#i am talking about novelty socks

[sterek8nights]

Our Future In These Photographs

Another Hanukkah fic!

For the Sterek8Nights Bingo squares: gift exchange, combining, family

on ao3 here

Please check out the prompts and the bingo card and join me in Hanukkah-ing Sterek!

____

Derek looked around the store forlornly. Nothing here was right, and he was starting to panic. Hanukkah started in three days, and he still didn’t have anything for Stiles.

So, he did what he usually did when he had a problem he needed help with and he couldn’t call Stiles: he called Stiles’ dad, and texted Boyd.

“Still can’t think of what to get him, huh?” John answered in lieu of a greeting, and Derek groaned. The man may be the actual Sheriff, and his kind of father-in-law, but it was often irritating how much he noticed.

“No. And I am this close to just giving him my credit card and setting him lose at that little occult shop on Denton that has the actual magic stuff in the basement,” Derek not-quite whined.

John chuckles, and even though Derek’s annoyed, the sound is comforting in its familiarity. “As much as he’d enjoy that, I’m not sure that your bank account, or his bookshelves, really need to take that hit, son.” 

It’s Derek’s turn to laugh then. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs.

That’s when he sees it, tucked under a little stack of sweaters, clearly discarded by a customer that couldn’t be bothered to return it to its proper place. A silver picture frame with intricate designs set into the metal. Derek snatches it up and says a hasty goodbye to John, citing an epiphany and barely catching the “Good luck, kid,” that he tacks on before Derek hangs up and shoves his phone into his pocket.

After a quick stop at his family’s vault, and another to the Stilinksi residence, he rushes home, glad to beat Stiles there, and hurries to his office to wrap his gifts.

***

The first night of Hanukkah is spent with John at his house, with just the three of them, starting the week off with a relative calm before various combinations of friends and co-workers, and the pack all invade Derek and Stiles’ house for the other days.

After lighting the menorah, and eating the latkes they had all made together, they head to the living room to exchange gifts, Derek and Stiles give John a trip for the three of them to see the Mets and a stay in a really nice hotel for a few days. He tries to protest, but Stiles has already arranged the time off for him, so he hugs them both and starts talking about what else they can do while they’re in New York.

John commits to what he insists are “traditional Hanukkah gifts”, and gives them both packages of novelty socks and matching t-shirts with photo realistic wolves howling at the moon on the front. Stiles cackles and hugs his dad even as he complains about not being a kid anymore, but John waves his protests off. “You know how this works, kid. Socks are tradition! I just picked a package at random, you could’ve just as easily gotten an art kit, or something surprising!” he defends with a smirk, knowing that they all not-so-secretly find it hilarious to get three or four nights of “useful” presents amid all the rest.

“At least it’s not underwear,” Derek jokes, only for Stiles to look him in the eye and waggle his eyebrows in a way that never fails to make Derek feel fond, even though it’s objectively ridiculous.

“Maybe not from dad,” Stiles replies, making Derek blush, eyes darting furiously to John, and then back to Stiles.

John groans, loud and long-suffering. “That’s more than I need to know, son,” he complains good naturedly, tossing the balled-up wrapping paper from his gift at Stiles and hitting him square on the nose. After a few moments of shared laughter and a brief wrapping paper war, John announces it’s time for the two of them to exchange their gifts.

Stiles scrambles to grab his box, wrapped in shimmery blue and surprisingly heavy for its size when Stiles sets it in Derek’s hand. He watches expectantly as Derek unwraps it carefully. Inside the box are two stones; one is about half the size of Derek’s palm, the other is quarter-sized and on a necklace, they’re both practically glowing, and Derek realizes it’s the same shimmer the wrapping paper had.

“They carry the most powerful protection spell I could find,” Stiles explains. “The big one, you bury in your yard and it will keep the house and a good amount of the surrounding forest safe. The small one you wear,” he says, wrapping his hands around Derek’s. “As a bonus feature, if you hold the pendant, it sends a little buzz to me through my spark, so you can tell me you’re thinking of me, or hold it longer, and it’s like the Bat-signal signal.”

Derek manages a slightly awed smile as he looks up at Stiles from where he was watched they tangled hands, and a “I love it, thank you,” that’s a little more choked up than he’d like to admit before Stiles pulls him close for a brief, chaste kiss.

“You’re welcome. Happy Hanukkah, Der,” Stiles says into the small space between them. “Now where’s mine?” he asks with mock-seriousness, successfully resetting the mood.

Derek scoffs and rolls his eyes, as is expected of him, and carefully hands Stiles his meticulously wrapped box.

Stiles is not a careful-unwrapper, but he takes his time with this one, maybe he picked up on Derek and John’s excitement.

When the wrapping paper is off, Stiles looks between Derek and John quizzically, his fingers hovering over the edges of the outer box. “What did you two do?” Stiles asks, eyes narrowing.

John puts both hands up in a calming gesture, but Derek barks out an anxious “Open it,” and then immediately regrets it when they both look at him like he’s lost his mind. Derek huffs out a laugh and ruffles his own hair. “Sorry. I was really anxious about what to get you; your dad helped when I figured it out.”

Stiles grins wide. He loves that his dad and his boyfriend get along so well. He is also insanely curious about what’s in the box.

He lifts the lid off the box and runs delicate fingers over the tissue paper folded over the contents, peeling it away slowly. Once it’s out of the way, Stiles gasps, a hand flying to his mouth.

Inside the box are two not-quite identical silver frames. 

In one, is a picture of Stiles, John, Derek, Cora, and Peter with the rest of the pack, on the giant porch at Stiles and Derek’s house. In the other, is a similar picture, except it’s on the porch at the old Hale house, and the pack in the picture is Derek’s family. Derek is maybe three years old, Peter barely a teenager, and Cora and Stiles are technically there, too, because in the middle of the photograph are Talia and Claudia, both very pregnant, with their arms thrown around each other. John is on the other side of Stiles’ mom, absolutely beaming at the camera.

Stiles looks up at Derek and his dad, eyes wet with unshed tears. He knew that his parents were friends with the Hales, had seen the occasional photo – mostly in boxes of his mother’s things in the attic – but he’d never seen this specific picture before, never a picture of him and Derek together, because the Hales had distanced themselves when John got promoted at the Sheriff’s department, not wanting him to have to lie about the supernatural in any official capacity, so they’d missed out on being in each other’s lives until they met again as teenagers.

“Der,” Stiles whispers, tracing the edges of the frames.

“I found that frame, the newer one, and I remembered a similar one from the vault that I’d seen years ago. With that picture. It, uh. It didn’t mean anything at the time, it was so long ago, but I brought it here, and your dad told me a little about that time–”

“There’s an envelope in the box, with some things your moms both wrote, and some I wrote out,” John interrupts gently. Derek nods at him gratefully.

Stiles has the envelope out and open before his dad finishes speaking, not exactly reading, more just tracing the shape of his mom’s handwriting, taking in the curl of Talia’s and John’s neat, tight lettering. He looks up again, carefully placing the precious papers back in the box, and half launching-half falling into Derek’s arms. Derek wraps his arms around Stiles without having to think about it.

“I love you,” Stiles says into Derek’s neck.

“I love you, too,” Derek replies mostly into Stiles’ shoulder.

Stiles spreads out one arm towards his dad and waves his hand around. “Come here, Pops, get in on this family hug STAT,” he demands, slightly muffled from how he hasn’t quite turned his head out of Derek’s neck. John obliges with minimal grunting and groaning about being too old to be on the floor, and Derek and Stiles tug him into the hug, all of  them a little sniffly. “Love you, dad. Thank you.”

“Aw, hell, kid, I love you, too,” John replies, “Have I told you recently that you did alright with picking that Hale kid to marry?” he teases.

“We’re not married, dad.”

“Yet,” Derek corrects, and Stiles pulls away quickly, only managing to avoid whacking Derek and his dad with his head because of Derek’s reflexes.

“Yet?!” he squwaks. When Derek only shrugs, he adds “Derek Hale, if you are planning on making me cry again this Hanukkah, I am going to be so mad at you.”

John laughs, knowing full well that Stiles has a ring and a whole plan for sometime before New Year’s. Derek though? Derek pulls Stiles back in, says “I promise, no more crying presents,” and wracks his brain for what to get for Stiles for the next seven nights.

Maybe he can move up his proposal plan?

#sterek fic #eternalsterek #sterek8nights #sterek event #sterek prompt #sterek bingo #sterek holidays

[a-luran]

39. Scoteng ;)

He finds Arthur standing in the hallway, his back to the open living room door and gesturing widely, one-handed, the way he only does when he’s had a few drinks. There’s a bottle in his other hand, held loosely by the neck, and Alasdair takes from him as he slots himself to his back.

Arthur leans back into him despite grumbling a token protest against the theft of his drink.

“Get your own,” he says, and out here in the hall, away from the beaten speakers, he doesn’t have to raise his voice.

Alasdair squeezes his hip to hush him, already taking a swing from the bottle… and immediately makes a face when the cloying taste of not-quite-apricot and hops hits his tongue. Sour, bitter, and sickly-sweet, it fizzes in his mouth even after he clicks his tongue in regretful distaste.

“What’s this yer drinking?” he asks, turning the bottle in his hand to read its label. Fruit beer, it reads in neat calligraphy, not cider, and Alasdair never wants to see those words in close proximity again in his life.

Arthur snorts a mean laugh at his expense and taps Alasdair’s forearm with the back of his hand, wordlessly asking for his drink back. Alasdair lets him have it and makes a low sound of sympathetic disgust when Arthur takes another swig.

“There’s a half rack of Tennents in the kitchen,” Matthew offers helpfully, and maybe Alasdair is a little drunker than he though if it took him this long to notice him there, standing across from Arthur with a shoulder pressed to the hallway wall and a hand stuffed into the front pocket of his jeans. He’s holding a match to Arthur’s bottle in the other, half-full. Strawberries climb up a winding vine on the sepia label.

“So, off you go,” Arthur bids him leave despite the way he sways back into Alasdair’s body, loose and trusting, before standing straight again.

Alasdair gives his hip another gentle squeeze.

“Am I interrupting?”

“Yes,” Arthur says at the same time as Matthew, who pitches in with a sheepish, “No.”

“In any case.” Arthur brings the beer to his lips but doesn’t take a drink. He’s turned back slightly so he can meet Alasdair’s eyes and the way he licks the lip of his bottle doesn’t seem deliberate, but it feels pointed. “What’s it to you?”

“It’s late,” Alasdair says, and means that he’s looking to head home; leaves no room for doubt by pulling Arthur back with a finger hooped into his belt loop so he’s pressed into the cradle of Alasdair’s hips.

“Hardly,” Arthur retorts lightly because he’s stubborn as they come, and god forbid he lets Alasdair take him home at a reasonable hour to fit in a fuck before they crash, piled together into the thick mattress bought for them with his last pay check.

It’s a pillow top; not that Arthur would know since he’s been catching cat naps on the sunken couch in the living room while he grades stacks of late-due papers. Ungrateful sod.

“Early start tomorrow?” Matthew asks, and Alasdair wonders absently if the lad’s misunderstood the tightening of his lips or if he is always so nervous as this. “We were talking about movies.”

“What, all of them?” Alasdair’s sarcasm is in the crook of his smile, which doesn’t falter even when Arthur shifts his weight to step on his toes.

It helps that he’s wearing steel-toed boots and Arthur’s in novelty cotton socks.

Matthew laughs, ducking his face and fiddling with the peeling label on his bottle. When he looks up again he looks centred; eyes clear in the sea of neon and washed out lampshades of a flat party dragging past midnight. An just like that Alasdair remembers why Arthur likes him.

“We just got through a few,” Matthew says smiles easily when he pushes away from the wall. “But that does remind me that I should probably find Lars before he slips away. I promised to lend him a box set. I’ll see you at the screening,” he says to Arthur first before addressing them both. “You in the plural, if German horror is your thing.”

It’s not, but for Arthur’s sake he’ll sit through whatever arthouse film he has lined up for them both. As for Matthew himself—

Ah, to be young and bright and a little cocky; pride emboldened by sour beer and the captive attention of someone admired.

“Have a good night Matthew,” Arthur interjects before Alasdair can try something smart. “And congratulations on your dissertation. Really, it was wonderfully done.”

Alasdair waits until Matthew slips away, smile wide and dimpled cheeks flushed, before turning Arthur in his arms.

“Playing favourites?” is the first thing he says, grin sharp and teasing and lacking any true reproach.

Arthur rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his beer.

“Brilliant,” Alasdair makes a mockery of Arthur’s accent which has been getting more expressive by the hour, the first syllables of his words lingering on the tip of his tongue. “Wonderfully done.”

“It is brilliant,” he defends in his academic voice and Alasdair pulls him closer by the belt loops of his jeans to derail him before he can get started. “And he’s not my student. There’s no playing favourites.” He pauses. “Technically.”

Arthur squints his eyes and tilts his chin up and they’re so close that Alasdair wants to bite him. His chin, his jaw, the plushness of his lower lip. His breath smells sweet  and Alasdair’s…

“Bummed a fag off Michelle, did you?” Arthur asks. The sharp edge of his smile deepens the dimple on his left cheek.

Alasdair hums. Michelle, who is another of Arthur’s not-students— and really, she is more of a colleague these days—, offered him a menthol three beers ago. He’s been trying to cut back because Arthur doesn’t like the taste of tar on his tongue.

If his mouth tastes anything like the swill he’s drinking, though, he can cope with Alasdair’s nicotine dependence for one night. They’re well matched like that. Always have been.

They are not standing so close together that their fronts brush but it’s no matter. Alasdair runs hot enough that he knows Arthur can feel him and it draws him closer without having to prompt him. Alasdair teases the edge of his thumb against the dip of his waist anyway, quietly inviting.

“Home, then?” Arthur’s voice deepens, and his eyes seem heavier, the way they get when he’s starting to feel the buzz of alcohol in his blood.

Alasdair hums again and lowers his head so they’re closer in height. Enough so that he can speak to him in a low rasp.

“I want to see those pretty lips wrapped around my cock.”

Arthur blinks slowly; tilts his head like he’s considering it.

“See, and here I was thinking I missed your mouth.”

Alasdair feels the corners of his mouth twitch up.

“That as well.”

If Arthur was wearing his Docs he’d be tall enough to kiss without having to bend his neck any further. If they were alone, he would, and later tonight he will. He’ll kiss Arthur until he’s panting and then work his mouth between his legs until Arthur is tearing at his hair and Alasdair’s jaw is sore.

“It’s a good thing I won’t be needing my voice tomorrow, then.” Arthur’s voice is low and playful in a way Alasdair hasn’t heard in months and something in his chest unwinds, beneath the lust.

What Arthur isn’t saying is that he’s tired; that he’s felt run down for weeks. His voice is already rough from hours spent projecting it across seminar groups that seem to swell in number every semester while his pay stays the same and the threat of his funding running short looms large over the hours he manages to put into his thesis between lessons.

It would be cruel to make him work for his pleasure, no matter that Arthur likes the weight of Alasdair on his tongue. So, Alasdair let his hand settle firmly on Arthur’s waist and thinks. Conjures the image of Arthur shaking apart on his fat tongue until the tension finally drains from his limbs and he’s easy; loose enough that Alasdair can pull him into his lap and rock into him, sheathed to the hilt and hitting so deep inside him that Arthur sobs.

He lets his knuckle brush against the front of Arthur’s slacks.

“Now, I said I wanted your pretty lips wrapped around my cock,” he lowers his voice to a whisper. “Who said anything about your mouth?”

They leave the party without so much as a hasty goodbye, pressing past Michelle in the entryway who takes one look at Alasdair’s hand pressed to Arthur’s lower back as they disappear down the street, and laughs, her breath tinged with mint.

#scoteng #aph scotland #aph england #hws scotland #hws england #transtalia #uni AU #human au #in case this wasn't obvious Arthur is trans #YOUS THOUGHT I HAD FORGOTTEN ABOUT THESE PROMPTS BUT I HAVE NOT #i just haven't been well orz #but i'm working through it and working through these in turn!

[sweetcatastrophex]

multifaceted me

i miss the chaos of it all  the unruly moment after impulsive moment  a fuzzy socks late night coated with honey laughter melted chocolate chips on our fingertips a rapture of belly laughter from the other room and we cried out  in joy  i miss falling asleep by accident, too early  and creating with abandon. trusting my fingers, never doubting my mind  knowing the process but just knowing  feeling the intuition of it all letting the words flow outward from within me, carefully chosen combinations  i miss doing what i want in the moment that i want to do it  and i resent my imagined limitations. modern reminders of insecurity these lessons forged in my brain that test me, prod me poke me til i’m blue in the face forcing me to recollect. to be steadfast in my foundation, revisit my roots like a brief vacation  a coming to  a remembering and i think. like camus told us we should  we reflect i miss stumbling in the dark on a wooded trail i miss studying the stone carvings in the walkway at whitman’s house i miss the anticipation before my violin teacher would speak  and the praise and the criticism and the growth of it all  i miss the spontaneity of the youth. a camping trip with the girls making handwritten letters and listing our inside jokes  i miss the songs that made me yearn for a magical future  and stoked something within me that makes this passion i miss the nose piercings and the clashing egos and the heartache  the scribbled notes under bedtime pillows or on restaurant napkins  the music, the books, the questions, the arguments, the invigorating conversations the pages of my journal alive and dancing with emerson, whitman, thoreau quotes but also sprinkled with warsan shire, aztra tabassum and andrea gibson reciting my favorite ts eliot poem to anyone who would listen  caring for cold blooded pets and talking to turtles  thinking about the pyramids and the people i met in the red sea  did they like to meet me?  i miss the caring. the opposite of this apathy that knows me well and who has taken up residence at my sister’s house i miss the red hair and the humor of it all. there to be embraced or ignored. i’ve learned it’s really up to you i miss the thrill. meeting new people and learning about the planet  running into the same strangers over and over again and knowing their faces finding my friends in a crowd. sleeping on the floor after too much jager  i miss the free time and the movies. the novelty of first times.  i miss the jumping into freezing cold pools every morning and being alone with my thoughts and running miles and miles and still being alone with my thoughts i’ve considered many things and have formed many opinions and i’m grateful i miss interpreting ray carver however i want and visiting weird museums  i miss getting in trouble for taking so many pictures with my camera  and developing photos in chemical baths and embracing the inevitable imperfections i miss the alone 3 ams, reveling in the silent stillness thinking it’s the perfect time to write poetry i miss the confidence, the polka dots and patterns  the mismatching and experimenting and seeing what fits  the trying and the mistakes the moons and the suns, the printed photographs, the tree sap incense i miss the glitter of the moon over the water  and wondering about later, romanticizing i miss the scratching sound of the ice  i miss the colors, the glints of light that hit all the parts of multifaceted me  most of all  i miss me

#11.29.2021 #poetry #poem #fragments #me #multifaceted me

[wri0thesley]

ahem here is a self indulgent domestic nanami x reader fanfiction that i also posted on ao3. u can tell i wrote it bc i looked at nanami and said ‘that’s a man that wears sock garters and that’s very sexy of him’

routine // 3k words // nanami x reader warnings: afab reader, fem pronoun, domestic stuff, nsfw, fingering, creampie, idk pals i’m just thirsty

You don’t mind the mundane.

No, that’s not quite it. It’s not that you don’t mind the mundane – you do, when it becomes sticky and muddled and drags on and on and on. You’ve been trapped in an endless cycle like that before; allowing life to happen to you, as trade-off for simplicity. Planning things that didn’t materialise. You hadn’t realised that’s what you were doing, at the time – but looking back on it now, it’s clear as day, because it was exactly what had been happening to him.

Your life is not mundane. Your life is . . . routine.

Yes, that’s right. You stick to a schedule. You keep time. You plan things – and it’s not mundane, not any more, because this time as you stick to your routine, Nanami is right there beside you.

It’s domestic. Comfortable. Oh, you worry about him – he comes home enough times with scrapes and bruises he didn’t have before and tells you about his day, world-weary – but you also know he’s more than strong enough to withstand. You curl up next to him whilst he reads a book, or whilst you watch television. You cook for him on the few days off that he snatches for himself (though he often wraps himself around you whilst you do cook, directing you or helping. He’s a better cook than you, but you have more time than him). You drape yourself over the back of his armchair sometimes and work on the knots in his neck.

“You get too stressed,” you tell him. His lips quirk into a brief curve of a smile before they return to their usual position.

“Maybe,” he says. “But you help me with that.”

For all of the unusual things in your lives, your existence is uncomplicated. You watch weight roll off of him when he comes in through the front door and is once more safely ensconced in a little slice of home. You and he share the household duties; he’s meticulous and careful, and you admire him sometimes when you think he’s not watching for being so . . . balanced, you suppose.

(“That’s you, too,” he tells you. He shrugs. “Everyone else . . . they’re living absolute chaos. But I get to come back after I clock off, to you, and . . . this.” He gestures to the little home. It’s nothing special. It’s neat and tidy and small and the two of you have reasonable savings in the bank. Responsible. You think he keeps you balanced, too.)

But . . .

Well. He’s not always so in-control.

He hadn’t sounded harried when he’d called you. He doesn’t often; instead, his voice had been calm. You know Nanami well enough to know when there’s frustration bubbling under the surface, but his tone had been smooth.

“I’ll be home late,” he’d said. “Don’t wait up.”

“Overtime?” You’d asked, already looking at the pot boiling on the stove and wondering if it could be salvaged for tomorrow’s dinner. Nanami had paused, and then sighed.

“Mm.”

You don’t let yourself worry too much. Nanami handles whatever is thrown at him – he’s always in control, poised. . . The most you see him frustrated is from calls from Gojo in the middle of the night.

You put your own phone away. There’s no use in concern yet, you tell yourself.

You don’t start to worry until you crawl into bed without having heard from him. This is late, even for him. You try not to let your anxiety eat away at you as you close your eyes and lay your head on the pillow, but the scent of him permeates every part of your bedroom. One of his shirts hangs loosely on the back of the wardrobe door. The drawer on his side of the bed that contains a collection of novelty ties (bought by you, because you’d thought they were funny – and Nanami had smiled at the first one, and laughed at the second, so you just hadn’t stopped) is still half-open from him rifling through it this morning.

The click of a key in the front door makes you let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. The sound of footsteps on the wooden floorboards, a familiar, steady cadence, makes you let go of sheets you hadn’t realised you were clutching.

Nanami’s head rounds the door.

“You’re late,” you tell him.

“I am,” he affirms. He steps into the room proper and you see that his shirt-sleeves are rolled up, and there’s a splash of blood on his left shoulder. He probably was in more bother than he let on, then. You don’t think it’s his blood, at least. He sighs. “I’m sorry. I don’t like it any more than you do.”

You sag. You know it’s part and parcel of what he does – and so, you move in the bed from where you’ve unconsciously pressed yourself into his side to breathe in the familiar scent of him. You know Nanami doesn’t miss you’ve done it – he comes to sit on the edge of the bed as he meticulously undoes his tie.

He reaches over to you and cups your cheek in his hand, his fingers warm and calloused.

“How about I make it up to you?” He asks, and you sigh as he breaches the gap and kisses you. Everything about his kiss is familiar and comforting – you’re pressing back against him before you even think about it, hand coming to tangle in the neatly combed hair. He tastes like coffee, and it makes your eyes open against the kiss and check the time. It’s late. Nanami generally prefers to be sleeping by now. You'd once laughed and told him he was boring, and he'd raised his eyebrows and smiled as he'd told you that sleep was important. After spending the night wrapped around him, your head on his chest, listening to the beat of his heart - you'd been inclined to agree.

“Aren’t you tired?” You murmur, breaking the kiss yourself. Nanami quirks an eyebrow at you. The hand still on your face brushes across your cheekbone tenderly. You don’t think anyone who works with Nanami imagines him like this – messy-haired, half-undressed, his stoic composure gone to softness. Every time he even half-smiles, your heart feels like it will ricochet out of his rib-cage, but when he looks at you now you get the full thing.

“Too tired for you? Never.” He shifts on the bed, shrugging off his suspenders along with the stained shirt. He’ll do that laundry himself – he always does, when it’s bloodstains. “Besides,” he breathes as his hands move to stroke over your shoulders, his breath tickling the junction where your neck and collarbone meet and making you shiver. “I still have plenty of energy to work off before I can get to sleep peacefully.”

“Well,” you swallow. “I’d hate to be the reason you don’t get a fulfilling night’s rest—”

The bed covers are swept off of you. When Nanami has made up his mind to do something, he does it – and right now, it appears what he’s made up his mind to do is you. His hands are big on your hips, sliding up the loose shirt of your pyjamas. You let out a soft huff of breath as he pushes them up over your breasts that makes him lean in and kiss your neck, his teeth scraping the sensitive flesh. Your fingers flex on his shoulders as he cages you underneath him.

“Oh,” he promises against the skin. “When we’re done, I’ll rest very easy.”

You lose the shirt just as quickly as Nanami lost his, and then you both stop talking. Nanami is the kind of man who doesn’t use a hundred words when one or two will do – he’s happy to have conversations, when conversation is the name of the game . . . but conversation is not the name of the game when his mouth is busy kissing your neck, your throat, your collarbone . . . When his lips are wrapping around your nipple and teasing it to a hardened point until you moan aloud.

In the pit of your stomach is heat and fire and need. When Nanami moves against you and your thighs press together, you can already feel that you’re slick and warm with the promise of what is still to come – and when Nanami, too, moves, you can tell that he’s looking forward to things just as much as you are.

His thumbs hook into the shorts of the nightwear set you were wearing. The fear of less than an hour ago seems to have dissipated in the wind – it’s hard to remember how worried you were when Nanami comes home fired up like this. He drags the fabric down your thighs, tsk-ing at how they catch.

“A nightgown or shirt would be more efficient,” he tells you. “You’re welcome to one of mine.”

Your cheeks heat up at the idea of sleeping in one of his shirts, and Nanami doesn’t miss how your skin warms underneath him. You’re so cute. He kisses you again so he doesn’t embarrass himself, this time peeling off your underwear (the thin cotton clings to your damp sex and your breath hitches at how it feels, peeling away).

“Are you going to tell me it’d be more efficient if I weren’t wearing them?” You say, your voice coming out low and husky.

“I’d be right if I did,” he tells you, but he’s far more preoccupied with the button and zip of his trousers. You reach over to help him with it, your hand brushing the hot, hard length of him through the fabric – you always forget just how big he is until you’re confronted once more. Your body gives a low throb of arousal, a reminder that the need inside of you requires sating sooner rather than later.

Nanami is patient. You are not.

There. The zip, the button – and Nanami is pulling off the fabric, leaving it too in a pool by the side of the bed that you know he will probably manage to get into the wash basket before it ever crosses your mind. He’s still wearing socks and sock garters, and whilst normally you’d laugh at him and make him take them off before he got into bed . . .

Well. There are more important things to think about right now, and you can’t deny that the sock garters are endearing.

His cock brushes against your thigh and you start, a soft noise escaping your lips that makes him look down at you tenderly. He tips his head to the side in a silent question and you nod in a silent answer – his fingers push your thighs further apart, sinking into plush flesh, stroking along the slick outer lips of your sex--

His knuckle brushes the swollen bundle of nerves of your clit and you sigh, your hips bucking up for more of the friction. You know that this is just him being kind – a precursor to the main event – but you still can’t help but greedily seek out more and more of him. He clicks his tongue again.

“You’re so impatient sometimes,” he chides, though his cock hard and hot against your skin is just as impatient as you are. He slides one of his fingers inside you, your walls clinging tight to the digit. He pumps it in and out of you, once, twice – and then, a second finger is inside you, stretching you out. One of your hands twists into the sheets as you helplessly let him fuck into you with his fingers. You know that he’s doing it in preparation for fucking you – he often does – but it doesn’t mean that you’re any less impatient for the main event.

“You’re teasing me,” you tell him, breathlessly. He smiles, more to himself than to you.

“I suppose so,” he replies. He’s enjoying it. You know he is – tension is draining from his shoulders the more he looks at you, the fingers still plunging in and out of you growing more lax and liquid in their movements. The sound of him inside you is lasciviously loud in your bedroom. You don’t mind helping him work out his tension – whether with cuddling up to him, or cooking together, or massaging the knots from his back – but you do mind when he teases you--

“Please,” you say, breathlessly, your hips rocking in time with his hand. He can never resist it when you’re polite.

His fingers come out of you with an audible slick noise.

“You’re ready, anyway,” he murmurs. He absent-mindedly places the two fingers that were buried inside you against his tongue, tasting you – your cheeks are hot again at the way he tips his head back, savouring the taste of you. Just another little moment of intimacy. It’s not unusual, but that doesn’t make it feel any less erotic.

He cradles you like you’re something precious as he settles heavy between your thighs. His hands on your hips are certain. There’s a warmth about Nanami that few people are privileged enough to see – one you’re privileged enough to see every night and every morning, when he wakes up next to you sleep-tousled or comes in and leaves a warm package from your favourite bakery in front of you that he picked up on his way home.

You breath through the initial sting as he stretches you out on him, and then there is nothing but the pleasure of being filled. You feel yourself mould to his cock inside you, your walls snugly accepting him, hot and wet around his shaft. Your arms wrap around his shoulders and as he bottoms out inside of you, for a moment you two are joined entirely. You can feel his heart beating against yours.

“I love you,” you breathe, against the shell of his ear. He kisses at your neck in return, his voice very soft as he returns the affirmation of one of his own. He is not one for sappy declarations – he is a man of small acts of service. Still. He speaks it against your skin and it feels like a tattoo on your heart.

“I love you too.”

After that, neither of you speak. Instead, you concentrate on Nanami’s powerful hips as they roll against you, his cock brushing the sensitive spots of your wall, stoking the flame inside of you that’s been steadily burning since the moment he untied his tie. You concentrate on moving your own body in tandem with his, the squeeze of your channel around him, the way that he grinds himself just so against your clit with every thrust so that your body feels fizzing with unreleased promise.

His mouth against your collarbones and neck. Your nails digging into his shoulders. He’s well-built despite seeming nondescript in his suit and tie – you’re heart-achingly familiar with the taut muscle making up his arms and backs. The places he’s scarred, even after being healed up.

You can hear him breathing heavier and heavier against your ear as his peak nears. Your own is rushing up on you, as Nanami’s hips begin to rock quicker and quicker, his cock plunging impossibly deep into you with every drive. You think, for a wild moment, he’s going to come first, despite the fact he’s always been nothing but the gentleman in control of himself no matter how many times the two of you become one--

And then, the hot ball of fire in the pit of your stomach becomes overwhelming and bursts into pieces, wet heat soaking you, waves of pleasure lapping at you as your body shakes and constricts around him. Everything is so hot. His body above yours is burning, warm, needful--

Your nails have dug into his skin hard enough to leave crescent shaped marks, but Nanami is chasing his own release now, his eyes clouded with lust as he looks down at you. Aftershocks of your own orgasm make your channel pulsate around him--

You’re tender as you pull him down by the neck and kiss him, teeth worrying at his bottom lip – and he groans into your mouth at the same time as you feel his cock inside you twitch, and the heat of his come fill you. That’s not a problem. You’ve talked about that plenty of times – both of you agree that you’re happy the way you are. Children are dangerous.

. . . But it’s nice to feel claimed by him. Nice to have him rest hot and heavy inside you, like a marker of his affection even as he’s pulling out of you and leaving you full and heavy and sticky. He smooths kisses onto your brow. He doesn’t murmur sweet words against you, but you know he’s thinking them if only from the way he holds you and the way that his hands dance over your skin like you’re the most precious thing in the world to him.

(You are; and he is to you, though neither of you say it aloud. In the sanctity of the quiet bedroom, though, both of you know it as an absolute fact.)

He’s breathing heavy as he sits on the edge of the bed again, reaching down to undo his sock garters and remove the socks themselves. The tell-tale rustle of clothing and slam of the drawers on his side of the bed tell you he’s neatly folding the dirtied garments and getting out something to wear in bed himself.

“Are you tired now?” You ask him. Nanami turns his head to look at you, and you can see the tell-tale sign of shadows under his eyes.

“Yes,” he says. You laugh, and the sound seems like pealing bells to him. You wrap an arm about his waist and pull him against the bedsheets, curling a leg over his, wrapping yourself around him in an embrace that he at first resists before leaning into.

“It’s easier if you don’t get dressed.” You mumble against his neck, as you nestle yourself into the crook of his shoulders. Nanami uses one arm to pull up the bed covers he stripped from you earlier. “More . . .” You stifle your own yawn. “More efficient, if we decide to waste time in the morning.”

The covers wrap around both of you, the wrinkled clothes forgotten (Nanami will tut at himself in the morning, but for now, he’s enjoying your body so close to his).

“Time with you,” he says softly, “is never wasted time.”

#writing #not jojo #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #nanami x reader #not sfw #i am not a multi fandom blog.... YET!!!! #jjk posting #jjk writing tag

[mskatesharma]

Anthony is lounging on the sofa, stretched out and content after a long day. He and Kate have no plans that evening, and he is looking forward to vegging out with some Netflix. He’s also hoping that he can convince her to order in, knows that they’ve both had long days at work, and the last thing Anthony wants to do is inspect the contents of the fridge and have to come up with a meal.

He feels lips press to his forehead, and Anthony closes his eyes as he breathes in his favourite scent of soap and lillies. He will never admit it to anyone other than Kate, but he adores forehead kisses, and the way they make you feel loved and adored all at once. Her lips linger, and Anthony revels in the warmth that spreads through him.

Kate removes her lips and Anthony opens his eyes, the curve of his mouth immediate as his vision is filled with Kate’s face, upside down as she looks at something on the other end of the sofa. Not that Anthony minds of course as he leans his head back a little further; from this vantage point and Kate’s current position bending over him, he has a fantastic view down the front of her loose T-shirt.

He’s just about to make a comment that’s sure to earn him a blush when Kate speaks first. “Are you wearing my socks?”

Anthony’s eyes immediately swivel down to his feet which are currently adorned with a pair of socks. Socks which he may or may not have taken from Kate’s drawer. “I don’t believe so, no.”

“Anthony.”

“Katherine.”

“Ant.”

“Kat.”

“Tony.”

“Katie.”

“Anton.”

“Kathy.”

“Anthony!” Her face has steadily got closer to his; her nose is practically touching his forehead. “Those are my socks!”

“Hmm, I must ask for proof Ms Sharma.” Before he’s even finished speaking, Kate makes a move towards his feet. Just as she rounds the corner of the armrest, Anthony snags an arm around her waist and pulls her on top of him. Her squeals are music to his ears, and he leans his head up to bury his nose in her hair.

“Anthony!”

“This is much better.”

“Ugh, let me go!” She wriggles against him, but Anthony just holds tighter. “And take my socks off! Why are you even wearing them?”

“Stop wriggling. And I think you’ll find these are my socks. They were gifted to me.” Kate manages to wrestle an arm free, and slides it under her back and pinches Anthony’s stomach. “Ow.” He holds her tighter still, trapping her arm in an awkward position.

“UGGHH.” Anthony revels in the struggle. “And you let me have them because you didn’t like them!” Anthony supposes that Kate is correct; he had received the socks at Christmas in the Bridgerton family Secret Santa, no doubt by a sibling determined to piss him off.

It’s not that they’re novelty socks, in fact, Anthony appreciates a good novelty sock. It’s just that this particular pair is covered in corgis, and while Anthony used to have no particular thoughts regarding corgis, that changed when Kate had been introduced to his life; Kate and her dog Newton.

His siblings had taken to exclusively referring to Anthony as corgi dad, or Newton’s Papa. It had started before he and Kate had even began dating, when Newton had run off during a walk, and it had ended with Anthony somehow dumped in the Serpentine. Anthony had been positive that the dog had done it on purpose. He can still picture Kate trying her hardest not to laugh at the picture he’s sure he made, and failing miserably, while trying to tell him that Newton was just effusive about life. He hadn’t been convinced, especially when a soggy Newton had trotted over and shaken out his fur right in front of him.

“I think they happen to look rather fetching, wouldn’t you agree?” He wiggles his toes for effect.

“Hmm no, I wouldn’t. Take. Them. Off.”

“Don’t think I will.”

“Anthony, your fat feet are going to stretch them out!” He loosens his grip just enough to flip them over, Kate’s face smooshed against the pillow his head has just been resting on. He smooths her hair out of the way and lays a kiss on the back of her neck. Kate awkwardly swats at him in response. “Anthony!”

“Fat feet? I think you know that my feet are in proportion to the rest of my body, thank you.”

Her breaths are heavy from the slight exertion, and her voice muffled by the cushion. “Well they’re still going to stretch the socks. Your toe is going to poke a hole through them! Take them off.” She tries to arch her back in an effort to dislodge him, but Anthony simply drops his hips a little more. He leans down to her ear.

“Stop struggling Kate.”

“Get off me then.”

“Only when you admit these are my socks.”

“You don’t even like them!”

“I think seeing them on your cute feet has made me jealous, and I realised what I’ve been missing out on.” He hears her scoff. “Maybe I should have been leaning into this whole corgi dad thing the whole time?”

“So should I get you a cap, to go along with the shirt?”

“Absolutely! I would like to have a matching set.” Kate stops struggling at his words. “I think it’s beyond time I accept Newton’s place in my life.”

“What are you up to?”

“I’m not up to anything.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“So untrusting Ms Sharma. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Where you’re concerned, one can’t be too suspicious.” He leans down to kiss her neck again, and is momentarily distracted by lillies. Kate must sense this.

With a move that Anthony will put down to the regular pilates, Kate somehow manages to turn herself over while also ensuring Anthony falls off the sofa. She peers down at him, an undignified heap on the floor, victoriously.

There’s a low growl in his throat at the look on her face. How is he supposed to resist the provocation that is her expression; as though she has utterly bested him and is reveling in her triumph.

“The absolute most I am willing to say is that I may have taken these socks from your designated drawer.”

“So you do admit you pilfered them then?!”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You just said you took them from my drawer.”

“I didn’t say they were your socks though.”

“Anthony!”

“I would be willing to give them back, but I want something in exchange.”

“You are in no position to be asking for things. You stole my socks.”

“You know they’re mine-”

“And you let me have them.”

“HOWEVER, I would be willing to cede possession to you for one thing.”

Her eyes narrow. “Ugh, what would that be?”

“Move in with me.”

“Anthony-” He knows what’s coming, it’s been a sore in their relationship for a few weeks now. He understands her concerns; how she doesn’t want to move too fast because they haven’t even been dating for a year yet, how she’s worried that people at work will talk and say she only gets the cases she does because she’s sleeping with the boss’s best friend.

He also knows that deep down, she’s worried that at some point, Anthony will turn around and tell her it’s all been a mistake. And while Anthony would love to show her the contents of the small jewellery box he has hidden in a hollowed out tax manual, he figures getting her to move in with him would be the best place to start. He takes her hand in his.

“Look I know what you’re going to say, but, would it be really that bad?” Her expression softens, and Anthony loves how his heart clenches. “I just...I just really miss you when you’re not here. I know we spend most nights together anyway, I just wish, it was more than that. I want all your stuff mixed in with mine. I want it to be every night, and I hate it when I go to sleep or wake up those times you’re back at your flat, instead of in my bed with me. I’m even willing to get Newton that ridiculous dog bed that Colin found. I want to share my life with you, I mean everything, and I just, I want to be near you all the time.”

He can see the tears welling in her eyes, and feels his own prick in response. “What I was going to say before you so wonderfully interrupted, was my tenancy is up in two months, and I don’t think I want to renew it. Because you see, my boyfriend has been bugging me to just move in with him, and my excuses have been half-hearted at best. I’ve been silly, because really, if I think about it properly for more than a second, then I want all those things too.”

He notices her eyes overflow, and then he’s off the floor and laying Kate back on the sofa, covering her body with his as he kisses away the tears.

“I love you so much.”

“I love you too, so much.” He’s about to lean down and kiss her like he’s been wanting to since he stole a look down her top, but she stops him with a finger to his lips.

“We will resume our conversation regarding the stolen property currently residing on your feet after our interlude here. I hope you didn’t think sweet words and the relationship milestone would cause me to forget?” Her eyebrow is raised and a thrill shoots up Anthony’s spine.

His smirk is automatic, and from the way she mirrors his expression, he knows she’s enjoying this too. “Of course not. I look forward to your desired retribution."

#kathony #anthony x kate #kate x anthony #anthony bridgerton #kate sharma #kate sheffield #kanthony #bridgerton fanfiction #kathony fic #my fic #loool i finished this ficlet from a few weeks ago because i read over it and somehow managed to reign my arse in #anyway im sorry if this is terrible #i had to post it before i did something stupid like keep on writing

[fabricated-misslieness]

♡〜 Hi! I’m the anon who requested the sova x reader x cypher. Sorry! I got a little wild 😅 Instead, could you do a fluff for it, cuddling with them both after a long day and just unwinding. Thank you! And again, I’m very sorry!! 🥺 〜♡

Cypher x gn reader x Sova

Ain’t love triangle rivalry stuff just some cute polygamy

Requested: Yes

Word Count: 614

(I have like no valorant pictures)

This was heaven, especially after the day you've had.

Cypher cuddles into your side, head on your shoulder, mask off. Even if his face was reserved for you and Sova, it still felt like a novelty to see it every day. While he had his eyes shut, you could tell he wasn’t sleeping. 

Sova lay half on your chest half off, in a sweetheart cradle. His hair seemed to completely engulf the arm you wrapped around him, but you weren’t one to complain; it felt soft. You loved to run your hands through it and even help him in the shower.

 “My day was terrible.” You sigh. Cypher is often the one in the middle; he’s the neediest, clingiest, and the attention seeker. You don’t blame him for liking that position, because god, does it feel wonderful. But today, well, your day had been awful. You were the center of attention for that reason. 

“And why is that?” Cypher’s words were slurred - because he was extremely comfortable and on the brink of falling asleep - but they were also full of worry.

“Omen and Yoru had this pact where they scare me every chance they get. They both teleport behind me and scare the shit out of me.” Your eyes close as you let out a sigh of frustration. Cypher plays with your fingers as an attempt to ease you while Sova rubs your cheek soothingly.

“I overheard them talking about it.” Cypher says. He’s about to speak up again until Sova says something.

“You overhear everything.”

It’s enough to earn a chuckle from you. “They’re cycling through the agents every day. You’re just unlucky to be the first one.”

“Why am I first? Brimstone would’ve been the funniest, honestly.” Although that situation goes one of two ways, no inbetween. Either he doesn’t get scared at all or he’s scared out of his socks. “But why?” 

“They both take joy from it, but they know eventually you guys won’t get scared anymore. Omen mentioned something about ‘Making them stronger this way’.” You gotta give it to him, it will help a small bit, except you’re not sure when that scenario will ever happen. “I disagree on the method, but we can’t really stop them.”

“You only disagree because you’re not the one doing it.” Sova remarks.

Cypher shrugs a little awkwardly, seeing as one shoulder is squished against the bed. “Can’t argue with that. It’d be fun, right?”

“Yup.” You say immediately, while Sova has to think for a few seconds. He has a good heart that often debates between being extremely kind - as usual - or making an exception just for fun.

“Yeah, guess it would.” He gives in. “But that can’t have been it, right? You went on a mission today.”

"I don't even want to think about it." You grimace, which the others take a sign to not mention it.

"It's okay, we don't have to talk about it. We'll help you unwind." Sova pushes himself further up the bed to share a kiss with you. It's not long before you hear Cypher whine at the two of you.

"I want a kiss!" He exclaims.

You both laugh. Sova lets you go, though his hand reaches under your shirt to run along your abdomen.

Cypher takes your lips needily, though he tries his best to keep it chaste. You pull back to speak again, only to be interrupted by him giving you a peck. He doesn't want to stop kissing, you can tell, but he knows it's for the better.

"To be honest, I rather sleep right now… unless one of you can offer a massage?"

"As you wish."

#sova x reader #cypher x reader #sova x reader x cypher #cypher x reader x sova #valorant fanfic #anonymousrequest

[elwenyere]

A Very Small Grease Fire (and Other Human Disasters)

(Thanksgiving ficlet for the Stony and Avengers fam; also on AO3)

The Avengers didn’t have the best track record with Thanksgiving. The first time the dinner had ended in disaster, it had been Steve’s fault. One rainy fall Sunday, just months after the Battle of New York, Steve had been picking at a bowl of mint-chip ice cream, feeling tired of getting looks of sympathy about the holidays and absolutely exhausted by feeling sorry for himself. If Bruce and Clint hadn’t chosen that particular afternoon to ask him whether there was anything special he wanted for Thanksgiving – raising the question with just enough gentleness to make Steve’s jaw tighten – he probably would have said, “I’m a sweet potatoes guy” and left it at that.

Instead, Steve had been seized by a spirit of mischief. Putting on his most morose poker face, he had proceeded to invent a series of Depression-era dishes, from “Hoover Rolls” to “Poor Man’s Potatoes,” the recipes for which he concocted out of the blandest ingredients he could imagine. By the time he was in the process of describing his third Crisco-based dessert, Steve was sure he had gone far enough to reveal the joke; but Bruce and Clint had continued nodding encouragingly and jotting down notes.

The results had been borderline inedible. And even though the sight of Tony doubled over with laughter when Steve finally fessed up had thawed out a part of his heart he hadn’t even known was still on ice, the experience of eating a holiday dinner in which half the dishes tasted like over-starched socks forced even Steve to admit that the prank had been a bit of a Pyrrhic victory.

The second time…well, Steve would have said the second time was his fault too – though he supposed the rest of the team would blame the extremists who tried to kidnap the governor. Clint had just started basting the turkey when the “Assemble” alarm went off, and the team had to pile in the Quinjet to deal with a hostage situation at the capitol. It should have been an easy job – in and out with plenty of time to take the butter for the piecrust out of the freezer – but then one of the extremists had pulled the pin on a grenade just yards away from a state senator’s eight-year-old son, and four hours later Steve was waking up in the burn unit at Walter Reed hospital with the anguished sound of someone shouting his name still ringing in his ears.

“You fucking idiot,” the same voice had greeted him, and Steve looked up to see Tony sitting by his bed, the lines around his eyes drawn tight over a surgical mask. “You’re supposed to be a tactical genius, and you haven’t learned a single new method for containing explosives since basic training in 1943? I’m going to equip your suit with goddamn ballistic plates.”

“Tony,” Steve managed, feeling a halo of pain radiate up his scalp. “Are you okay? Was anyone hurt?”

Steve thought he saw something mist across Tony’s eyes, but he couldn’t be sure. The more fully he became aware of his body, the more he noticed the pull of his skin cells contracting in uneven loops around the burns on his torso, and it was taking a considerable amount of energy to keep Tony’s face in focus.

“Everybody’s fine but you, Steve,” Tony assured him. “And the doctors said you should be able to move to the general floor in a few hours. So shut those baby blues and let the serum do its job, because there’s a whole team of keyed-up superheroes waiting to see you, and they’re emptying the hospital vending machines fast enough to cause a run on the Frito-Lay factory.”

Steve had drifted in and out of consciousness for a while after that, finally waking up long enough to eat a holiday dinner of contraband take-out, which Natasha had smuggled into the hospital using only Thor’s tendency to knock over delicate instruments and Bruce’s oversized jacket.

“When you sign up to be an Avenger, no one warns you about doing overtime as a falafel mule,” Bruce had mused, leaning back to let Natasha steal a fry off his plate.

“I still think we could have gotten that eighth kebab if you’d been willing to consider pant legs as additional real estate,” she told him.

"You should all be eating stuffing and pumpkin pie,” Steve grimaced. “I’m sorry you’re stuck here on Thanksgiving.”

“Listen, Cap,” Clint replied, waving a dolma at him, “if you’re going to apologize for anything, apologize for the purgatory potatoes you tricked me into making last year. At least this year we have food that doesn’t have the texture of fast-drying cement.”

“Those tubers had truly been abandoned by the gods,” Thor agreed solemnly. “But I maintain that the Big Band Banana Pie was actually quite delicious.”

“Just don’t make the third-degree burns and hypovolemic shock a holiday habit, Rogers,” Tony put in. “Some of us are trying to watch our blood pressure.”

Tony had leaned over to adjust the settings on Steve’s bed as he spoke, and by the time he finished, a dull tugging sensation across Steve’s chest had loosened – the pain subsiding almost before Steve could register that it had been bothering him.

So that was why, after two years of throwing wrenches in the Avengers’ Thanksgiving plans, Steve was determined to make sure that year three went off without a hitch. He’d drawn up an elaborate plan for maximizing the utility of the Tower kitchen’s two ovens and seven burners and for optimizing the team’s various culinary skills. The operatives had been briefed the night before, and by 10:30 AM on Thursday, Steve was fluting a pie crust, Bruce was stripping fresh thyme leaves into an herb blend, Clint was whipping up a roux for the mushroom gravy, Thor was mashing potatoes and parsnips in an industrial-strength metal vat, and Natasha was dicing carrots and celery with a speed and precision that felt vaguely unsettling.

After checking the team’s progress against his itinerary, Steve turned to the next task on his own list: bringing Tony Stark his emergency coffee. Bruce had just made a second pot, and Steve poured some into the largest cup he could find: a purple novelty mug, featuring a drawing of the Hulk and the words “You Wouldn’t Like Me Without My Coffee.” He paused to tuck a few biscuits into a napkin (Tony’s relief at sighting fresh coffee sometimes opened up a narrow window during which Steve could feed him breakfast without being noticed), and headed down to the lab.

He found Tony standing with both arms braced against his worktable, designs for what looked like the paneling of Steve’s uniform projected in front of him. Steve cleared his throat, and Tony whirled around, the slump of his shoulders morphing into a graceful lounge by the time he was facing Steve.

“I was just about to come up,” he said. “I have a few finishing touches left here and then I’m all yours, Cap. Give me everything that can survive being the tiniest bit overcooked.”

Steve walked over to put Tony’s coffee on the table and then felt his breath catch in his throat when Tony reached out and took the mug from his hand instead.

“There’s no need,” Steve responded to cover his reaction, flexing the hand that had brushed Tony’s as he let it fall back to his side. “We’ve got the schedule covered for now. I was actually hoping I could talk you into a snack break.”

He waved the napkin of biscuits experimentally.

“Are you cutting me from the Thanksgiving roster, Rogers?” Tony asked. “Just because one time I set a very small grease fire – which I contained almost immediately, by the way.”

“The vase I broke when I sprinted into the kitchen would beg to differ,” Steve smiled. “But it’s not that. I just wanted to do this for you: a big dinner and sitting down with family.”

“For me?” Tony blinked at him. “Why?”

Steve started to cross his arms across his chest before realizing that he would risk crushing the biscuits. He settled for clasping his wrist with his free hand instead, widening his stance slightly and taking a deep breath. Come on, Rogers. Take it on the chin.

“Because I wanted to tell you that I woke up in this century alone,” he said, “and that you were the first person stubborn enough to make sure I wouldn’t stay that way. Now I wake up to a kitchen full of people who tease me about my lists but who know why I need them – who will eat dinner rolls that taste like soggy chalk just to make me feel at home.” He paused. “People who stay by my side for eight straight hours at the hospital.”

Steve looked up and caught Tony’s eyes, his heart rate picking up speed as memories of those same eyes flashed through his mind in quick succession: tearing up with laughter over a plate of cornstarched bananas, pinched with fear over a surgical mask, narrowed in concentration over the remote control for an adjustable bed.

“Romanov has an awfully big mouth for a spy,” Tony said with a rueful smile.

“I think it was a tactical leak,” Steve acknowledged, “to motivate her mark. She knew I needed a push. Because I’ve messed up the past two years, and I needed to tell you: pretty much everything I’m thankful for in my new life is here because of you.”

Tony was staring at him, his eyes darting quickly across Steve’s face as if JARVIS were scanning it for data. Steve held up under the silent scrutiny as long as he could before letting out an explosive breath.

“Anyway, sorry to interrupt you,” he said quickly. “You’ve got work to do, and I’ve got to go make sure everything’s on track upstairs. I’ll uh – I’ll have Bruce come get you when dinner’s ready.”

He started to make an about face toward the door, but Tony caught his arm and held him in place.

“Give a guy a goddamn minute, Steve,” he said softly. “I’m having to do a major cognitive reboot over here. It takes a while for the operating system to come back online. Just…sit down? Let me show you the new flame retardants I’m adding to your uniform.”

Steve complied. And as he watched Tony run through the specs, gulping coffee and nibbling absently at the biscuits, he realized that he knew what Tony was saying even before Tony finally spoke the words: “I’m thankful every time you wake up.”

#stony #stevetony #stony fic #festive ficlets #avengers as family #idiots in love #they're human disasters your honor #this got out of hand #and personally I blame every single character in this Tower #happy thanksgiving #stony fam

[fishoutofcamelot]

I enjoy seeing other people be happy about simple things and the fact that you get excited over cutting things with scissors makes me feel happier than I can explain I wish you the best in continuing to find joy in the mundane. May the smallest things bring you happiness

Well in that case, here is a list of insanely mundane things that fill me with an irrational amount of joy:

Stapling, cutting and paper-clipping pieces of paper together

Writing the number 7 or 0, or the letter Z, since i have a lot of fun adding the little extra dash through the middle of all of those

Hugging!!!! I hug my mom an absurd amount of times every day, and if i had more friends irl i would probably hug them a whole bunch too. Just physical contact in general makes my entire brain light up like a gender reveal party gone wrong

Seeing an Icee machine. Drinking Icees. I have, on many occasions, squealed very loudly and gone all hand-flappy upon purchasing a blue raspberry Icee. Theyre just so good, Yall

The number 69. This is self-explanatory

Wearing my checkered oil-spill-pattern shoes. Theyre so SHINY

Looking at my new bedsheets! And my new pillowcases! And my rainbow blanket! Just...laying in my colorful bed

Opening a new roll of quarters at work

Novelty socks! I have a drawer exclusively dedicated to knee-highs with silly patterns (my favorite being a pair with dinosaurs wearing sunglasses and riding skateboards)

Anything brightly colored makes me very excited

These microwavable sticky rice bowls i get from Costco, they are AWESOME. Or really just rice in general, but the sticky rice bowl things in particular make me inordinately happy

Wearing my leather jacket. Freakin love that thing

Wearing my glow-in-the-dark skeleton shirt. Or my "live laugh lurk" mothman shirt. Or my "send noods" ramen shirt. Or -

I have this one internet friend who likes to talk to me about all their ocs and self-inserts and whatnot and i could honestly just listen to them rant for like a year

The sight of one of my irl friend's pfps on tumblr (we're also mutuals). We dont talk much anymore, but shes the coolesr person ive ever met and i love thinking about her

I am extremely easy to please, to the point of being annoyingly indecisive. But you know what? I like it that way. And heres a fun lil secret - im easy to please by design. Ive learned to cope with depression and s*icidal thoughts by finding joy in all the small stuff. Not saying itll work for everyone, but if im ever in a dark place i can just look down at my pineapple-print pajama pants and go, " if i dont wear these then who will?" And then everything is a little bit less horrible

Thanks for the ask! And everyone else is encouraged to add things that make them stupidly happy too!!! <3

#ask post #tw suicide #fish post

[lovelyirony]

Made up fic title: Bleed out my love for you

special thanks to @angxlsgrxce for coming up with the idea for this one! 

Tony sacrifices time and time again. It’s familiar, his story, honestly. 

Bucky knows it. Ever since he was brought back and placed in the tower and was observing everything, he knew. 

It’s so apparent. 

Not just because he knows about the Attack on New York, not just because of Ultron. The previous events before the Avengers were even a team speak volumes. 

And then. In smaller ways. 

In the way that Tony pours the last of the coffee for Natasha, in the way that he doesn’t prefer ordering Thai food, but will anyway because Thor wants to try it. 

In how he lets Bucky into the building, into personal space. Even though their history together is not ideal at all. 

Self-sacrifice isn’t always a grand gesture. Sometimes it’s pushing yourself back again and again. 

Tony’s been pushing himself back for years, it appears. 

The curious thing about it is that he doesn’t seem to want to take care of himself. Bucky knows the feeling, even indulged a few times. (A few times too many, but hey. Not important.) 

So he starts on a new goal: treat Tony with kindness. 

This starts off about as smooth as a damn asteroid belt, because Tony is very confused about when there’s a steaming mug of coffee waiting for him, when Bucky asks him about his day. 

It’s suspicious. 

Because as sad as it is, and as much as Tony doesn’t want to admit it, people aren’t nice to him unless they want something. 

The only people that defy this rule are the Originals: Pepper, Rhodey, and Happy. 

And he lets them be nice to him, because they have essentially bullied him into accepting their gifts and kindnesses and the occasional “you have to come with me” when they fix lunch. 

Bucky is not part of this. 

Far from it, for the most part. 

So Tony assumes that he’s trying to get something, and that kind of makes him angry. 

He doesn’t like it when people try to get something from him. He’d rather they just ask, not do all of this under-handed shit to try and butter him up. 

So he confronts Bucky. No use in having it continue. He doesn’t need someone to attempt to fix him breakfast or ask him if he wants to come to team dinner or make coffee. It’s ridiculous. 

He doesn’t want to be rude about it. They still have to be a team. 

But. There’s something that has to be done to let him know that it won’t be happening. 

So Bucky is summoned to the lab, and maybe Tony’s a little nervous. 

“Um, did you want something?” Bucky asks. 

“I just wanted to talk to you about something for a quick sec,” Tony says. “It’s about what you’ve been doing lately.” 

“Is this about the coffee thing?” 

“It’s about more than that thing,” Tony says. “I’m going to be honest with you, James, I don’t like when people try to do things because they want something.” 

Bucky doesn’t speak for a moment. Then two moments. 

James. 

Tony only uses real names when he’s upset. So that? 

“Tony, I-” 

“It’s okay, but I’d rather you ask next time if you want something,” Tony says, and he looks so tired. 

“No, that’s not what-” 

“It’s okay, fine really. I just don’t like empty favors. That’s it. I don’t want this to be awkward, so sorry? But I said what I said, and you’re free to go now.” 

It isn’t a suggestion. It’s a command, and Bucky follows it with his head down and his cheeks burning. 

There are two feelings running through his mind right now: 

Irritation that Tony thinks that Bucky was doing this to gain something. 

Sadness that this is what Tony has to think. He has to think that people want something, because when don’t they? 

- 

So Bucky’s kept his distance. He’s still been turning on the coffee machine, although he makes sure that it never is him that’s seen. 

He still sees that Tony gives and gives and sometimes the world is on his shoulders, and there’s so much tiredness in the way he moves. 

Bucky knows a little bit about how tiredness works. 

He swears Jarvis to secrecy. 

“I do not think that Sir would mind if you explained.” 

“I don’t think he’d really believe my explanation, Jarvis. But thank you.” 

“Very well, Sergeant Barnes. Would you like me to send you a list of his likes and dislikes?” 

“Yes.” 

“Very well. Anything else I can get for you?” 

“Actually, I do need one question answered. How does he feel about fun socks?” 

“I believe he’d be amenable.” 

“Thanks.” 

- 

Tony doesn’t know why it persists. 

Bucky-James-knows that he’s not getting anything. Tony won’t do it. 

So he doesn’t understand why there’s still coffee and why he still is doing nice things. 

“Maybe he’s genuinely trying,” Rhodey tells him when they get their lunch. 

“Or maybe it’s the long-con,” Pepper says, slurping on her smoothie. “You don’t know what happens when there’s a long-con.” 

“I don’t think so,” Tony says. “I mean don’t get me wrong, you are right so many times, but James...I think he’d know. I mean, it’s not like only the Winter Soldier learned stealth.” 

“You’re calling him James?” 

“Yes.” 

“Weird,” Rhodey remarks.

“How is that weird?” 

“You only call people you dislike by their first name, or if they think you’re annoying.” 

Tony pauses. 

“How have I not noticed that?” 

“You don’t notice a lot of things. Remember how I cheated you out of so much money in college by cheating cards?” 

“You manipulated and wounded me,” Tony said with a sigh. 

Rhodey snorts. 

“I did no such thing, cupcake, you were just under the assumption that I was going to be nice to you for all time. You should’ve assumed something else.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like sometimes, people just want to help you,” Rhodey says. “Jarvis updated me on what was going on.” 

“People don’t help me,” Tony says, scowling. “Except for you, Pep, and Hap. Anyone else is just...that’s just weird.” 

“You’re just not used to people genuinely not wanting to screw you over,” Pepper says, taking her smoothie cup to the sink. “And Bucky doesn’t want to do that. I think if he was going to do it to anyone, it’d probably be Steve or something.” 

“Aren’t they best friends?” 

“I tend to zone out any time you talk about the Avengers,” Pepper says, knowing damn well that she hangs onto every word so that she and Phil can go out for their monthly coffee dates. 

“You are the worst at lying.” 

“Not as bad as you,” Pepper sing-songs. “Or were we all supposed to believe that you genuinely liked Marie’s new cardigan?” 

“Listen, you can’t say anything mean to Marie, she’s Marie. She baked me cookies because I frowned once on a Wednesday.” 

“I’m in love with her,” Happy sighs. “I wish she baked me cookies.” 

“Then quit being awkward and go in there and get her,” Pepper says. “Honestly, Happy, you can be a catch when you try and don’t rely on your tough-guy appearance.” 

“Besides, every single employee of SI knows that you love Downton Abbey.” 

“Why do they know that?!” 

“I am. Admittedly,” Pepper starts, “a completely awful office-gossip. It’s in my blood, I think.” 

“You’re the worst.” 

“You only say that because you can’t go to Pilates with me this week.” 

“Not my fault you have it on a weird time on Thursdays!” 

“I can’t please everyone, Hap.” 

Tony snorts, chewing a bit of the bread set out on the table. 

“Hmph.” 

- 

This is thought-provoking. 

Because maybe, just maybe James is being a nice person. This is a brand new thought to Tony, of course. 

“I could have told you that from the beginning, Sir.” 

“Well, we all have our faults,” Tony says breezily. “And J, I would not have listened at the beginning. You’re a learning AI.” 

“You think I haven’t learned something after more than thirty years in functional use?” 

“No, of course not. Don’t be daft.” 

“I shall try my hardest, Sir. But I do not know how I could ever compete with you.” 

“Hey!” 

He watches James a bit more after that. 

He’s a quiet sort of guy, never really saying anything unless it’s a quip or an opinion about dinner. (He hates anything with eggplant in it.) 

James isn’t watching for anything, save for the other shoe to drop. God Tony is familiar with that. 

So Tony does what he does best, and surprises people. 

- 

Bucky is not sure why he’s in the lab, again. Well, he might be sure. He’s still leaving coffee out, still getting some sort of fun fruity snack for Tony. He’s still being nice, and Tony has maybe noticed? 

(Probably, if Jarvis has been intuitive enough to keep recommending different online shops for Bucky’s addiction to looking at novelty-everything.) 

Tony faces him and yeah hi, those arms are nice to look at. 

“So it appears that I have been in the wrong,” Tony says. “Because you were being nice.” 

“But you were right to not trust me. For a lot of reasons.” 

“And you should’ve just tossed me out the window,” Tony says. “Or I should’ve been more...trusting. Ugh. Words suck.” 

Bucky laughs. 

“Luckily, coffee doesn’t need words, and I have some brewing upstairs. If you still like that sort of thing.” 

“If you still like that sort of thing,” Tony mocks. “I was out of the womb addicted to coffee, I’ll have you know, James.” 

Bucky snorts.

"Rhodey’s already told me the story of you getting used to it in college and referring to it as a ‘necessary evil’.” 

“Jarvis, leave me a reminder to kill Rhodey-darling,” Tony says. 

“I will do no such thing,” Jarvis responds just as easily. “But I will let him know you leave your regards.” 

“He didn’t even help build you and he’s your favorite,” Tony grumbles. 

Bucky laughs. 

“To coffee we go, Tony.” 

- 

Over the course of time, they become closer. Bucky knows Tony’s coffee by heart, and Tony knows exactly which pastry to save at official meetings when Bucky comes in late. 

“You know if you came in on time, Tony wouldn’t have to guard your pastry like an overzealous attack dog,” Steve says, leveling a look. 

Bucky smiles fondly. 

“But then how I would i know I liked an overzealous attack dog?” he asks. “Thanks, doll.” 

Tony stills for a moment. 

Oh, he liked that. 

“Anything for you, James.” 

James. But in a good context. He...he could get used to that. 

Tony does slowly start to do nice things back to Bucky. 

And maybe. Maybe it’s nice to do nice things for him. Maybe he loves seeing that calm little smile, he likes bringing James’s hair into a bun and twisting one strand down, and James will leave it there. 

It’s the fact that James sees when he’s tired, when the world is tilting a bit. 

When he goes into the lab and sits there, not saying anything but choosing the music and cooking food and helping when Pepper and Rhodey can’t. 

Telling him about something he found during the day that he liked. Like how he found a Queen album that he shouldn’t have spent money on, but he loved the songs on it. 

How he tells him all about the new cooking thing he tried. 

How at the end of the day, James will smile at him and it feels like it’s coming home after a long journey. 

How they lean on each other, how Tony gets him the best sort of hot chocolate at night, and they look at each other and there’s nothing that needs to be said. 

It’s simple, how love works sometimes. And how complicated humanity can make it. 

But Tony won’t. 

- 

No, he takes James’s hand in his after a long mission, one that has muscles stretched out and eyes tired and bodies leaning on each other. 

“Come to bed with me,” he murmurs. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Darling, nothing’s surer than you.” 

It is not a grand love confession. It is not pouring rain, clinging button-downs, smiles across the room that mean the world and then the universe. 

It is simple, and it is boring. 

And Tony loves it. 

#lovelyirony writes #i just. really like this #i like how pepper was just immediately LONG CON MISSION. IT'S THAT ONE #true ally #tony stark #bucky barnes #winteriron #pepper potts #rhodey #happy hogan

[laundryandtaxes]

Update on my first nice (like goodyear welted, honest to goodness full grain leather) shoe: while it cut into my ankle so much early in break in that I literally got a bunch of blood on them before realizing maybe I should simply wear socks during break in, they're now totally comfortable at the ankle and I can see where each of my toes sits in the loafer when I look inside at the leather insole. I've only got maybe 10, 15 hours of wear in them so they aren't fully broken in but the leather has softened a lot, especially after giving the leather a proper condition. I'm stoked to have shoes that I don't expect to replace in a year or two or three or four. Still not sure whether I can "pull off" the penny loafer but tbh I think pretty much everyone who 1) is under 40 or 2) didn't grow up wearing them thinks they'll look ~weird~ in penny loafers and I love them on men whose style most closely matches mine, so I'm gonna keep trying to acclimate myself to the image of myself in them until its novelty isn't a factor anymore. Why am I talking about my shoes? Because shoes and especially boots are quickly becoming a new obsession and also, it's my blog.

[anarmorofwords]

Adding on to what the other anon says, I think cc knows demon fighting isn't a novelty. What is important in tlh isn't that shadowhunters fight demons (which could have been a focal point in tmi; not sure because I can't remember). The point of tlh is that they are fighting Big Demons™ --as well as going through lots of drama, which is characteristic of tsc in itself.

In tid and tda demons aren't THAT important either, but faeries and automatons are way easier to come by than a prince of hell and Lilith.

I think tlh is very mystery-driven; characters need to find who is the killer, who is the Herondales's grandfather... Which in itself focuses the plot more on solving things, rather than on fighting whatever things get in their way. I personally like it --since fighting scenes are never really my passion 97% of the time-- but ofc everyone wishes for what they wish for. So I hope there are more fighting scenes in chot you can enjoy :)

Hiii <3

I definitely see your point, and I know you're objectively right. My issue is, most of all - when we do get demon fighting scenes, I'd like them to focus not only on Cordelia and Cortana. This really just started because we talked about how they have such cool weapons, and c'MON, make use of them CC!!

But it's truly more of a whiny complaint on my part, because I love those scenes and the relationships potential that can be used there, so I'd like to get more. I do know that there's reasons we don't get much of it though.

Speaking of the overall focus of the series however - maybe part of the reason I'm so dissapointed with the lack of demon-fighting is because I'm not happy with the alternative, so to say. As you mentioned, the main plot was supposed to be mysterious, focused more on schemes and dark secrets and solving puzzles, and I was so here for that.

Trust me - I was extremely hyped for ChoI. Sooo hyped. Cortana burns Cordelia?! She swore fealthy to someone?! James might be a killer?!! The serial killer plot had amazing potential, so did Belial's and Tatiana's scheming, but I just feel it wasn't used. All that build-up and excitement for what? Especially Belial as an antagonist just falls flat to me, he's a very cartoonish villain so far.

If ChoT comes out and the Belial plot knocks my socks off, I'll happily swallow my own words. But so far it doesn't look so promising, so it's like I'm neither getting the fighting nor the mysterious, atmospherical storyline to solve.

but I am intrigued by the Iron Tombs please let it be cool

#ask answered #the last hours #tlh #thanks for the ask!

[raitrolling]

Present Day, Present Time

[Easy Reading Version on Toyhou.se]

-- alluringMisdirection [AM] began trolling autonomousMachinations [AM] --

AM: Oh shlt slnce when was lt your bday??

AM: All g tho, l got a place ln mlnd ;)

AM: Obvlously lt’s gonna be a secret, so don’t even bother asklng! Surprlse partles are the best partles, y’know. And lt’s gotta be good for the blg 1-0!

AM: So you better get hype- or, as hype as whatever’s posslble for you 8)

-- alluringMisdirection [AM] ceased trolling autonomousMachinations [AM] --

Callan stood in the homewares section of one of Block 136’s many low-end department stores, hands on his hips and tapping his foot in mild irritation. Predictably, he’d be caught off-guard by Gerrel’s mentioning of his wriggling day coming up. He didn’t forget, of course, he just- Wait, did Gerrel ever mention it before? They’ve known each other for a while and Callan had definitely made him put his wriggling day into his stupidly busy schedule, but he legitimately cannot recall if the redblood had brought up his own before. Huh. Well, whatever, Callan’s going to say that’s Gerrel’s problem to work out, because right now he’s got his own problem. What the hell kind of present does someone with no hobbies want? Most of the time when it comes to presents, Callan would simply grab whatever silly novelty he could find in the clearance sections - A hat with a funny saying on it, some desktop USB gadget, all those stocking stuffer toys made specifically for office 12th Perigees party gifts, the impulse buy bottle openers and fidget spinners at the registers, - it didn’t matter what the gift was, if it was a gift from him then clearly it was the most important! But this time it’s different. It’s not just a gift for someone’s 10th wriggling day, but the wriggling day of someone who it wouldn’t be inaccurate to call Callan’s best friend (who would’ve thought? Of all people!). A real pro at gift-giving too, the photo book he gave last Quadrants’ Day had touched Callan’s heart far greater than any novelty chocolate or humorous greeting card ever could. So now he’s obligated to be thoughtful. Ugh, thinking.

He acknowledges that the logical gift would be something practical, Gerrel does seem to like things that are useful and would make him more productive. With how much he goes on about ‘healthy eating’ and ‘cooking your own meals’, he’d probably be over the moon if he unwrapped one of those air fryer things people keep talking about. But as Callan stared the boxes of kitchen appliances down, he couldn’t help but think one thing...

An air fryer is fucking boring.

Yes, sure, it’s the perfect gift for someone like him. He’d appreciate it! He’d appreciate it a lot more than the corner store chocolates he received from the greenblood for Quadrants’ Day, or the reindeer antler hat from 12th Perigees. He’d probably get a lot of use out of it too, if what the recipe books conveniently placed next to the display says is true. You can cook chicken, vegetables, brownies and muffins, fish and chips, mozzarella sticks… But, it may be a gift from Callan, but it’s not a gift from Callan. There’s no pizzaz, no style, nothing that screams “This is a gift from the one and only Callan Ranpoe, the best troll you’ve ever known! Accept no substitutes!''. It’s a gift someone would buy for a hivewarming party, or something his rich boss would slip in with the weekly wages just to remind everyone of how much money he has. Not a gift from someone known for their sense of humour and great taste in, well, everything.

Callan’s train of thought is interrupted by an employee asking if he needs a hand. Some tired-looking brownblood who knows that if they don’t ask every customer who has spent more than thirty seconds standing on one spot this question their boss will have them thrown out on the streets. He dismisses the employee with a wave of his hand, who only responds by parroting that the tea towels and oven mitts have a two-for-one deal tonight only.

Two-for-one… That’s it! Cheap and more fun than some boring appliance!

Not wanting to make it seem like he was inspired by the employee’s suggestion, Callan continues to mull about the appliances section pretending to be interested in the breadmakers and slow cookers before stealthily slipping over to the kitchen accessories section. Sure enough, the tea towels and oven mitts are already looking more to the greenblood’s liking. There’s the towels with funny cooking-related puns (Haha, “Let’s give them something to taco ‘bout”! It’s funny because it’s got tacos on it!), towels covered in cute animal prints (and a very un-cute one covered in horses. Sorry Gerrel, but you truly have the worst lusus), and towels covered in sayings one would find on a Facebook Minions group (which unfortunately, would probably appeal to the redblood’s sense of humour more than anything else…). There’s oven mitts shaped like crab claws and dinosaur heads, some pop culture-themed mitts with references that’d definitely fly over his head, and one that just says the word ‘butter’ repeated on every inch of the fabric. Callan starts picking a couple off the rack, already congratulating himself on his head about how genius this gift is.

But… As he stares down at the dinosaur oven mitt and the tea towels with food puns, the gift still didn’t feel right. There should probably be something… More? To this? If the last present idea was thoughtful but lacks ‘Callan vibes’, then this idea is more Him but less thoughtful or really, wanted. Who wants tea towels for their wriggling day? That’s like giving someone socks and underwear. Callan sighs, dumping the chosen items onto the shelf below instead of hanging them back onto the rack. Putting in the effort for a perfect gift sucks.

Why is this so important? Why does a gift need to be thoughtful, personal, and most importantly, something that would make him think of Callan every time? Maybe it’s to make every moment as memorable as possible to combat the reality that all of Callan’s relationships are fleeting at best. Gerrel seems to be able to recognise him through his psiionics, most likely because altering one’s voice, speech patterns, and quirks in their posture and body language are difficult without specific training that Callan doesn’t have. But a friendship cannot be perpetuated on vaguely familiar quirks alone. What if one night Callan decides he wants to cut his hair? Change the way he dresses- hell, just happens to wear a waistcoat with his symbol printed on the opposite side? Doesn’t tie the bow around his neck correctly? Gerrel would fail to recognise him, and they’d be back at square one. And that’s not to mention the major elephant in the room being Callan’s stints as the prolific Phantom Thief. That wouldn’t be something he could just shrug off and accept, especially when his boss has been one of the thief’s major targets. He doesn’t come across as someone who would be angry to find out about this secret, but… He’s very honest and loyal. It would make sense for him to dob Callan into his boss, someone who values working as much as he does would definitely put his own job over anything else.

But then again… He’s selfless, in that way that makes Callan almost feel bad at letting him take over all the chores in his hive when he probably could do them himself if he could be bothered. Almost. Thank god he doesn’t have to wash dishes any more, and the food Gerrel cooks is way better than anything he could ever make even if he put his mind to it. So maybe he wouldn’t do that. Of course he wouldn’t do that! Even if it doesn’t last, he’s Callan’s friend now. And maybe they might continue to be friends, and- If the greenblood’s ego allows it- Gerrel could learn the truth of his psiionics, and try to work with it. Just as he works with every other eccentricity that makes up Callan’s personality.

… Nothing in this long moment of introspection has given him any more ideas for the perfect 10th wriggling day gift. Goddammit. 

The brownblood continues floating around the aisles, keeping an eye on Callan in the way one would monitor a known shoplifter or rowdy group of teenagers. Now’s probably the best chance to get that advice they’re paid to give out.

“Hey,” Callan addresses the employee with a nod, “Got any ideas for a 10th wriggling day gift? I need one for a guy who’s into like, cooking and shit. Practical, but fun, y’know?”

The brownblood silently casts their eyes over to the appliances, and settles on the most expensive item they can spot.

“Air fryer.”

Of course.

Once again, we’re back to square one. This is going to take more than an hour’s worth of thinking, which is well more than Callan has ever done in his life. But, that’s fine. He’s got time, and it’s for someone worth spending time on. And there’s still the entirety of the department store to meander about like what everyone else does at this time of night. Maybe he could look into finding some outfits so Gerrel can be at least half as stylish as him, maybe some instructional books on building projects that would normally bore Callan to death because they lack funny pictures, maybe some crafts to make something (he can paint a mean self-portrait, so a portrait of someone else wouldn’t be that much more difficult)...

Now, if only Gerrel didn’t steal his other non-kitchen appliance idea of putting together a photo book already, that could’ve been perfect. Who wouldn’t want their own collection of Official Callan selfies?

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

It took another couple hours and some trips to a few nearby shops, but finally the search for the perfect present was over. Callan stood at the kitchen table, putting together the finishing touches on the now-wrapped gift’s presentation. The homewares idea was thrown out the window in favour of something just as practical, but in a way that feels more personal. A blazer sits folded on the table (Callan made sure to not unfold it after the cashier slipped it into the shopping bag, there’s no way he’d ever be able to get it right), in a similar style to the one usually worn by Gerrel albeit with gold buttons and a green trim on the collar and cuffs. A voucher to get his symbol printed on the jacket has also been slipped into the breast pocket. It felt right to give something with his hue, it’s a common sign of friendship between a higherblood and a lowblood. He may not have a particularly intimidating shade of blue or purple, but it’s still an indication of protecting a friend. And, it’s something picked out by Callan himself so clearly it’s peak fashion.

There was an attempt at tying up the gift in a bow - one of the spare green neckties identical to the one he wore, to be precise - but there was certainly little effort into making it look perfect. The bow was uneven and sat nowhere close to the centre, and Callan couldn’t figure out how to do that fancy criss-cross tie most presents are wrapped in. Not that the presentation mattered to him, and he’s sure that’s the level of effort Gerrel would expect from him. He probably doesn’t expect much from the greenblood, honestly, so perhaps this modicum of effort will make this gift even more special. 

#drabble #callan ranpoe #the prince and the pauper #apologies to anyone attempting to read this on mobile cuz its fuckign Long #anyways heres a drabble about callan attempting to put Effort into something for once #brought to you by my own experiences working in retail

[thevalleyisjolly]

🧁🥤🌺

[Image description: A photo of a piece of paper filled with handwriting. There are emojis sketched at the start of each section. Text reads:

🧁favourite memory with a specific song/album?

I will forever remember that sleepover (you know exactly which one I'm talking about) made unforgettable by the dulcet tones of Kimeru singing "Make You Free." Yes, I absolutely still have that song on my MP3, and it shall stay there forever ;)

🥤go-to drink (doesn't have to be alcoholic!)

Either milk or jasmine tea if it's with a meal, or kettle water any time else.

🌺 describe your aesthetic (even if it's just what you're wearing right now)

The ultimate in sloth, literally just t-shirts, baggy/voluminous bottoms, cardigans with draping panels you can swish around, animal-themed novelty socks. I am a cozy bitch and I make no apologies ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

/end description]

Thanks so much, Rose! :33

#thanks rosaeceae!

[edie-k]

Legally Ginger - Prologue (PG-13, Romione)

Now, for something totally different...

Title: Legally Ginger

Chapter 1/9

Rating: PG-13 (I use fuck more than the MPAA allows for PG-13 but that's a stupid rule - there's no explicit content)

Pairing: Romione endgame

Summary: When Ron Weasley's college girlfriend declines his proposal because he doesn't meet her standard for future husband, he decides comes up with a plan to let her see him in a new light.

Notes: This is an AU Muggle reimagination of Legally Blonde. It's very different than anything I have ever written - and my first chapter story. I intend to update each Monday.

Thank you to adnei for all of her beta feedback!

While I really enjoy Legally Blonde, it has some things that need a bit of updating or calling out in the year 2021. This fic will attempt to do those things but not lose the fun and fluffiness of the concept.

Also... I love the pop culture/time capsule references of the movie so plan to see that same vibe in this fic. If any of them are unclear to you, let me know in the comments because I love to talk pop culture!

Finally, lots of our favorites are scheduled to appear throughout the story - I eagerly anticipate all guesses as to who will be who!

Disclaimer: Neither Harry Potter or Legally Blonde or any of their characters are owned by me and are not being used for profit.

Link to AO3 or click below to read more.

“Hey Tim!” Ron Weasley shouted, raising his hand to greet the guy behind the coffee cart but not breaking his stride.

“Hey Ron! Thanks for that recommendation. She loved it!”

Ron grinned and kept on running his recreational route that wove through the Los Angeles campus of California University. Even though his cross country career had come to an end with the conclusion of his senior season this fall, he didn’t intend to let his personal records slip. In fact, he was almost working harder. If everything went according to plan tonight, he planned to be competing in the iconic Boston Marathon next April.

“Ron! We still on to study tomorrow?” shouted his chem lab partner Kelsey as he strode past her.

“Yep! We’re going to rock that test out!”

“Hi Ron!” he heard a few female voices chorus together as he passed the Zeta Beta house. Several girls were doing yoga out on the front lawn.

“Great form ladies!” he yelled back, grinning as he heard the giggles.

He grabbed his shirt to wipe his forehead and glanced at his watch. 4:30. He was approaching the house and he had time to do some cool down stretches, shower, check that they had enough brothers to cover the Animal Aid fundraiser tomorrow, send his Econ professor his problem set, and dress for dinner before he had to leave for the Delta Nu house.

He slowed to a jog as his feet hit the driveway. He took the porch steps two at a time before entering the house. Immediately, he was greeted by a snort.

“Pig! Good boy,” he greeted, scratching the pug behind his ears.

“Come on boy,” he said, starting up the house stairs to his room, Pig following dutifully behind. As president, he lucked out with his own room with an en-suite bathroom but as was typical for his life, it wasn’t empty.

“Hey brother brother!” two voices said.

Ron rolled his eyes at the twins. “That joke will never be funny.” Fred and George grinned, one sprawled on his bed and one in his desk chair.

“We just have this last semester to even make the joke. Afterwards, it’ll be pathetic,” Fred said.

“That 40k is so close I can taste it,” said George.

His twin brothers were two years older than him, however, they’d dropped out after their sophomore year to open a retail shop selling joke and novelty items. They quickly realized they were more interested in conducting their own research and development; manufacturing their own products to distribute and sell. It was certainly more profitable. In order to get the seed money, they returned to college after two years. Their schooling, like Ron’s, was financed by his Aunt Muriel and upon receiving their bachelors degree, Muriel also handed over a $20,000 cash gift. The crotchety old broad put a lot of value on their schooling.

“And little Ronniekins is going to spend his on a girl,” Fred teased. It was then that he noticed Fred was fiddling with the small gray ring box that had previously been hidden in Ron’s sock drawer. He moved to snatch it back but Fred tossed it across the room to George.

Ron frowned. “First, I’m not spending it all on a girl. Part of it will be for the wedding and the rest I’ll save for a down payment on a house. Maybe not in Boston because we may not stay there after she finishes law school.”

“Oh yes, Bah-stan,” George mocked in a truly terrible accent.

“Yes. She’s sure that it’ll happen. She’s a legacy or something like that. I hope so because I think Boston Beer Company is going to make me an offer.”

“Free Sam Adams? I’ll take it,” Fred nodded.

“Secondly,” said Ron. “She’s not just a girl.”

The twins groaned. “Ugh, Ronnie, there’s no free beer yet. I can’t listen to this sober.”

Ron rolled his eyes.

“I have to ask,” started George. “Are you sure about this? You’re so young and it hasn’t been that long. You could still go to Boston with her without getting engaged.”

While it was annoying to get another “you’re too young” speech, it wasn’t often that his brothers asked him a serious question. “I’m sure. She’s the one.”

“Well then,” said George, flipping the box to him. “Go get her.”

A few hours later, he was shifting nervously in his seat at their table at Chaudron Qui Fuitfont, playing with the same gray ring box in his pocket. The dinner course had been cleared and they were now waiting for dessert to arrive as well as the bottle of champagne he’d surreptitiously requested.

“Astoria, have I told you that you look absolutely breathtaking tonight?”

“Just three or four times,” she laughed.

“Well, I might tell you a few more,” Ron said.

“It’s not everyday that you put so much effort into a date. I had to deliver on my side as well,” Astoria replied.

“It’s appreciated,” Ron smiled. “I-I appreciate everything about you. How gorgeous you are, how driven… the past 18 months with you has really made me sit down and focus on what I want for my future, you know?”

“That’s great, Ron,” Astoria said, reaching across the table to give his hand a squeeze. She glanced around him. “I want another glass of Merlot.”

“Yeah. You know I’m in the final stages for jobs at three companies,” he said.

“Mmm,” she said distractedly.

“Including Boston Beer Company,” he added.

“That’s a reputable company. Although make sure the job isn’t on the Truly brand. They’ll never get the market from White Claw. Mark my words, they’ll fizzle in two years.”

“Astoria, I see my future with you.”

She looked up at him sharply. “What?”

“Yes. I love you. I’m ready to start the next stage of our relationship. Astoria - ” Ron stood up, pulling the ring box out.

“No.”

“Will you marry me?” Ron asked, kneeling next to her.

“No, now get up.”

Ron’s blood suddenly ran cold. “Wha-what?”

“I said, no, now sit down.” He numbly followed her direction.

“Ron,” Astoria sighed. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry.”

“But… why?”

Astoria gave him a pitying look. “Look, we have had so much fun. You’re a great guy.”

“Great guy? You told me you loved me,” he hissed, trying to keep his voice low to avoid more embarrassment.

“And I do. As a college boyfriend. You are a great college boyfriend. You’re president of the second best fraternity on campus so you get all the best party invites. You’re on the cross country team so I can tell everyone I’m dating a Division I athlete, but you aren’t in one of those sports where it like, takes up all your time. You had a cool internship, everybody on campus loves you because you volunteer and help and you’re nice to everyone, even the janitors. You’re sweet and you’ve got a great body and you… you know,” she dropped her voice now “always deliver on what’s promised. You’ve been the perfect person to spend the last few semesters with.”

“I… I don’t understand what the problem is. I sound great from what you’re saying,” Ron seethed, frustration clear in his tone.

“I need a man for the next part of my life. Not a frat boy, not even if he doesn’t exactly fit the stereotype. I’m going to Harvard Law School in the fall. Do you understand how big of a deal that is?”

“Yes! That’s why I am pursuing a job in Boston. To be with you.”

“At a beer company.”

“I’m not opening a bar with my buddies. It’s a research and development role at a major corporation!”

“You have a degree in food science,” Astoria replied, rolling her eyes.

“It’s not like we spend all our time eating. It’s a real field. I got an A in Organic Chemistry.”

“Org Chem with Murphy. The serious students take it with Professor Kettle.”

Ron just gaped at her.

“If I’m going to be a federal judge by the time I’m 40, I need to stop dicking around. And I’m sorry, you’re not a Marty Ginsberg.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not an Armie Hammer either. Feels like there’s some wiggle room between those two extremes.”

“You’re a great guy. And I’m sure you’ll be a great husband to a marketing specialist or a pharmaceutical sales rep. And maybe if I was going to go to Wayne State or Northwestern, things would be different. But this is Harvard Law. There are just… expectations that any potential spouse meet a certain intellectual bar. Or at least a social bar. I mean, my sister is engaged to a Kennedy!”

At that point, the waiter approached the table with their desserts. Astoria stood up. “I’m really sorry. I’ll just call an Uber.” She paused and kissed him on the cheek before exiting the dining room.

“Uh, should I wrap these to go?” asked the waiter as Ron watched Astoria leave.

#au romione #romione fanfic #romione #ron x hermione #ron and hermione #ron weasley #ron weasley defense squad #hermione granger #muggle au #hp fanfic #fanfic

[misha-moose-dean-burger-lover]

Be Mine, This Quarantine ~ (II)

Dean pulls out his phone, clicks on the camera icon, and takes a selfie.

He looks adequately grouchy in it - his uninterested eyebrow-raise, an indisputable declaration that clicking a picture of himself irritates and annoys him, as it should every respectable non-preadolescent person. Also, he manages to get Cas's apartment building, a little bit of the night sky, and his very last moving box of stuffs, in the frame.

It's labelled 'Socks' on the top, and should make Dean feel like a dork if he wasn't going to send the picture straight to Sam - the dorkier of the two of them, by far, and also someone who's well-acquainted with Dean's fascination for hilarious novelty socks.

No sooner has the message been sent, it's been seen, and Dean's getting a call from his little brother.

"It's dark." Sam greets, with all the subtle pointedness of a soon-to-be-lawyer. "Why is it dark?"

"Are you just staring at your screen, waiting for me to text you all day?" Dean throws back, and Sam makes a noncommittal sound. "And it's dark cause it's almost nine."

"And you're still not done?" Sam sounds surprised.

"Almost," Dean bites his cheek. He has to admit Sam has a point. Moving in's supposed to be a morning, in-the-sun kind of activity. "In my defense, I started late. Cas made me spend all morning at his place, getting to know Catsanova."

"His cat?"

"It's literally in the name, Sammy."

"Hypoallergenic?"

"Do I sound dead to you?" Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, she is. And cute, too. Black, and it's got whiskers. Responds to 'Cas'."

"Figures." Sam grins, audibly. Kid's always been an animal person - he's probably going to be asking for pictures all the time now. "It sounds pretty similar. So what, you say Cas, and both the cat and human come up to you?"

"Neither of them come up to me, cause neither of them's fond of moving. Big Cas ignores me until I make it like I'm dying, and Small Cas still doesn't really care." Dean laughs. "But I'm going to try and work up to it."

"Good luck." Sam says to that, before clearing his throat. "You should finish moving your socks in, Dean." There's a pause. "Thank you for listening to me about the quarantine thing, I guess. And staying safe."

Dean's first instinct is to immediately dismiss the sentiment, but then he decides not to. And settles for, "You too, Sammy. And thank you for the move-in-with-Cas advice."

Sam lets out a soft, "Yeah."

"But if you tell me what to do again," Dean adds, right after. "And try to threaten me with cheap flight tickets to Kansas? I'm not fucking giving in."

"And you're welcome for the caring about you." Sam retorts, and Dean rolls his eyes a second time.

"That's my job."

"Yeah, right."

"Just shut your face. Smartass." Dean can't contain his smile, in spite of himself. "Stay inside, okay? I've got Gabriel's eyes on you." That's Cas's stepbrother, also in Stanford, and Dean's not really used him yet - but he really could. Dude's sorta obsessed with Sam.

"I -" Sam huffs. "Jerk."

Dean grins. "Bitch."

The phone clicks, and Sam's gone. Dean picks up the last box - it's pretty light, so he props it on his hip and uses a free hand to slam Baby's door shut, and walks into the building he's going to spend (at least) the next three weeks in.

*

"Pizza's on it's way." Cas says from the couch, first thing as Dean enters and shuts the door behind him, setting the box on the floor.

He can't get a normal greeting fucking ever in these parts - but he doesn't really pay attention to it, because every braincell which isn't involved in keeping him alive and standing, fixates all at once, on the scene which beholds him.

He's obviously seen Cas plenty of times before - probably more keenly than he should've been seeing him, to be fair - but this is different. It's like seeing Cas in his natural habitat.

He's in the middle of the couch - typical roommate-lacking behavior - with bare feet propped up on two of Dean's boxes, like there wasn't any furniture around before Dean moved in. And in his collarless bee-patterned shirt and pyjamas which match the brown throw pillows, it's basically like he's dissolved into the couch under the weight of Catsanova who's settled on his tummy, with his hands around her, petting. His hair's enough of a mess that he could've had a reverse-Jonathan-Van-Ness moment by himself when Dean went downstairs for the last time, and his eyes are glued to the TV screen even when he speaks to Dean, and then proceeds to keep up a soft, toddler-voice conversation with his cat.

Holy shit.

Dean loves him.

This is going to be so hard.

"I changed out of my jeans," Cas adds, not even slightly in Dean's direction, per se. "I know you wanted to go out earlier, but it's Catsanova's dinner time now, and I was wondering if the three of us could just eat together. And watch The Middle." The last part, he directs to Dean, eyes wide and curious.

"Uh." Dean says, eloquently. "Sure."

The Middle's exactly the kind of thing Dean should've expected Cas would watch. It's sappy and sweet, and revolves around a hilariously dysfunctional family, and it's half ways to a sitcom and Dean can clearly imagine them bingeing through all of it - piled on the couch with the cat on Cas's lap, and he's still in the middle cause Dean really doesn't mind squeezing on his left as long as their shoulders brush and knees touch, and they're having pizza and Cas is in ratty graphic tees, and -

Alternatively, this is going to be a little bit perfect.

"I'll go change as well." Dean rubs the back of his neck, scanning the room for his bag which contained a set of clothes in case he got too lazy to unpack. As had happened.

"Are you going to be needing any of these?" Cas draws his attention to the two boxes he's got his feet on, by wiggling his toes.

"Nah." Dean checks the labels. "There won't be any pyjamas in DVDs or Boo -" He stops. That's supposed to be Books. "Boo?" Dean repeats, frowning.

"Catsanova likes scratching letters off of words which make them more adorable. Don't you, Catsanova?" Cas grins, running his hand through her fur as he talks about her. She doesn't really pay attention to it. "Say Boo again for us, Dean."

Dean fails to resist the blush. "Screw you. And do you always say her full name, like, all the time? I get that it's funny - or punny, or whatever," Castiel beams at that bit. "But it's kind of a mouthful."

"An earful, you mean." Cas muses.

Dean shrugs, because he's stuck trying to rein in the overpowering affection he feels for this messy, gorgeous guy, who always addresses his cat by her full name, and lets him move in for quarantine. "Just call her Nova or something. She's smart, she'll get it."

"But her name's Catsanova." Cas clarifies, as if it wasn't clear to Dean before.

"Your name's Castiel, Cas."

"I blame you for that."

"Sure you do, Happy Meal."

Cas scowls, not giving Dean more material to work with, and silently going back to watching the TV. "Spoilsport." Dean grins. "Isn't that what he is, Catsanova?"

She, once again, doesn't pay any real attention to them, but Cas's lips quirk up in a smile. They're done discussing nicknames for the cat apparently, so he moves on. "You can freshen up in my bathroom right now. There's no towels in the other one yet."

"Roger that."

Dean picks up his duffel and sets off for Cas's room. He's been to this apartment plenty of times, before. On his way, he passes what's going to be his room - previously, Cas's study slash storage, and takes a detour.

It's the same size as Cas's room, with smaller windows and grey curtains, and looks pretty comfortable, though Dean's more of a spend-all-day-in-the-living-room sorta guy. It's got wardrobes and shelves, for when it's morning and Dean resumes the elaborate routine of unpacking, and a desk at the side, and - oh, fucking hell.

Dean flings his duffel on the chair, which is the only place to sit in the entire room, - and marches out. "Cas!"

For once, even Catsanova reacts to him, jumping down from Cas, and Cas looks downright alarmed when Dean storms into the living room. "What happened?"

"Where the hell's your futon?"

"Oh." Cas pauses. Dean waits, impatiently for an answer, which seems to come to Cas fairly quick, bringing in its wake, a horrified expression of remembrance. "I lent it to Kelly."

"Then," Dean fixes Cas with an accusing glare. If he were standing, that would've been a finger jabbed at his chest. "Where the hell am I going to sleep?"

"Oh."

"Well?"

Cas blinks. And quietly declares - for the benefit of Catsanova, probably, because the two humans already know, and are staring at each other in despair. "I may not have completely thought this through."

*

"I call right."

"Right-now-right, or on-the-bed-right?" Cas confirms, voice coming in from the bathroom where he's brushing his teeth.

"You're on my right when we're sleeping." Dean declares, stifling a scowl. It's not like he's trying to be rude, but he really hadn't expected any of this. He hasn't expected to finish moving in at nine, and dinner at ten, and then proceed to sleep in Cas's bed for the first night he's here.

("I'm so sorry, this is completely on me -" Cas had kept apologizing, with blue eyes in full-on Bambi stare. "I can't believe I forgot about giving away the futon! I'm such a -"

"Whatever, Cas." Dean had frowned back, rolling his eyes. "S'not that big a deal. I'll take the couch."

"Of course not." Cas had looked horrified. "It's cold out here, and my couch is too small - it's just a three-seater. You're way taller than three horizontal butts, plus twice the armrest." Dean had given him a look for that one, and if he wasn't annoyed, he would've been laughed.

"So?"

"You're obviously sleeping in my bed."

"Well, you're taller than three butts too." Dean had sighed, still annoyed - but it slowly subsiding to some sort of thrill which was definitely associated with getting to sleep in Cas's bed.

"I know." Cas had sighed back, a little grim. "I'll just sleep with you.")

Now, Cas exits the bathroom, and walks straight to the bed, setting the pillows right. It's a King-size, so they're going to have enough space, really, but Dean's a little skeptic about getting under the covers first. So instead of climbing on his side, and settling in like his body really wants to, he lingers around, rummaging through his bag even though he has everything he needs.

His phone's plugged in next to his bed, and he's just in a t-shirt and pajamas now. Sure, he usually sleeps in just his boxers, but he has a fair idea of how ridiculous that'd be when Cas, right next to him, sleeps in a full, adorable ensemble.

And that's the last time he's letting himself think Cas - or his bee-themed outfits are adorable.

"I'm going to go put Catsanova to bed." Cas announces, with a smile. "To couch, to be honest. She sleeps inside the couch and I think she likes to think it's her very own hiding spot."

"So that's why I'm not sleeping there?" Dean throws back, stifling a yawn. Somehow, it's eleven, and that's not exactly late, but on a day you've moved into your best friend's apartment, and made friends with his moody cat, it feels pretty late. "Cause the three-butt analogy wasn't your best move, buddy."

"You guessed it." Cas returns, flatly. "I made us sleep in the same bed so that Catsanova's sleep routine didn't get disrupted. Now, how about you actually sleep, Dean?" There's one of those I-know-more-than-you-think-I-do smiles on his face. "You're clearly tired."

"'M not sleeping without you." Dean can't hold in the yawn this time, and it comes out garbling the last bits of his sentence and causing Cas to stare at him in a horrified kind of fascination.

"Before you." He corrects, his cheeks burning, when he actually hears himself. "That'd just be weird."

"Not at all," Cas shrugs. "But sure. Just come with me to Catsanova's night couch."

"Whose couch is it in the morning?"

Cas doesn't really think about it. "Hers, though she settles for indirect use of it's luxury, via our laps."

Dean nods thoughtfully, and follows Cas to the living room. The cat is already all fed, of course, and doesn't really seem keen on playing with them - probably because, and Cas told him this once, cats tended to have bedtime installed in their cat brains. Dean may or may not think that's adorable.

Catsanova curls up in the middle of the couch, much like her (nick)-namesake, and Dean's breath hitches when with a slight purr, puts her head on her paws. She's not a kitten, Cas had mentioned, but she's still so small, that she fits on just one cushion, and with her tail drawn up close, and squinting eyes, she's the cutest thing Dean's ever seen.

"Isn't this somehow better than even the best youtube cat videos?" Cas whispers, eyes turned adoringly at his cat.

"I don't watch -"

Cas gives him a look.

"Okay, yeah, I do, and it is." Dean gives in, rolling his eyes at being called out. "Maybe not better than the kitten falling asleep in the middle of dinner though."

Cas raises his eyebrows, impressed. "You're not wrong."

"But a close second?" Dean offers.

Cas smiles, softly, straight at Dean. He's sitting cross-legged on the floor, with hands around his ankles, and Dean's on the low settee behind him, staring at both the cat and Cas, lazily smiling too.

It feels perfect. In fact, he's so physically exhausted and mentally blissed out that in the moment, that he's not even freaking out about the fact that after this, he and Cas are going to go sleep in the same bed.

(In his right senses, he would've been. When it got suggested - or pretty much, declared, he couldn't have put up a big argument, because if Cas could be so cool about it, how weird would it have been if he wasn't? Why shouldn't he be, indeed?

Except for the fact that he's in love with Castiel and growing increasingly aware of it as the day lives by, there's absolutely no other reason, he's sure.

So after a few weakly presented excuses, including his insistance that it isn't necessary - "Dean, of course it is!" - and bringing back the couch solution - "Dean, why would you sleep on the couch for my mistake?" - he'd given in.

He just couldn't come around to the point that he really isn't sure he'll be able to survive being next to Cas on a bed for an entire night, and figures that it didn't occur to Cas either.

Because of course it fucking didn't.)

"Okay, then." Cas lets out, standing up from the ground swiftly, though Dean holds a hand out. His voice holds a tinge of we're done here, like a superhero in a mission, and Dean grins, in spite of himself. "Let's go."

Since 'putting Catsanova to bed' apparently only includes sitting in front of the couch and staring at her in adoration while she falls asleep and eventually snuggles so close to the back of the couch that she ends up rolling inside, as Dean has now learned, Dean gets up too.

"How'd you like it?" Cas sounds proud.

"Her sleep routine? She did all of it herself." Dean tells him, as the both of them drag themselves to Cas's room. Even Dean knows the house well enough to not have to think about it. "I don't know what I expected, but that wasn't it."

"Did you imagine cuddles and lullabies?" Cas laughs.

"You built it up, buddy."

Cas shrugs nonchalantly, as they reach the bed, and Dean's too tired at this point to even care who's getting in first. All he notices is when they're both in - Cas half-sitting up, legs stretched out under the comforter, and Dean lying on his side as he speaks to him.

"All you did was watch her sleep." He mutters, not really thinking anymore. Sleep is fast trailing his heels, and well, he's stopped running from it.

"I like watching over her." Cas answers, easily. "And it's a sign of trust that she lets me, to be fair. Cats aren't shy, but -"

"Territorial?"

"I guess."

"Huh." Dean closes his eyes. The pillow under his head is the perfect percentage of soft, and it's warm inside the comforter, as compared to the cold in the room. He pulls it up to his neck, trying to tuck himself in without making it obvious.

There's a pause.

"I didn't want to sleep before because," Dean confesses. "Sometimes you look at me." He likes it, but hopefully that doesn't come out in his voice.

There's a weight shift in the mattress, as Cas lies down too. Straight on his back, hand curved above his head, staring at the ceiling.

"It's weird." Dean mumbles. "Kinda."

Cas says, "Okay." But Dean's already asleep, slightly huffing when he exhales, and so there's nothing said in return, and Cas reaches to turn off the lap and goes to sleep, too.

*

Thing is, falling asleep when you're tired is easy. Staying asleep when you're anxious is not.

Dean blinks awake, with a startled breath, and takes a beat to process his surroundings. Gauging by the darkness in the room, it's a long way till sunrise. He stretches drowsily, an unconscious habit of getting up, and his hand nudges against something.

It feels like muscle, and hair, and turns out to be Cas's forearm, because as soon as his eyes get adjusted to the minimal light - he discovers Cas is right there.

They've both migrated towards the middle in their sleep - more Cas than him, Dean assumes quickly, and are still facing each other. When Dean draws his hand back, folding it under the comforter again, there's a few inches between them everywhere - yet suddenly, he's extremely awake, and aware, and losing it.

Cas is quietly asleep, features completely free of tension - with his face smoothed over in sleep, and lips slightly parted. He's unfairly beautiful, and practically a head-jerk away from Dean's pillow, and it's crazy how much it's all getting to Dean.

Even asleep, he's driving Dean nuts.

He doesn't even know what he wants to do - keep staring at this picture of serenity, force himself back to sleep, or something entirely different, but was he does is turn around.

He turns a hundred eighty degrees, keeping his eyes closed, and finds himself facing Cas's bookshelf.

The easiest way to deal with this burst of emotion is to sleep, he convinces himself, and maybe he'll forget about this in the morning. Maybe he'll fall asleep trying to read the titles of the books in front of him, and forget about waking up to Cas in front of him, dreamy even when dreaming, and forget about being overpowered by just about everything in that moment, as he is right now.

He just needs to go back to sleep.

Dean's repeated this to himself enough times to actually be drifting off to sleep, when he feels an arm randomly fall around his waist.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Cas, still asleep, has apparently decided to put his hand around Dean as if he were a fluffy stuffed toy or something, and it's landed ridiculously close to his abdomen, and his toes curl, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

And if Dean inadvertently pushes back towards the warmth radiating from Cas, and ends up little-spooning him because he's somehow backed up until he's reached Cas - then that's just a whole other thing he's never going to think about.

He finally goes back to sleep, not having to try and read the book titles at all, because apparently Cas hugging Dean to himself like a goddamn pillow, is all his fucking insomniac brain's ever needed.

(Although, he's never sharing a bed with Cas again, because he's sure he couldn't survive another such night.)

*

Catsanova wakes Cas up at six, meowing stubbornly at the door because she doesn't care about Dean's private, middle-of-the-night freakout as long as Cas gets up to pay her due attention, and Dean wakes alone at nine, and ends up pretending he's asleep until Cas comes with coffee.

He doesn't look at Dean different or at all, while climbing on bed with the tray - and Dean definitely doesn't notice that he doesn't, because he's obviously not paying attention.

And he obviously doesn't care.

#destiel #be mine this quarantine #dean winchester #destiel fluff #fanfiction fluff destiel #castiel novak #cats! #sam winchester #deancas fluff #deancas au #destiel college au #bed sharing #part 2 #quarantine #self isolation #young destiel #young dean winchester #young castiel #dean winchester/castiel #castiel/dean #not spoilers #coronavirus

[techmomma]

So! You not really an alcohol drinker, or maybe you don’t like the stuff, but you’re out somewhere and trying to decide how to have some and not absolutely hate your drink either. Maybe you’d like to actually enjoy the taste of your drink! Even if you’re not looking to get drunk or even tipsy. Maybe you’re just social drinking once in a blue moon.

But being a newbie, or having only had terrible-tasting alcohol, you have NO idea what to get. Steph is here to help for newbies! Or people who don’t give a damn and just want to have a nice drink that actually tastes good for once, and not in a “oh this very bitter and tart wine is so sweet” way. I am myself now very sensitive to alcohol as a flavor, so the majority of these have Steph’s seal of “shouldn’t taste like trying to stomach down cold medicine and should actually be tasty to normal people who don’t drink alcohol”. 

Please note to use this advice responsibly. This is not to help you get drunk, only to help you find a drink you probably won’t have to gag down and can thus enjoy the rest of your night if you’re choosing to partake in alcohol. Imbibing alcohol is a responsibility, and not one to take lightly.

“Girly drinks” are your friends. If you’re young or you don’t drink very much, your tastebuds are probably going to be oriented more toward sweet flavors and less toward bitter flavors. You’re looking for high sugar content baby. (And if you ARE looking to get drunk, this will get you drunk much faster than a whiskey, no matter what your hillbilly uncle says otherwise. that is the entire point of “girly drinks.”)

Most bars, pubs, restaurants and other places often have house drinks or cocktails in their drink menu that they make most often. You’re looking for drinks with ingredients like sweet fruits, like cherries, apricots, watermelon, mango, blue raspberry, lemonade, or novelty things like chocolate or butterscotch or cake or whatever. If anything, just ask the bartender or server if they’re not busy! The bartender will for sure know if it’s sweet, and can probably point you in the right direction if you tell them the flavors you usually like, or what you’re looking for. Yes, you’ll look like a newbie. That’s not the point. The point is to get a drink you’re not gonna gag on and that’s the price you pay.

Only somewhat related, but if you’ve never ordered drinks from a place with a bar, they’ll ask if you want to put it on a tab. That just means, “Do you want me to keep your order open so you can add more drinks later, or is this a one-time deal?” They’ll probably ask for a name then. If your friend’s paying, you give their name.

Typically, stay away from beer. Some rare people enjoy the taste of beer from the start, most do not. If you smell a glass and it smells putrid, steer clear of it. You ain’t gonna like it no matter what you put in it.

Most wines will also not be your friend. To those who do not regularly drink wine, it’s going to be impossibly bitter and feel like it’s drying your throat out despite being a liquid. (That’s the “dry” quality they talk about.)

On the contrary, however, wine spritzers, mixers, and punches? Those are your FRIENDS. These are legit going to taste like juice or soda or punch. They also tend to be lighter on alcoholic content (hence why commonly used for parties), and big on sugar. Spritzers are wine and soda, mixers are wine and some kind of liquor (usually a very sweet or fruity kind like a lemon or strawberry vodka), and wine punches can be as sweet or sour or fruity or tropical as you want. You’ll usually see them referred to as white or red sangrias.

Note: this is sort of why these can actually be MORE dangerous than like having straight-up liquor. These types of drinks with low alcohol and heavy sugar make it very, very easy to drink a lot of them, and have some extra surprise drunk times sneak up on you later because you drank more than you realized. 

My rule for safe drinking? One drink per hour, follow with water. You will typically not get more than buzzed, and will stay sufficiently hydrated.

Spritzers, mixers, and punches are part of a larger group called cocktails. Cocktails being just “non-alcoholic drink + alcohol of some kind.” Rum and coke? Cocktail. Bellini? Cocktail.

Champagne cocktails are very often sweet, bubbly drinks. They are Steph’s fave for a reason. Mimosas are perhaps the most famous champagne cocktail. Those are made with orange juice and champagne. Can be surprisingly potent.

When getting cocktails with liquors/spirits, like vodka, rum, and so forth, you will want to stay away from particular ones that are known for very bitter tastes and hard kicks. A bunch also uh, in general taste like the inside of a barrel. 

Typically, whiskey, gin, and tequilas are going to be very bitter and gross, and overpower whatever they’re put in. If you like really sour though, tequila goes well with margaritas, which are a lime drink that mostly covers the tequila taste. 

Vodka and Rum are typically going to be stomached better, vodka usually being the easiest of all. Both tend to mix well with fruity girly drinks, the kind you’re looking for. Very potent, so imbibe carefully. In most drinks though, you’re still going to get that “cold medicine aftertaste” that clears your sinuses and sometimes it’s just too powerful for the drink. You can usually smell these pretty strongly before you actually drink, and that’ll give you a pretty good idea of the burn you’re gonna feel in a moment. Both are also good in sweet minty drinks, if you like those. 

Surprisingly good drink for newbies: mead. It can be a little difficult to get a hold of, but it’s getting more popular. It’s made from honey, so it’s gonna be sweet usually by default. Peach mead? Hell yeah. Peach and honey taste.

Absinthe is actually very tasty, and no it will not make you hallucinate. It actually tastes a lot like licorice candy. Comes in fun colors, and with a sugar cube you dissolve into it on a special spoon. VERY hard to get in the US though, only a few bars sell it as a drink. Like I think it’s literally just a handful of bars across the entire fifty states that have absinthe and absinthe cocktails. If you’ve already tasted Jaegermeister, it tastes like that. I wouldn’t call it a newbie drink, but imo you’ll still enjoy your drink if George just feel like being special today.

Hard ciders have also been hailed as great for newbies, and usually very sweet. They’ve always been hit or miss with me; sometimes, yeah, they’re delicious, and other times they just taste like vaguely-fruity beer. Which is not great.

Beer, to me, tastes like old socks. So y’know, vaguely fruity old socks.

Stay away from most shots. This is usually pure liquor, and it is not pleasant. Especially if you have a small mouth like mine and sometimes can’t do shots in one go. Exceptions are novelty mixers, like those weird cake shots. 

Cake-flavored vodka is not as good as you think it sounds.

So here’s some drinks that, as someone who’s tasted a bunch, I can tell you they’ll probably be easier to stomach. Some I actually enjoy as drinks.

Rumchata is horchata with rum in it, so a milky, cinnamon-y kind of drink. Good for newbies. 

Kahlua & cream: coffee and cream drink

Mudslide: coffee and cream and irish liqueur; honestly best as a mudslide milkshake. holy shit. that’s heaven.

Bourbon milkshake: honestly if any place sells milkshakes and has a bar, you can ask to get a shot of bourbon added to your milkshake. VERY yummy flavor pair, especially vanilla milkshakes with bourbon.

White russian: kahlua and cream and add vodka

Red russian: vodka with cherry liquor

Dirty Shirley: grenadine (if this is listed as an ingredient that usually means a very sweet drink), soda, maraschino cherries, vodka

Bellini (bars that know what this is are sort of rare, you’ll probably have to explain it): peach juice and champagne

Mimosa: orange juice and champagne (acceptable for breakfast parties!)

Sangria (you usually can’t order this one from bars unless it’s like a special sangria night; this drink is usually found more at parties and social functions): fruit punch + wine + soda if the hosts are younger

Strawberry lemonade vodka: strawberry lemonade and vodka

Malibu cocktail: rum (usually Malibu Rum, hence the name), cranberry juice, pineapple juice.

Blue hawaiian: coconut creme liqueur, pineapple juice, white rum, blue curacao (blue-colored orange liqueur; it’s very fun to mix and also usually means a very sweet drink).

Mojito: rum, soda, lime juice, mint

Mai tai: pineapple juice, lime juice, orange juice, grenadine, white and dark rum

Lemon drop martini: vodka, triple sec (another orange liqueur), sugar and fresh lemon juice

Pina Colada: blended slushy drink made with creme de coconut, rum, and ice

Chocolate martinis: irish cream liqueur, chocolate liqueur, and vodka

Frozen daiquiris: slushy frozen drinks made with fruit juice and rum

Irish coffee: the one place where you actually might enjoy whiskey for those who don’t like it. It’s just that: coffee and usually a whiskey liqueur, like baileys. Creamy, warm, good for cold nights.

Peppermint schnapps hot chocolate: hot chocolate with a peppermint zip. If making yourself, make a big mug first and only add like a capful of peppermint schnapps, it can very easily overpower the chocolate taste. Also creamy and yummy for cold nights. 

Hot buttered rum: an intensive recipe, but a very yummy, creamy, warm, butterscotchy drink that you stick a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top of. Hard to get tastier than that. I’m very certain Butterbeer was originally based off of this.

There were a bunch of drinks that are typically considered “girly” for high sugar contents, but having had them before, they were just not sweet. Martinis are usually very dry and bitter no matter the fruit, long island iced teas only taste good if you like iced tea, cosmopolitans (cosmos) are heavy on the vodka flavor, as are watermelon vodkas and alcohol-infused watermelons, and a number of colorful, blended ice drinks that are usually listed are heavy on the alcohol burn, enough to drown out the flavor.

Hope this was helpful! Remember, yes, you might look like a newbie, but the bartender wants to help you find a drink just for you! Ask them questions (when they’re not busy), and they can totally help you out (most just like to help, but at the very least, helping you might mean some extra money at the end of the night). And if they’re real nice they might give you little samples so that you can have a taste for yourself before buying the whole drink.

#alcohol