard, so he has to admit that walking outside any longer would have been a frostbite disaster just waiting to happen. 

“Did they tell you when your power will be back on?”

“Hopefully sometime tomorrow morning.”

Makoto smirks knowingly. “Looks like you’re skipping class then.” Can’t argue with that logic.

Haru eyes him curiously while Makoto heads into the kitchenette, pulling out an array of goodies from his shopping bag and spreading them across the counter. “Okay, I got tea for you, hot coco for me, emergency cold medicine, three extra candles, matches, and two flashlights just in case.”

“Did you get batteries?”

“Ah shit,” Makoto sighs, a helpless grin on his lips. “I knew I would forget something without you there.”

Haru’s skin prickles suddenly, though he’s pretty sure it’s not from the cold anymore. 

“It’s fine. The candles should be enough if anything happens,” he supplies, although it’s sort of muffled by the blanket as he pulls it higher to cover the glowing blush on his cheeks. 

Haru averts his attention to the television again, which he sort of forgot was there the moment Makoto walked in the door, his focus decidedly elsewhere from that instant on. This had been a developing issue as of late, seeing as Haru found his stare more often than not settling on the sight of dazzling viridian and a familiar grin instead of whatever else it was in Tokyo that people supposedly found so interesting. He knows that naturally Makoto has become his daily reminder of home and so of course he’s drawn to that alone; it only makes sense, considering he’s the only recognizable thing to Haru in this entire city. But Makoto has always been his home, has always been the most safe and steady thing in Haru’s life, even when they were right there on his front porch in Iwatobi. So why is it that now, when they’re in this strange city together, home suddenly makes Haru’s stomach feel like it’s bursting with butterflies and his skin itch with a warm and anxious sense of anticipation?

“Do you want honey in your tea today?” Makoto’s question cuts through Haru’s swirling thoughts. He doesn’t even noticed the scream of the tea kettle in his daze. 

“Sure.” He rarely opts for sweetened tea, but today he’s battling an unusual craving for something warm and saccharine on his tongue. 

Makoto plops onto the couch beside Haru moments later, two steaming mugs in his hands and a sigh of contentment on his lips. “There you go,” he passes Haru his usual mug, the one that’s a pretty pastel blue with white dolphins stenciled around the sides. Makoto’s practically matches, except instead of blue his mug is minty green and instead of dolphins there are orcas. They’ve had them since Christmas when they were just five years old; it would have been a crime not to bring them to Tokyo after all. 

“The guy at the store said the trains wont be running for a while either.”

“Yeah, I learned that the hard way,” Haru gestures to his snow drenched clothes that are currently lying in a soppy mess on the kitchen tile. He promises he’ll clean that up later when he can wiggle his toes again. Plus, he’s still secretly reveling in the feeling of being bundled in one of Makoto’s coziest sweatshirts at the moment. He isn’t ready to give up this serenity yet. 

In comfortable quiet they sip on their drinks, the monotonous rambling of the weather report on television softly filling the space. Makoto sits hunched over with his elbows on his knees, just a centimeter too close enough for Haru to be able to feel his body heat on his thigh, which leaves him stiff while debating his next move. If he relaxes, his leg will surely touch Makoto’s, and isn’t that kind of weird? Isn’t it kind of weird in general that they sit so close like this anyway? He’s in the midst of a heated internal dispute when it’s Makoto who shifts ever so slightly, settles just a hair closer and suddenly they’re pressed together from knee to hip. In a slight panic, because he did not have time to mentally prepare himself and his stuttering heart for that, Haru’s frantic eyes dart up to assess Makoto, but the brunet shows absolutely no sign of concern. In fact, he’s just staring sort of blankly at the television, like he’s watching but there are more important things occupying his brain space at the moment. 

Haru accepts the fact that okay, he’s probably overreacting and there’s a slim chance Makoto even realizes they’re sitting so close anyway, so he tries to settle down and takes a long sip of his tea, pushing his overanxious thoughts aside as best as he can.

The mental peace lasts only for a minute before it’s hesitantly interrupted.

“Hey, Haru?”

Makoto’s voice sounds almost as distant as his stare. 

“Yeah?”

“…Why don’t you stay here?”

Haru practically snorts into his tea. “Hate to break it to you, but I planned on spending the night regardless of you inviting me or not.”

Makoto doesn’t laugh like Haru expects. In fact, he doesn’t even flinch, which is unusual because Makoto is totally the type to laugh and any and everything that Haru says whether it’s intended to be a joke or not. He watches Makoto carefully now because something is clearly not right, the brunet’s gaze falling from the television to his mug suddenly, shyly. He scratches at the porcelain with his nail absently, pink dusting his cheeks. Haru can’t tell if it’s leftover from the cold or something else entirely. 

“No, I mean stay here with me. In my apartment.”

The words come out so soft, Haru doesn’t hear them properly. Or at least he figures that he didn’t hear it right, because it sounded like Makoto was asking him to move in to his place. 

“What?”

Makoto turns over his shoulder and clears his throat, and like magic his usual smile suddenly replaces that anxious stare. “Well, since you seem to be having problems with your place and- you know how I hate being alone so much. I know it’s not as close to your school but it’s only one extra train stop. Plus it would be cheaper if we both paid rent and-”

“Makoto.”

He jerks to a stop, his grin turning sheepish. “Sorry, Haru. I just thought I’d suggest it, you know, since…” Makoto doesn’t finish that sentence. Haru doesn’t have the confidence either to fill in what he hopes Makoto is actually getting at, but he can’t stop his brain from thinking it nonetheless.Since things are changing between us.

“Okay.” He agrees before his brain can even catch up to his mouth. 

“Huh?”

“Okay, I’ll move here.” He rushes to add, “Ah- as long as you’re sure, I mean.”

“Of course I’m sure!” Makoto jumps to amend, giddiness causing his voice to rise in pitch. “Are you sure?”

He can’t help but chuckle. Makoto is just too cute sometimes. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Before he can process anything more, Makoto achieves a miracle feat of super speed, sliding his mug onto the coffee table and scooping Haru unto a bone-crushing hug all in a matter of seconds. “I’m so happy, Haru-chan,” Makoto muffles into his shirt, face tucked against Haru’s shoulder. He’s not sure if that cold, almost wet feeling on his skin is just Makoto’s still chilled nose or if his best friend is actually crying right now with joy, which is adorably amusing, but either way he sort of likes it. They’re touching all over now: Makoto’s chest pressed to his, their necks flush against each other, and if Haru were to relax, they would be aligned from head to hip with the way Makoto is practically sitting in his lap. And, he has to ask himself once more, shouldn’t that be weird?

He feels a smile tugging at his own lips, and with an exhale he accepts the hug, returning it with equal force. Makoto’s body burns against him, but it’s like the hearth of a fireplace that warms a home during the peak of winter. Haru buries his own face against Makoto’s heat and heaves a sigh of relief, because no, it’s never been weird, and he’s certain that when it comes to them, no matter where they are, it never will be. He laughs, shaky but relieved, because things are changing between them, and he whispers into Makoto’s hair with choked sincerity,

“I’m really happy too.”

#WHY ISN'T TUMBLR LETTING ME PUT THIS UNDER A READ MORE HELP #UGHHH #makoharu #fanfiction #my fanfiction #drabbles #mh in tokyo #nanasetallyn #THIS PROMPT ENDED UP BEING A LOT CUTER AND FLUFFIER THAN I IMAGINED #SORRY FOR THE OPEN ENDING IM TRYING TO PRACTICE WRITING NOT SMUT/FIRST KISSES ALL THE TIME #asks #lol guys dont worry i fixed it