#i literally have this issue where i’ll let dirty clothes pile up in the laundry basket for an entire month

[goldensunset]

did you know? if you do your laundry you can get your clothes back

#fascinating stuff. let’s see if i (person with the worst executive dysfunction when it comes to doing laundry) remember it #i literally have this issue where i’ll let dirty clothes pile up in the laundry basket for an entire month #like it takes me that long to get around to it #and then- who would’ve thought- i find that i don’t have anything good to wear. strange! #finally did it last night and i’m like ohhh that was so difficult but the payoff finally #augh #peach rambles #hall of fame i guess #shut up about socks. idc. #this was a fun positivity post of sorts it’s about overcoming executive dysfunction #derailing into jokes about losing socks is. it’s not horrible but just boring and annoying #it was supposed to be celebration!! and encouragement!!!

[imaginingsoftly]

Trouble - Travis Konecny

Type: enemies to friends, Y/N insert 

Requested: No

Warnings: none

A/N: I’m working on a new series, although it’s going incredibly slowly, so here’s a little something on Konecny until I can start getting parts of the series out!

This was officially the worst day of your life. As if getting screamed at by no less than 5 middle-aged women at work and then heading home to your roommate and her boyfriend fighting again wasn’t bad enough, now you were sitting in your least favorite person’s apartment covered in wine and trying not to cry. Nolan at least had the grace to look sorry for dumping two full glasses of wine all over your neck and shoulders, though at that point even the most enthusiastic of apologies wouldn’t have mattered. 

“Y/N, I..” you held up a hand. If you didn’t get out of the room in the next five seconds you were going to lose it in front of Nolan and everybody else. Madison, the friend that had dragged you into this disaster in the first place, tried to go after you, but Ivan held her back. You thought you heard him whisper to give you a minute, but he spoke too quietly to be sure. It would have been hard to hear over the roaring in your ears anyway.

The mirror in Travis’ bathroom only served to make you feel worse. The wine had soaked through your shirt, staining the white tank top to the point that you knew it wasn’t going to come out. The shirt was the least of your current issues, though. It was the state of your brand new bra that finally broke you. The white lace, so beautiful when you’d bought it the day before, was now stained a dark red. You clutched the bathroom counter, trying to relax even as tears began to leak out of your eyes. “Trouble?” A knock sounded at the door, and you hurriedly wiped at your face. Travis would laugh if he saw you crying over some spilled wine. Hell, he’d probably make some kind of comment about city girls and being high maintenance. “Trouble, you okay in there?”

You opened the door to a laughing Travis, though his face quickly changed when he saw the mascara pooling under your eyes. “Y/N?” His hands came up to cup your shoulders awkwardly as you broke down. If Travis was calling you by your first name rather than that stupid nickname he’d given you, then you must really look bad. “Oh, sweetheart.” Travis pulled you in tightly for a hug, ignoring your muffled protests about the wine you were still covered in. He smelled good, like laundry detergent and some kind of musky cologne, and you took a deep breath. The smell settled into your lungs and your breathing calmed slightly. 

“Come on.” Travis pulled back slightly. “Let’s get you a new shirt, yeah? Maybe see if we can get the stain out of that one.” You were fairly certain that wouldn’t happen, but he was being nice to you for once. You’d take that for as long as possible. 

His room was just about what you’d expected. He wasn’t dirty, per say, but it certainly wasn’t spotless. His suit from the game the night before was discarded on a chair, and workout clothes sat in a pile next to the hamper rather than in it. Travis stepped through a door you assumed led to a closet, returning seconds later with a t-shirt and some sweatpants. “It’s on your jeans a little bit too, so if you give me everything I can get it washed real quick before the stain really sets in.” He was being weirdly thoughtful and you wondered if there was a prank coming. “There’s makeup remover in the top drawer if you want to use it. My ex left it in the bathroom one time and I never got rid of it.” He held out the clothes with a small smile. You took them gratefully, mumbling out a thank you as you slid past him and into the bathroom he pointed at. 

There had to be some kind of a trick involved. Your brain was going a million miles a minute trying to comprehend why Travis was suddenly being nice to you, and why he’d offered you clothes so easily. He was never this nice to you. To the guys, sure, and to others, but never to you. Still, clothes were clothes and he was offering to get rid of the stains. You’d take whatever you could get. Plus, you thought as you slid into the sweatpants, they were super comfy and they smelled like Travis. As weird as it was, the smell was comforting. 

A swipe of the makeup remover across your eyes removed the last of your makeup, and then you felt almost like yourself again. Well, other than the fact that you’d apparently entered an alternate universe where Travis didn’t hate you. Travis was waiting on the bed when you exited the bathroom, swimming in his clothes. He smiled softly at the sight, and your stomach twisted slightly. That look was new. He wasn’t supposed to be looking at you in a nice way, so what the hell was going on? “Uh, Travis, you good?” Travis jerked when you spoke, literally shaking his head to focus again. It almost brought a laugh out of you. 

He took your clothes before you could protest and began backing towards the hallway. “So, uh, I’ll go put some stainstick on these and throw them in the washer. Everybody else is filtering out, and, uh, we can get you home once your clothes are clean?” Travis nodded to himself and took off, leaving you standing in the middle of his room confused. Why in the hell was the cockiest person on the planet nervous around you all of a sudden?

Madison poked her head in as you remained frozen in the same spot. She smirked when she saw the clothes you were wearing, and jerked her chin at you. “You good here with Trav? Ivan suddenly wants to get home really really badly.” She winked conspiratorially, and you laughed. 

“Go ahead. Have fun with your boy. I’ll be fine.” Madison giggled, and then she was gone. You began to step towards the door, tired of standing awkwardly in Travis’ room. The sound filtering down the hallway was noticeably quieter than it had been ten minutes before, and you weren’t shocked to see Nolan was the only person besides Travis still remaining in the apartment. 

Nolan stepped in your direction with bright red cheeks and a sheepish expression. “Shit, Y/N, I’m sorry.” You shook your head as if to say don’t worry about it, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “So, I’m gonna go, but I just wanted you to know that I didn’t mean to. And if your shirt is ruined I’ll get you a new one, I promise.”

You chuckled, pulling the taller man in for a hug. “It’s okay, Nols. I know it was an accident.” He mumbled another apology into the top of your head. “I just had a really shitty day, and for whatever reason that’s what broke me.” Nolan made a sympathetic noise and ruffled your hair. Travis appeared from the kitchen to bro hug Nolan, and then it was just the two of you. You looked down at your feet, rocking onto your tiptoes awkwardly. There were no more buffers. It was just you and this newly friendly Travis. 

“So,” Travis said, “a really shitty day?” Footsteps came closer as you continued looking down at your feet, and then Travis’ sock-covered toes appeared in your view. “I promise I just wanna hear about it. No funny business.” 

His face looked serious when you finally looked up. It was the concern in his eyes that had you opening your mouth. “I co-own a coffee shop with my cousin. I think Madison has mentioned it before?” Travis nodded in recognition, and you continued. “I normally don’t do a whole bunch behind the counter, because I don’t have the disposition to deal with assholes. I’m more of a numbers person, and she’s the customer service queen. She was out sick today, so I had to work behind the counter. We had a PTA group come in for one of their cliquey gossip sessions today, and apparently I am completely incompetent and can’t make a cup of coffee worth a damn.” Travis winced accordingly. 

“And then,” you continued, all warmed up and ready to rant, “I finally get home after working from about 4am to 8pm, and my roommate and her fucking boyfriend were screaming at each other. Again. That’ll be about the fourth fucking time they’ve broken up this month. It’s only the 20th.” He was a cheating piece of shit, but your roommate didn’t want to see that. It was frustrating to no end.

“I called Madison to see if I could stay with her for the night, since my roommate and her boyfriend will probably be fucking all night, and instead she drags me here, where I get to deal with some hotshot hockey player that hates my fucking guts, and then Nolan dumps half a fucking bottle of wine on me and all of a sudden you’re being nice and I just really need a hug.” 

You were wound up, breathing a little heavily, and Travis looked shell-shocked. Suddenly he stepped closer, and for the second time that night you were wrapped up in Travis’ arms. “I don’t hate you.” He squeezed you a little tighter as he spoke, as if to emphasize his words. “You do intimidate the hell out of me though.” You leaned your forehead against his chest contentedly, chuckling a little bit. “Seriously. You’re all smart and sexy and you own a fucking business. I’ve always just wanted to be your friend, but you never got along with me like you did the other guys.”

His arms loosened slightly as you jerked back. “I never hated you. I thought you hated me.” Travis laughed, shaking his head in slight confusion. “So we could’ve been friends all along, we just thought the other person hated us?” You felt a smile creep up your face. Of course this would happen to you. 

Travis held out a hand. “Friends?”

You laughed, gripping his hand with one of your own. “Friends.”

#nhl imagines #nhl imagine #travis konecny imagine

[misssquidtracy]

Laundry Duty

A short piece of Virgil-centric fluff for @fictivekaleidoscope to help her feel better after her op. I find Virg a challenge to write, so this took longer than the 10 minutes I originally promised XD. 

Please excuse me while I scamper back to Gordon’s corner with my tail between my legs. Writing anything other than him is a bit like learning a foreign language for me.

Genre: Humour & fluff.

Characters: Virgil, Scott & John, with young Gordon and Alan in the background.

Summary: Virgil is the domestic househusband we all fantasise about, but with a dark twist...XD.

-x-

Virgil was not amused.

At all.

As if a solid week of back-to-back rescues garnished with a healthy amount of sleep deprivation hadn’t been enough, the massive pile of dirty laundry that was taking up two thirds of the floor was yet another nail in his green coffin.

Thunderbird Two’s pilot was flabbergasted at Scott and John’s laziness. Sure, he was guilty of not pulling as much weight as he usually did, but he was on his first day off in two weeks. Scott was into his fourth day of not being deployed and John had left EOS in charge of Five while he was planetside. Last time Virgil had checked, both brothers were perfectly healthy and as a result, more than capable of laundering their own clothes.

Scott had shrugged when Virgil had confronted him on the issue, not understanding why he couldn’t chuck all his dirty clothes into a pile and offload them onto Grandma. When John had suggested that he might do the same thing, Virgil had capitulated and very grudgingly offered to toss their clothes into the washer with his own. The embarrassment of one of his brothers getting deployed in an unwashed uniform for the entire world to see (and smell) would be enough to send him to an early grave.

Except, what had seemed like a good compromise an hour ago didn’t seem quite so good when it became apparent just how many items needed washing. There were the regular and spare iR suits, plus six days and five bodies worth of jeans, shirts, socks, pyjamas, t-shirts, swimwear…

Virgil scowled and resisted the urge to stamp on a particularly filthy looking shirt of Gordons. He was no househusband, but even he could tell that it would take at least six, possibly seven loads to get through this infernal pile. And considering each cycle took an hour and fifteen minutes to run, plus the fact that he’d probably have to pre-soak all of Gordon’s contaminated items, he was looking at between seven and ten hours of laundry on what was supposed to be his day off.

No way. Absolutely no way.

Anger completely overtaking logical thinking, Virgil grabbed an armful of clothes (instantly wishing he’d pegged his nose beforehand) and dumped them haphazardly into the nearest washer. Not pausing to consider material, colour or degree of dirtiness, he shoved everything in together. When the first tub was stuffed to capacity, he rummaged through the remainder of the pile and pulled out his own clothes before depositing them in the second washer. Heaven forbid he throw all his good shirts in with Gordon’s bright green swim trunks.

John’s white polo shirt was a different story.  

Satisfied that the first washer was suitably stuffed (probably to the point where none of the clothes would actually get cleaned), Virgil double checked to make sure none of his own items were mingling with Gordon’s trunks and Scott’s socks. After finishing his inspection, he opened one of the cabinets and pondered over the choice of detergents.  

Virgil quickly realised why laundry duty was the least favoured chore amongst his brothers – there must have been at least ten different types of detergent staring back at him. Scented dryer sheets, stuff for sensitive skin, perfume pearls, organic this and that, et cetera, et cetera…

Deciding to indulge in some petty revenge, Virgil selected the most ostentatious, sickeningly feminine detergent he could see; a bright pink bottle with a picture of a cloud on the front labelled ‘Sunset Marshmallow’. He popped the cap, inhaled deeply and nearly gagged at the cloying scent that assaulted his nose. It smelt like something a unicorn had vomited up.

Thunderbird Two’s pilot upended the bottle and tipped most of the contents into the washer containing his brother’s clothes. As the cherry on top, he also dumped in an entire container of scented pearls in the fragrance ‘Dusky Rose’, before slamming the lid shut and hitting the start button with an air of flourish. His mood rose considerably at the thought of his lazy ass brothers stinking like a garden.

Virgil’s own clothes were treated to a modest amount of regular lemon scented detergent and no fragrance pearls. Heaven forbid that he be caught smelling like a pre-teen girl.

Leaving both washers happily humming away, Virgil breezed out the door and allowed himself a small snicker of amusement.

‘Lazy suckers.’

-x-

Virgil didn’t know why, but somehow all his revenge attempts always ended up boomeranging back to bite him on the ass.

After his brother’s hideously perfumed clothes had finished their wash cycle and been tossed in the dryer with some more scented pearls for an extra dose of revenge, Scott and John had arrived to sort through and collect what belonged to them. Virgil, who had been fishing his own freshly scented (but not too freshly scented) laundry out of the second dryer had noticed some raised eyebrows and grimacing faces as the combined scents of Sunset Marshmallow and Dusky Rose hit both Scott and John square in the face (and nose).  

All had seemed reasonably well up until that point. Scott and John had quickly caught wind of Virgil’s revenge act, but were both smart enough to realise that they had nothing to throw back at him. They had left their dirty laundry at his mercy, and now they (and John’s green polo shirt) were paying the price.

Virgil had insisted that they all eat lunch together before commencing their afternoon chores. Not willing to pass up the opportunity of free food, his brothers had agreed and were now sat around the kitchen island. Gordon was busy doodling on the sofa with a sandwich in his lap and Alan was taking a nap in Scott’s room.  

What started as a fairly civilised family gathering began to disintegrate when John started to sniff and rub at his nose. Several minutes later, a light rash broke out on his neck and along his forearms. Several more minutes later, he was folded in half as a series of violent sneezes shook his frame.

“What – ACHOO– was – AH– in that – AH– stuff you put – AH– in our laundry? ACHOO!”  

Virgil shrugged and resumed eating, “Don’t know. Price you pay for being lazy though.”

John wiped a tear from his eye as another sneeze took hold, “ACHOOOO!”

Scott grimaced as John directed a particularly powerful sneeze over his sandwich, “Argh, John! That’s disgusting! Cover your nose for god’s sake!”

“Virg,” John wheezed, doubling over into a flurry of slightly smaller, but no less violent sneezes, “Help me! ACHOO! Please! I – AH– can’t – ACHOO– stop! ACHOO!”

Virgil sighed and stood up from the table. He disappeared into John’s room and ferreted around in his brother’s ensuite before locating some foil wrapped tablets. Upon returning to the kitchen, he was mildly shocked to see the redhead tearing his shirt off and throwing it to the floor.

Virgil didn’t say anything, opting instead to hand John his tablets with a fresh glass of water. The medication disappeared down the middle brother’s throat in the blink of an eye, quickly followed by a large glug of water.

“How many of these do I have left?” John croaked, motioning to the wrapper in his hand before succumbing to another sneeze.

“That’s the last packet I could see,” Virgil replied, retaking his seat at the table, “Do you have some spares?”

John groaned and shook his head, “I’ll need to take – ACHOO– some more in about an hour – ACHOO– to get rid of the worst of it – ACHOO!”

Virgil sighed and dropped his head into waiting hands. He’d have to pick John up a fresh batch of antihistamines before the middle brother gave himself a nosebleed. The engineer kicked himself mentally, not out of guilt, but out of disappointment at his own stupidity. It was a well-known family fact that John was allergic to just about every damn thing on the planet. Peanuts, chamomile, celery, most types of pollen, kiwis, cinnamon and juniper to name a few. He’d even been allergic to the formula Alan had been given as a baby. Virgil had found that particular incident hilarious, but had retracted his humour after being informed that the redhead was honourably discharged from babysitting duty due being literally allergic to Alan.  

‘Bad call, Virgil. You should have just shrunk all his clothes instead.’

Depositing his plate by the sink, Virgil picked up his phone and made for the hanger stairwell, “I’ll be half an hour, Scott. The closest mainland pharmacy is right on the Australian coast.”

Gordon hastily crammed the rest of his sandwich into his mouth before jumping up from the sofa and sprinting over, “Virg! Can I come with you? Please? I promise I’ll behave!”  

Virgil didn’t have the energy to protest, “Fine, but don’t you dare wander where I can’t see you.”

Crumbs sprayed out of the little blonde’s mouth as he bounced up and down excitedly, “I promise! Let’s go!”

Scott snorted as Gordon rocketed out the door.

“Only half an hour, you say?”

In the background, John let out an exotic profanity as blood started to stream from his nose.

Virgil set his jaw.

“Half an hour.”

Revenge. Boomerang. Ass. Him.

#thunderbirds #thunderbirds 2015 #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds tag #thunderbirds are go #gordon tracy #virgil tracy #scott tracy #john tracy #alan tracy #grandma tracy

[firstdegreefangirl]

Eddie Week Day Five: Eddie and His Idiot Husband

Word Count: 2291

Original Pub Date: 19 June 2020

Relationships: Eddie Diaz & Christopher Diaz, Eddie Diaz & Abuela

Author's Note: Me? Writing Christmas fic in June? More likely than you think.

Read on ao3 here

Usual suspects: @eddiediazweek @hearteyesforbuck @rebeccaofsbfarm @thisissirius @hearteyesforbuck @dramamineontopofme @twinien @meloingly @myemergence

It started out simply enough: Eddie was picking Buck up from the car dealership, taking him to lunch with Christopher while he waited on an oil change. As soon as Buck swung himself up into the truck seat, Chris started giggling.

“What? What’s so funny, little dude?” Buck turns around in the seat to watch him laughing, and Eddie looked up in the rearview mirror to see his son practically doubled over against his seatbelt.

“You-you guys are … you guys are TWINS!” He can hardly get the words out, but as soon as Eddie realizes what he’s said, he glances across the console at Buck

Sure enough, they’re both wearing blue jeans and the same T-shirt: plain black with the LAFD logo on the chest.

It’s an easy coincidence, especially given how many shirts they both have that are identical, city-issued for special events or fundraisers. They’re not technically uniform, but everyone wears them to work, so it only takes a few months to accumulate a pretty big collection.  

Eddie can see the moment when Buck realizes what’s happened, and he feels his heart swell at the way his face lights up.

“Well,” Buck exaggerates the way he winks at Eddie, makes sure Christopher can see the gesture, and looks to the backseat again. “One of us is going to have to change.”  

It happens again three weeks later, just a couple of days after they take Christopher to the aquarium.

(Eddie had tried to call it a “family day,” but he saw the way Buck squirmed at the notion of being part of a family, of having a family so unlike the one where he grew up, one that does things together, has special days and events for no particular reason.  

So he’d dropped it, but knows it’s something that will come up again later, something for them to work on as a family, even if they don’t call it that just yet.)

Because they are a family, and if it weren’t obvious enough, when the got through to the giftshop, Christopher had insisted on a set of three identical Stingray Bay T-shirts to commemorate the occasion. And neither of them have ever been able to tell him no, not for something as simple as that, so Buck had dropped a small fortune on them, insisted on paying after Eddie had bought the ice cream earlier in the day.  

Eddie knows he should have seen this coming, should have anticipated that Buck would show up wearing his stingray shirt on Tuesday when they met at the school to surprise Chris with lunch.  

Buck does this; every single time Christopher gives him something, he makes a point of showing it off, using it when he knows he’ll be able to see how much Buck loved the gift.

So Eddie should have known he’d pick today to debut the new shirt, should have planned ahead and picked something else, literally anything else, from his closet.  

Not that he doesn’t love the idea of matching clothes with Buck, but that he’d at least like to be a little bit more subtle about it than a pair of blue and grey tie-dye swirled T-shirts with bright yellow lettering and a cartoon stingray. He couldn’t possibly be happier than he is when he’s with Buck; the last year and a half have been the best of his life.  

But he’d rather show it off with the way they can't stop smiling when they’re together, the way they’re constantly touching, always seeking each other out. It’s a quieter, more honest demonstration of their relationship.  

But there’s not much he can do about it when he meets Buck out front of the building and they’re both wearing the shirts. It’s not like he has a closet in his truck with extra clothes, so all he can do is grin and bear it.  

It’s worth it though, for the way Buck pulls his sunglasses down and whistles as Eddie approaches.

“Nice shirt, babe. Where’d you get it?”  

“Just this place I know.” Eddie can’t help but roll his eyes. “My kid picked it out, and the hottest guy I’ve ever seen bought it for me.”  

“Oh, a hot guy? Should I be jealous?” Buck laughs and pulls the door open, settling his hand low on Eddie’s back as he kisses him gently and walks into the building.

“Only because I’m the one holding the French fries, and you know how Chris picks his favorite dad for the day.”

A month later, Eddie starts a massive load of laundry before he gets dressed for work, having put it off for long enough that he knows it’ll probably need two cycles in the dryer. Only after the machine had started filling with water did he realize that he hadn’t remembered to set aside the least-dirty shirt in the pile so he had something to wear into the station.  

Which leaves him scrambling to find a shirt, any shirt he can wear until he gets to work and puts his uniform on. There’s one left, stuck way at the back of his drawer.  

It’s the very epitome of a Laundry Day shirt, covered in garish black and white stripes. In one of his finer moments as a father, Eddie had let Christopher rope him into dressing up as a zebra for the station Halloween party so he could be a zookeeper.  

(There had been no need to rope Buck in. In fact, the whole thing had been Buck’s idea, after he’d gone with Chris on the field trip to the zoo and sat next to him while they watched the zebra feeding.)

The costume had been great, he has to admit. But as soon as the party was over, the shirt went to the back of the drawer, waiting for yardwork season.  

Or, laundry day.

Reluctantly, he pulls the shirt over his head and hopes that he’s running late enough to make it into the locker room before anyone sees him.  

But why would that go in his favor when nothing else this morning has? Eddie has just made it into the station when he collides with a black and white striped blur.

“What? Ed—” Buck steadies them both and looks Eddie up and down, checking for any injuries. “I leave you alone for one night, and you hardly make it to work on—”

Eddie watches his face as Buck realizes which shirt he’s wearing, and he’s sure it must match his own expression when he sees the same garment pulled taut across Buck’s chest.  

“—time.” Buck finishes, amusement shining in his eyes.

“Well maybe I wouldn’t be running late if someone hadn’t insisted on ‘saying goodbye’ before he went home last night.” Eddie raises an eyebrow and Buck flushes at the memory of how … thorough … his parting kiss had been. “Could’ve had the laundry in the machine last night, maybe even had a regular shirt to wear today.”  

“I’ll have you know that I happen to think this is an excellent shirt on you.” Buck runs his hand up Eddie’s torso to wrap his fingers over his shoulders.  

“Mm, there’s no way it looks better than yours does.” Eddie mirrors the gesture with a smirk. “You know my excuse; why’d you pick it out?”

He’s not sure what he’s expecting Buck to say, knows it’s nothing to do with seeing Chris since he’s at a sleepover after school tonight. But Buck still manages to surprise him when he shrugs, and responds like he’s saying the most obvious thing in the world.

“Couldn’t decide if I wanted to wear a white shirt or a black shirt today. So, both.” With his free hand, he waves up and down his body.

Eddie’s got a response all ready to go, is ready to watch the look on Buck’s face when he asks why he didn’t just split the difference and wear grey, but before he can say anything, Hen rounds the corner and bursts out laughing.

“OK,” She gasps out when she’s finally able to control her chuckles again. “Are you two only going to wear clothes from Christopher from now on? Because I’m telling you both, that is a mistake. He’s a cute kid, but the fashion doesn’t translate well to grown men.”  

Neither of them respond, and she walks away after a few moments, calling out for Chimney, who “isn’t going to believe what these idiots managed today!” Once she’s gone, they look at each other and smile.

“Laundry day?”

“Only way I was going to have a shirt for tomorrow that doesn’t have the style sense of a nine-year-old.”  

After that, the spell seems to be broken, whatever wardrobe-wavelength he and Buck were on shifted far enough that they’re dressing independently again.  

Before Eddie knows it, there’s a chill in the air – as much as there ever is in LA – and he and Buck are taking Christopher back to the mall to see Santa again.  

This year, there’s nothing stopping him from leaning against Buck while they wait in line, no reason for Buck not to tuck three of his fingers into the back pocket of Eddie’s jeans.  

While they’re waiting for Chris to come back out of the little cardboard village house, something catches Eddie’s eye in the window of the nearby department store. He turns to face Buck, putting just enough distance between them for Buck’s hand to drop back to his own side.  

“Hey, I’ll be right back. Long as that kid’s list is, you’ll still be waiting, but if not, meet you guys right here?”

“Sure.” Buck smiles, clearly unconcerned as Eddie walks away. He doesn’t waste any time, quickly finds what he’s looking for and waits in a miraculously short pre-Christmas line to check out and join Buck back in the winter wonderland.  

He sits the paper gift bag by their feet, rebuffs Buck’s attempts to find out what’s inside.

“Would you be patient?” But he’s smiling as he nudges Buck away from him. “You’ll find out in … 18 days.”  

“Fine.” Buck rolls his eyes. “But I’m not telling you what your present is either.”  

Eddie picks up a few other things along the way, loves nothing more than spoiling Buck when he has the chance, but there’s no gift he’s more excited about than the one from the mall. It had been such a hit last year that the 118 decides to celebrate en masse again, so he slips the presents into a large box and slides it into the bed of his truck before making sure Christopher's ready to go.

They make it through dinner and two rounds of presents before Eddie can’t wait any longer. When it’s Buck’s turn to unwrap something again, Eddie passes him a slim, flat package.

“Open this one. You’ve waited patiently enough.”

He watches closely as Buck peels away the paper and shakes the box to reveal a silk necktie the exact same color as his eyes. He beams at Eddie, then gasps and stands up in a hurry.

“Bobby! Eddie needs to open the next gift!”  

“Why? He gets to go again in two turns.” Bobby, ever the father figure, has been keeping track, making sure everything is handled diplomatically. Buck steps carefully through the children spread out in the middle of the floor, making his way across the room to whisper something in Bobby’s ear. His eyes widen as he considers whatever case it is that Buck’s making, and he nods. “Alright, I think we can make an exception just this once. Go get your present, son.”  

He bounds across the room and fishes a tiny, firecracker-shaped package from underneath the tree then tosses it to Eddie.

“Your turn, honeybunches.” The over-the-top pet name elicits eye rolls from around the room – Eddie included – and Buck grins as he settles himself back in the seat beside him.  

Eddie turns the present over in his hand, tries to figure out what Buck might have come up with that would be shaped like this. Finally, he gives up on trying to guess and just pulls the ribbon loose at one end, folds the wrapping back to reveal –

An identical blue necktie.

Maddie puts it together first, claps a hand over her mouth to muffle her delighted squeal.

“You bought me … your necktie?” Eddie holds it up, trying to gauge if they really are the same shade of blue.

“No. Well, yes, I did. But that wasn’t … I didn’t know you’d bought one for me. You just always look at things this color when we’re at the mall, so I figured you must like it.”  

“It’s my favorite color,” Eddie replies, his voice thick with quiet wonder. “It matches your eyes.”

On Maddie’s other side, Chimney leans in to stage-whisper, loud enough for the whole group to hear. “Gee, wonder why it’s his favorite. Could it be? Do you think? Nah …"  

She swats his arm and he yelps, but stops talking.

“Your favorite color … is my eyes?”  

“Yeah, they’re ... blue.” There are a million other thoughts going through Eddie’s head, moving so fast that he can’t pin any one of them down enough to elaborate.  

He looks up from the tie, stares into Buck’s eyes and marvels at how a ribbon of fabric was able to match the color so perfectly. As Christmas gifts go, a necktie is pretty unremarkable, but Eddie knows right away that he’ll treasure this one forever.

As the party goes on around them, Eddie’s mind wanders to the little velvet box in his pocket.  

Maybe just once, he and Buck can plan to coordinate their outfits, right down to matching neckties.  

#eddie diaz week #eddie diaz #evan buckley #evan buckley x eddie diaz #eddie diaz x evan buckley #buddie #911 #911 fox #911 fanfic #9-1-1 #9-1-1 fox #9-1-1 fanfic #buddie fanfic #katie writes #kw20 #originalcontentfirstdegreefangirl

[mrtmdpro]

People create their own problems, then suffer because of it

And let us be honest, this is quite a common issue. I have known the taste of it, and so do you, I believe.

I have seen people of such qualities, you know. I have this roommate guy, name’s Ivan. He is the “that annoying guy” in almost every story that I can tell about my life in Russia. And to be clear, no, I do not hate him. He is quite a cute guy. In fact, you might even like him without the language barrier. But the thing about cute guys is that other than being a lazy couch potato, they don’t do much. Now this dude, he have been actively telling me that he HATES dirty. So, perfectionist, some mr.clean, just like me. That is good. Problem is, that is not what he is. He is literally the dirtiest guy in the room, with dirty clothes piling up to the top before he took them to the laundry. So why does he keeps telling me that he is a clean guy, and he loves cleanliness, so on so on? Because, that is the person he wants to be. That is his “mirror”, by the way of our saying.

So what point am I trying to make clear? Well, I am trying to make clear that I am done with you. Finished. Ended. No more “creepy” following, no more holding on to a dead relationship. Because that is exactly what I want, after the day that you were being rude to me. The day that you sort of tell me to fuck off.

So where is the line between being a creep and a one-sided lover?

Not very bright ans clear, to be fair. I myself can’t really draw a straight line, but I know one thing. That is, at that time, and even now, I still love you. To a degree, of course. But as long as I wish to see you being happy, as long as I wish to make your life better and happier, I will count that as love. But you don’t love me anymore, so why m I doing this? I have been writing this question over and over again too many times, that I myself lost count. Does not matter tho. One can only hope for a day of a return signal.

But anyway...remember our last convo? That you told me that i was such a creep, and that I better “go get a life”? Well you offended me hard with those words. You used to tell me that you do not understand me. I guess you still kinda aren’t. You used to tell me that nobody can’t live with anybody. Well yes I am living a happy, energetic, full of love and passion-ish life right here. You see the point? I failed miserably in almost everything I did after our breakup. What in the f... I totally lost that cocky attitude of the age 18, because I lost too much. I felt the pain. I have been there and I understand how you mattered to me, how largely you affected me. I longed so hard for your caring hands. I loved them. Your hands are beautiful. So that is my life. That is the life that I got, and kinda deserved. And I stopped being that creepy ex of yours. You happy now? You should be happy. I felt a lot of pain, thinking about your words.

...or so you thought. Well, I stopped actively seeking informations about you. I had to stop myself from doing so, so as not to become a concern to you anymore. I have to fabricate another me, that is, the me that you see today. Some independent, harsh, cold blooded Russo-Vietnamese dude on the street of the capital of depression itself. But things have changed a bit, and I must confess...

I did seek your informations. Yesterday.

And please don’t hate me for it. There was this feeling... this weird one, kept pushing me to do so. I discovered some infos, like your new address, your boyfriend’s name, address, his history, the time and activities you shared with him,... For a while I did felt like a creep. But...what am I supposed to do? What would you do, were you in my shoes? Just chilling in some corners, believing things will be fine, and not starting to look out for your loved one? Anyway, I was wrong about he being younger than you. Or at least you two are of 2001-era. Which is fine, I totally get it. For a second there I actually thought I will lose you forever, after your endevour with him. But...you know what am I thinking? Don’t hate me for this, I’m just being honest on what I think about your new boyfriend. He is cute. One big fatty boy, kinda lovely-ish quality. His family is not the top dog of the city, but lives a fairly easy life. I did not found any other of his older relationships, meaning you were the first one that he actually loves. In fact, you said yourself that you felt like he did not understand the love that you are giving him. That is a huge mark for a downfall, and I am speaking from experience... Anyway, he has a liberal-eccentric mindset, just like you. So I believe your first moments with him were easy. You two had some real good time, I guess. He is CH2, meaning he can help you with your major studies. And that is good. But your anniversary were on 21/11/2019, and that is...strange. Since the guy is the same age as yours, I thought that he is no longer a freshman. So why did you have to ask me about what I studied for a CS major? My guess is that he arrived a year later than you, and had to start off everything from the beginning. Also, he is study discrete mathematics, so that is another clue. Oh and his whole Facebook profile is publicly open. Which is... not a good thing, if not stupid, especially for a CS major, and I am talking very honestly. It was neat if there were a creep who wants to find his informations tho.

And, his physique. Gotta say, you really have a taste for big, chubby guys. But you said yourself that this guy could not even lift you up. And when I asked for your weight...well let’s say that was not a smart question. Anyway, a 19 years old guy is a guy in his prime. If he cannot lift a tiny, 60kg-ish girl like you up, then what can he do, physically speaking? I really wonder.

And please don’t hate me for this

Who in their right mind would want to become a creep? Nope, nobody. But some...biochems had driven me to this stage, I believe. And since this is your field, may be you can be of help. I am just suggesting.

Anyway, short story before I have to sleep. It is almost 2AM, and I have to leave quickly tomorrow.

I once knew a big bro, who lives in Perth, Australia. His Steam profile name is Neo Jim Meownor. Which is sort of cute. He is a tall, thin guy. But a good person, from what I observed. He is like a brother to me. And today he texted me, on Steam, of course. He asked me why did he not spot me on Facebook anymore? Well, I closed the account, so that is a fair question. I answered the fact, and wished him a happy new year. Now the thing about him is that... he is living the dream. Almost my dream. He lives far away from the “communities”, with his beautiful and caring wife, who he already had a lovely child with. And he can play games almost everyday. He even has a channel for sharing his gaming footages. Also, he is an artist, and a very good one at that. Now I know, I always tell you that I will be some sort of computer engineer. But I used to love being an artist too. Living a peaceful life like that...that is the dream, my dear.

And that dream will never be fulfilled without you. Because you know me. You understand me more than you think. I love you.

That’s it for today. I’ll see you again, soon.

#người yêu cũ

[soloredeemed]

Reylo drabble: moving in together and getting used to cohabitating

Thank you for the prompt! I thought this was really cute. It’s a modern day AU. Also, for all of you waiting for me to fill your prompts, I’m working on them! I promise! 😊 If anyone else wants to send me drabble prompts, feel free! I’m always accepting them, even if it might take me a while to get around to it. 

In which Ben is very neat and Rey is very not. 

-Drabble Under the Cut-

When Rey finally, finally moved into Ben’s apartment after a long year of convincing, it wasn’t because of anything Ben said. No, her landlord raised the rent on her place to an amount where it literally didn’t make sense for her to stay there anyways, especially when she already had a drawer at Ben’s place and the open offer to come by anytime. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the raise in rent, Ben wasn’t sure she would actually have agreed to move in at all, and he hadn’t been sure why until a week into the ordeal.

Rey always woke up earlier than Ben, as she often had to get to work at Rebel Corp before anyone else. As his mother’s PA, she had to get the coffee orders, pick up the dry cleaning, and print the meeting packets before the rest of the staff had even arrived. He wasn’t that surprised when he rolled over that Wednesday to an empty bed, figuring she must have slipped out sometime around five to get an early start at the office. He was surprised when he slid out from under the covers only for his feet to be met with the small pile of clothes by her side of the bed. Ben blinked, pausing for a moment, as he tried to figure out if she was just in a hurry to leave that morning, or if the pile had been steadily growing over the course of the week, and he had just yet to notice it. He counted at least three pairs of underwear. Well that answered his question. Ben grimaced, gingerly lifting his foot from the pile and placing it instead on the clean hardwood. His eyes shifted from the pile on the floor to the empty hamper sitting only a few feet away. Was it really that difficult to just—put them in there?

Ben wasn’t a neat freak, not really, but he liked things orderly. Everything in his apartment had a place. He made sure countertops were wiped down regularly, and he had the carpet torn out when he bought the place and replaced with dark slats of hardwood simply because it was easier to clean. It wasn’t like he couldn’t stand a little bit of dirt—he just didn’t like things messy. Rey’s clothes pile was definitely messy.

When Ben arrived at work a little after eight, he walked up to Rey’s desk and bent down to snake a hand around her waist before kissing her on the cheek.

“Hey,” he said, and she turned to look up at him.

“Hmm?”

“Did you, uh—there’s a hamper in my room for dirty clothes, you know that, right?” Ben stumbled awkwardly, not really sure how to address the situation properly. It had been a long time since he lived with anyone—and most of his college roommates hadn’t really been an issue. Except Rey wasn’t his roommate, she was his girlfriend, and that made confronting her a lot more difficult.

“Of course,” Rey mumbled, still focused on whatever memo she was reading from her computer screen.

“Oh, okay—” he trailed off, a little confused as of how to continue, “well it’s just—I saw you had a pile of clothes building up at the side of your bed and just wanted to let you know, you’re welcome to put your stuff in with mine.”

“Sure,” she smiled.

Ben thought the problem would be solved after that.

Except two days later, there was a new pile of clothes on the floor, and Rey hadn’t rinsed out the blender after making smoothies that morning before work.

“I’ll get to it when I get off tonight,” Rey had told him when he mentioned it from his seat at the kitchen island, waiving the concern a way with a swipe of her free hand, the other clutched around her glass.

“But then the sides get all crusty—and it’s easier if you just,” Ben had started. His voice cut off when he saw how her eyes narrowed.

“Ben, I said I’d get to it,” Rey huffed, picking up her bag from the floor and swinging it over her shoulder, “I don’t have time now—I’m gonna be late.”

Ben swallowed the protest in his mouth. As soon as the door closed behind her, he rinsed out the blender and put her clothes in the hamper.

When Rey got home that night, she wasn’t happy to see what he’d done.

“Ben! I told you I would do it. You’re not my mother, you don’t need to do my dishes for me!” Rey had grumbled as she let down her hair and headed back toward the bedroom, “or my laundry for that matter!” She called back to him after noticing the empty space where her pile used to be.

“I know, I know,” Ben sighed, swiping a large hand through his hair, “it’s just—well I would prefer if things were clean, and I didn’t mind doing it so I just—”

“I know I’m messy Ben,” Rey said quietly, stepping back into the living room and looking up at him with soft eyes, “it’s one of the reasons I was afraid of moving in with you. Because you have this big nice place and it’s always so clean and I’m kind of like a tornado when it comes right on down to it. It’s all so beautiful and I didn’t want to break it.”

“Hey—” Ben breathed, pulling her close into his chest, “I don’t mind that you’re messy. I really don’t, I just—”

“Mind the mess?” Rey asked softly.

“Yeah,” he chuckled, the sound warm and low, “yeah I mind the mess. But I don’t mind doing your dishes or picking up your clothes. So don’t—don’t think that me doing that is some sort of attack on who you are. I love who you are, and I love having you close, and if that means rinsing out the blender for the rest of my life, then so be it.”

“I would have done it,” Rey pointed out, nose still pressed into the space under his collar bone.

“I know you would have. I think that’s why I don’t mind so much either—because I know you’ll do it if I ask,” Ben told her.

“Why do you have to be so stupidly perfect?” Rey questioned, pulling back so she could look him in the eyes.

“You know that’s not true,” Ben laughed, but he swept her up off of her feet into a bridal carry anyways, “I need a mess like you to help me loosen up.”

She flashed him a blinding grin from his arms, her little freckled nose scrunching up with happiness. Living with Rey was going to be so much better than he had ever dreamed.

#reylo #ask #my drabbles #my drabble

[dvp95]

quiet on widow’s peak (2)

pairing: dan howell/phil lester, pj liguori/sophie newton/chris kendall rating: teen & up tags: paranormal investigator, youtuber phil lester, dan howell is not a youtuber, online friendship, slow burn, strangers to lovers, nonbinary character, trans character, background poly, phil does some buzzfeed unsolved shit and dan is a fan word count: 3.2k (this chapter), 6.4k (total) summary: Phil’s got a list of paranormal experiences a mile long that he likes to share with the world. Abandoned buildings, cemeteries, and ghost stories have always called his name, and a particular fan of his has a really, really good ghost story.

read this chapter on ao3 or here!

"Do you remember the Wilkins place?"

"I'm well, thanks." Martyn's voice is dry, and Phil finds himself grinning at the wall despite himself. "How are you?"

"Good," says Phil. It's mostly true, although he could do without the piles of clothes he's sorting through. He holds his phone between his shoulder and his ear as he picks up a top of Sophie's and starts a whole new pile that he's calling delicates, aka things he's absolutely going to screw up somehow. "People think the Wilkins place is haunted."

There's a beat. Presumably, Phil's brother is trying to fit the name into adolescent memories to see where it slots in. "Oh, that wreck in Rusholme? It hasn't been condemned yet?"

"Apparently it's still a hot spot for binge-drinking teenagers," Phil says.

"Well, sure. But haunted? Really?"

"That's what I said!"

Phil feels a little vindicated by the skepticism in Martyn's voice, to be honest. His friends hadn't taken his weird feeling seriously at all.

"I mean, it's a dump," says Martyn. "More likely to be haunted by a bunch of rats than anything else. Why haven't we heard this before?"

"According to my sources," Phil says, only feeling a bit ridiculous about referring to a bunch of strangers on the internet as 'sources', "the activity only recently started. Which makes me think that someone's lying, or maybe one incident kickstarted everyone else's imaginations?"

"Both could be true. Why don't you ask Ian to go check it out?"

It's not exactly a sore spot, but something inside of Phil still twinges at the question. "He's a little busy, isn't he."

"So am I," Martyn says in that same dry, familiar tone that makes Phil feel as comforted as his mum's fretting or his dad's bad jokes do. "And yet here you are, on my phone."

"You don't have a toddler," Phil points out.

"I don't? Yet here you are..."

Phil snorts a laugh and drops all of the socks he's gathered into an empty basket. It's as good a place to start as any. "Shut up, Mar. I'm at least six."

There are, literally, enough dirty socks and pants between the four of them that Phil has a whole load of just underthings. He spares a moment to be grateful to Sophie for not including her bras, because he'd have no idea where to begin with those. He sighs and picks up the basket, fitting it against his hip with one hand so he can hold his phone with the other.

"Well, I can ask around," says Martyn. "I think my friends might be past the point of sneaking into abandoned houses to party, but maybe they've heard something from their annoying little brothers."

"Ha, ha," Phil says dryly. "Think I should contact some of the people making these claims?"

"Deffo," says Martyn. "If you can record them, it'd be best."

"Yeah, that way I can use them in the video," Phil hums, setting his basket on the washer and opening every cupboard to try to find the detergent. "I mean, if they're okay with that, obviously."

"I actually meant because your bullshit detector is dysfunctional, so me or Peej will have to tell you if someone's lying."

"Wow, rude. Whose fault is that?"

"Yours," Martyn informs him dryly. "Just because I told you Santa would pull you up through the chimney doesn't mean you had to believe me."

Phil rolls his eyes, but he's grinning. Maybe it's just a big brother thing, or maybe it's their personalities, but Martyn isn't wrong - Phil has a hard time telling when someone is lying to him. Martyn was always good at lying with a straight face and seeing right through Phil's outlandish stories.

"I still blame you," says Phil.

"Alright," says Martyn. "When are you coming to visit?"

"Probably not ‘til after this one," Phil says slowly, glancing at the kitten calendar on the fridge. They'd let one of their milder housemates pick this year's after everyone got tired of looking at Chris' previous choice of nude knitted puppets.

"Yeah? You gonna head up north for this one?"

In the very last cupboard he checks, Phil finds the detergent. He wants to be annoyed about it, but the truth is that Holly's habit of switching around the kitchen when she's anxious has saved many a pack of biscuits from expiring behind some flour. Phil has never once been useful to anybody when he's having a meltdown, so.

Phil absentmindedly loads the washer while he considers Martyn's question. Maybe it would be best to check the place out for himself, see if anything's really going on. He likes being on-site best, trusts his own gut more than he trusts strangers' eyes.

The problem, of course, is that Phil's childhood home is up for sale, he has no money for a hotel, and Ian's gone and got himself a child. The last thing Phil wants to do is impose or, like, get roped into babysitting. A trip to Manchester might be out of the question for him right now.

"Maybe," Phil says, noncommittal.

Martyn sees through him in an instant, like always. "Want me to ask Mum if they've got any viewings next weekend? I'm sure you know not to trash the place."

"Have I ever once trashed the place? Don't answer that," Phil adds, remembering the shaving cream incident.

A huff comes down the line, and Phil feels the same pride at making his brother laugh as he had when he was seven and making weird noises out the car window. Yeah, he definitely needs to go to London soon, the Isle afterwards - he hasn't seen his family in way too long.

"I'll let you know what's buzzing, if anything," says Martyn. "And I'll call Mum for you and all. I know you get weird about asking them for favours."

"I get weird about asking anyone for favours," Phil says instead of a thank you, because if he gets weird about asking for help, then Martyn gets twice as weird about reacting to gratitude.

"Except me."

Phil smiles, watching the rainbow of socks and pants spin. "Yeah. Except you."

--

Laundry does end up taking Phil most of the day, but he doesn't mind much. It's the least he can do when Chris always does the first draft edit for him, PJ reminds him to take his EMF meter and his meds when he's packing for an overnight, and Sophie sends him pages upon pages of research while she's at work. He's so fond of these people, and he appreciates all they do for him, but being in debt to them - and not in sole control of his projects - makes Phil feel like he's got ants crawling up his arms.

While he waits out the machine cycles, Phil starts putting feelers out into this story. He checks the sources linked to him again and shoots off a couple of direct messages and emails to see if any of the people posting about the Wilkins place are eager to chat one on one.

He's got his laptop set up at the kitchen table and he's on his third coffee of the day when it occurs to him that he's not out of the woods of owing favours just yet. He clicks back into the Tumblr submission that started this spiral.

He decides that he needs to thank this person, at the very least, and maybe offer to buy them a coffee or something when he's in town. They did so much of Phil's grunt work that it feels weird not to pay them back somehow.

"Well, I can't exactly do your laundry," Phil murmurs to the screen. He hopes none of his other housemates are milling around to hear him.

Another click, and he's on the blog. It's minimalist and monochrome in a way that makes things easy to read, but not very interesting to look at. Phil's eyes start to glaze over as he scrolls through, because it's entertaining enough but - well. It's a typical Tumblr blog. That familiar mixture of memes and rants about social issues and some gifs from shows that Phil doesn't have time to watch. There are a lot of familiar walls of text tagged as personal posts, but Phil still can't parse them without really trying.

They do reblog Phil's video posts, though. That makes him grin.

He scrolls back up to the top of the page to shoot them a message and immediately gets distracted by the bio.

winnie. 21. any pronouns.

For someone who sent Phil a wall of text that could be mistaken for copypasta at first glance, it's surprisingly succinct. Phil takes another swig of his coffee and tries not to get caught up on the last part of it.

Any pronouns? What does that mean, any pronouns? What if Phil uses the wrong ones? He isn't exactly a queer theory student, and as much as he supports everybody under his little rainbow umbrella, he's got to admit that a lot of things still go over his head.

He dithers for so long that his laptop screen goes black, and he makes a face at himself in its reflection. Surely he's overthinking this.

Hi!, Phil types, and then accidentally hits enter. He was just trying not to send the fan a paragraph back, but, fine. Oops. So I'm looking into the things you sent me on the Wilkins place and I'm really impressed by the amount of time you put into this? Like it makes MY job a lot easier haha. Is he a triple-texter? He's a triple-texter. The first one didn't count anyway. So thanks!!!!! I'll def give you credit in the video, but is there anything else I can do to pay you back?

Not literally, he wants to add right after he's sent it. Oh, well. He can't just keep spamming this poor person's chat. He hopes it's obvious that he'd offer monetary compensation if he had it.

Phil leaves the Tumblr tab open and works on editing for a little while. It's almost frustrating how bad this video is, how little effort and energy Phil has started putting into these, and he doesn't know how to fix it short of rethinking his entire career.

He could easily keep churning these out for as long as people watch them, but. He's not having fun anymore.

The Phil on his laptop screen is asking questions, wandering around a cemetery just to see if anything will happen, and Phil can't help comparing it to things he did last year, the year before that, the year before that - it feels like his content is declining as his enthusiasm for the topic does, or maybe vice versa.

Phil zones out for so long that the dryer chime goes off from the hallway, echoing through the old, creaky house. He'd given up on sorting the loads after the fifth shirt that could belong to any of them, so he just takes his own things out and folds his housemates' clothes into one basket.

They can figure it out, he's sure. There's only two bedrooms between the three of them, so there's only two closets, and Phil has gone so long without knowing who's officially sharing that it would be awkward to ask now.

Phil swaps the load over and goes back to his laptop, even though the very last thing he wants to do is continue editing and uploading this mediocre video.

The thing is, Phil doesn't need his content to be perfect. He's happy to post things that just make him laugh or have a nicely spooky vibe or whatever, he doesn't need to solve mysteries every month or two. It's just that. He can hear how little he cares about it, lately. It won't be long before people notice, if they haven't already.

Phil sighs and exits the project. Maybe this video is best left unposted. He's not happy with it at all.

Maybe, if this Wilkins place video doesn't pan out, Phil can start redirecting his energy into a different type of creative output. He's got so many stories bouncing around in his mind, he just needs to figure out how he wants to tell them.

It sounds like his father's voice inside his head, telling him you can't chase ghosts forever. He wishes he still had the gumption to disagree with it.

His laptop makes a little noise, and Phil blinks back to reality. He has to click on a few different tabs to figure out where it came from, but then he realises that he's gotten a response on Tumblr.

Phil smiles despite himself and gets ready for another difficult-to-read message.

Sure enough: UHHHHHH hi hello what the fuck i didnt expect you to say anything this is so weird i am being so weird right now um like no problem? i was procrastinating an essay and this was more fun to research so you dont have to thank me or pay me back whatever that means like i was just fucking around its fine but thank you?????

Phil thinks about the four word Tumblr bio again and snorts. Maybe Winnie wanted to seem as cool and minimalist as their theme itself was.

Procrastination or not, I appreciate it!, Phil replies. Would it be ok if I use you as a reference?

?????????????? i mean yeah but what the fuck, he gets back almost immediately.

It's nice to see you know some punctuation! Sorry if it's weird to reach out like this, I just wanted to like acknowledge the work you put in. I don't have to mention you in the video if you'd prefer!

The sound of the front door creaking open and slamming shut interrupts Phil's nervous typing. He freezes for a moment, fingers still on the keyboard, but then PJ comes in the kitchen with a little salute and several bags of craft supplies, and Phil can breathe again.

It isn't that the other people who live in this house are bad people. Far from it. It's just that, of the people Phil has opted to share this large space with for nearly two years, only three of them have made any kind of effort to understand Phil. The others are nice enough, he supposes, but sometimes they come and go and new people replace them and - Phil isn't exactly good with change, is the thing.

So he relaxes when he can talk to PJ instead of making small talk with someone who thinks he's weird and too messy. "Hey! How's your day?"

"Better than yours," PJ laughs. He drops all the bags on the table and starts puttering around the kitchen. "Hungry?"

"Please. And it wasn't so bad, I got some work done."

"Yeah? Any new info on the new haunt?"

It's incredible how genuinely interested PJ always is in Phil's work. Phil grins down at his keyboard and shrugs a bit. "Some. Mostly just poking around right now, though. Mar's asking his friends too. Oh, and I thanked the person who sent it in."

"That's good," PJ says. He's putting the kettle on, because that's what PJ does when he comes home. "How'd they react?"

"Mostly confusion," Phil laughs. He glances at his screen to see if Winnie has responded - they haven't - and chews on his lip a little bit. "Hey, Peej? If someone says any pronouns are fine, what does that mean?"

"Generally," PJ hums, "it seems like it would mean any pronouns are fine."

"Oh, shut up." Phil runs a hand through his hair, always anxious about getting stuff like this wrong.

"I'm not joking," PJ says, although his tone is still light.

"Oh. So it just... doesn't matter?"

"Not to some people, I guess." PJ leans against the counter as he waits for the water to boil. At least he's smiling, although Phil can't help but notice that it's a little patronizing. "You do know that I'm not a gender guru, right? I'm barely a gender novice. I failed gender out the gate, buddy."

Phil knows his cheeks are pinking up a bit, but he rolls his eyes. "Shut up," he repeats. "You still know way more than me."

The shrug he gets in response makes Phil huff a laugh. This isn't something they talk about, but Phil has been present for enough of Chris and PJ's conversations that he'd gotten the idea.

He wonders if PJ cares that he's bringing it up. Is he making PJ uncomfortable? They don't talk about this.

"Stop spiralling," PJ says easily. His smile is warmer, now. "I don't hate you, nobody hates you, and the fan who doesn't care about pronouns certainly doesn't hate you. If you're that worried about upsetting them, though, you can always ask."

Maybe he's known PJ too long. He's grateful for it, still, so relieved that he doesn't have to voice the swirling anxiety of doing something wrong when he only has the best intentions.

"I guess I could do that," Phil mutters, embarrassed by how easily he's been read.

Winnie's responded by the time Phil looks back at the chat window, a lmao yeah ofc thats fine i just cant believe you want to, im not trying to b weird ive just been a fan for a really long time?? (used a comma for you too) (and brackets) (youre welcome) that makes Phil smile.

Awesome! And are the name Winnie & they/them pronouns fine to talk about you with, or do you prefer something else for this?

no yeah thats good idc how you refer to me, is Winnie's immediate response. It's stupid how much of a load feels like it's been lifted off of Phil's shoulders at that easy reassurance.

"You were right," Phil informs PJ.

PJ nods, solemn, as he stirs his noodles. "I often am."

"You're annoying, also," says Phil. "Hey. D'you wanna come up north with me?"

"Phil," says PJ dramatically, holding the wooden spoon up to his heart. "Are you asking me to run away with you?"

"No, absolutely not, stop making that joke." There's no way in hell Phil is going to keep putting up with this from both of them, and PJ is more likely to listen to him than Chris is.

PJ laughs. "Yeah, yeah. You going to see the haunt?"

"If my parents are okay with us hanging out for the weekend, yeah."

"Oh, okay," says PJ. "We're just waiting on confirmation that Kath and Nigel want to spend time with you? Might as well pack now."

"Your stuff's folded," Phil says helpfully. PJ throws a noodle in his general direction. It flops onto the floor between them, a sad, wet spiral of a thing, and Phil touches his nose at the same time PJ does.

"Well, one of us has to pick it up," PJ says in his Reasonable Adult voice, as if he hadn't thrown it in the first place.

Phil looks at his laptop, valiantly pretending not to see the floor noodle, and blinks.

and i mean i havent seen any of this shit firsthand but if you need to ask me anything about the stuff thats gone down im always free. like literally always.

#phanfic #phanfiction #dnp fic #phan #words words words #quiet on widow's peak

[vitaminxiu]

My Forever Love

Member: Chanyeol (I can’t help it if the boy makes me soft)

Genre: So much fluff

Word Count: 1,000+

Rating: So safe your grandma could read it

Summary: Honestly, I don’t know. I just had a lot of fun writing it and becoming a puddle on the floor from how cute Chanyeol is. Basically, it’s just a typical day set sorta in the mid-late 60′s. Songs mentioned are “My Girl” by the Temptations, “Twistin the Night Away” by Sam Cooke, and “Nothing Can Change This Love” also by Sam Cooke.

There was a calm, blissful feeling in the air that afternoon. All morning had been spent tidying up the house, and now that everything was finished, Yeol and I were free to relax. Spring cleaning had only recently become a ritual of ours. Every third week we would drop all of our plans and spend the day making sure each surface in the house had been wiped down with a cloth and was sparkling like new. Chanyeol’s job was to empty the trash, sweep and mop the floors, and vacuum to pick up anything that had been left behind. My priority was to tackle the pile of laundry that had slowly accumulated and handle the dishes as well. Anything else was fair game for the both of us. 

I had only been living with Chanyeol for about three months or so before we decided that our habits had to change. It’s not that we were dirty by any means, but we needed the motivation of seeing the other clean to make sure one of us didn’t abandon our post and move on to something more interesting. 

By the time we finished cleaning everything, it was around 3pm. We had stopped to make lunch at noon, and Chanyeol, being the gentleman that he was, decided to help. His “help” consisted of him smearing sauce down the side of my face, and then toppling over the flower when he tried to escape my retaliation. I wanted to be annoyed at him for undoing all of the cleaning that we had spent the morning doing, but the shocked look on his face only made me laugh. 

Fast forward 3 hours of cleaning and re-cleaning, and here we are now, both of us lounging on our carpeted floor, backs resting against the couch. There was a warm breeze drifting in through the windows that Chanyeol had opened during our cleaning spree, making the sheer curtains flutter lightly. The orange glow brought in by the afternoon sun enveloped us, adding to the relaxed atmosphere. I turned my head to look at Chanyeol, and he was already looking at me. A look that could make any girls heart flutter, but especially mine. 

“What is it?” I ask.

“I was just thinking of how beautiful you look, today and every day,” his words making my heart beat even more erratically. “How did I end up so lucky?” 

The truth is that I’m the lucky one. I’ve never met a man like Chanyeol before. Someone who holds me, and loves me, and respects me. And tells me that I’m beautiful even when my hair is a mess, and my face is shiny with oil and sweat, and there’s still a slight trace of our lunch shenanigans left behind. He tells me I’m smart, and laughs at my jokes. He even sings along with me to the radio when we take drives on Sundays. He doesn’t talk during movies, but he answers all of my questions when I interrupt. He’s kind and patient and so, so silly. 

“Do you wanna dance?” 

“What?” I stare at him confused. 

“Do you want to dance?”

 “But Yeol, we don’t have any music on.” 

“That can be arranged,” he smiles as he gets up from the floor and walks over to the record player. “What should we play today,” he mumbles to himself. “Hmm, this is a good one.” He pulls out the record and puts it on the turntable. “This should be about the spot.” As he places the needle down into the grooved record, an upbeat melody begins to play. Chanyeol quickly turns around and starts to sing along with the music. 

“I’ve got sunshine on a cloudy day. When it’s cold outside, I’ve got the month of May,” he reaches his hand out to me as he sings. “I guess you’d say, what can make me feel this way?” I grab on to his outstretched hand and he spins me around “My girl, my girl, my girl. Talkin’ bout my girl. My girl.” 

“Chanyeol,” I giggle as he continues alternating between twirling me and swaying to the beat. With Chanyeol, there is never a dull moment; he never fails to make me laugh. He is the literal embodiment of sunshine. It’s in moments like these that I’m reminded how boyish he can be. 

He was 8 and I was 6 when we first met. It was one of those long summer days where the only way you could escape from the excruciating heat was to go to the pool. My mother and father belonged to a country club that had just installed a resort style pool, complete with vinyl strap patio chairs that reclined, so on the hottest day of the year, my mother, sister, and I loaded up our bright blue Studebaker sedan and headed into town to check it out. As expected, the entire place was covered up. Anyone who wasn’t already in the water was lounging either in a chair, or on the concrete, and my mother was not the type to be someone in the latter category. As soon as a chair opened up, she made a beeline for it, tugging my sister by the hand. The issue was that there was only one chair, and since I was the youngest, my sister got to share the chair with mom. Just as I had started to pout, I felt a gentle tapping on my shoulder. When I turned around, there he was in all his 8-year-old glory. “You can share my chair with me if you want,” and from that moment forward, we were inseparable. 

We continue like this until the song finishes, Chanyeol never missing the beat or singing the wrong lyric. When the song ends, I decide that it’s my turn to choose a song and walk over to the record stand. It only takes me a few seconds to locate the record I’m looking for, and I pop the disk out of its casing and onto the player. “Get ready for your sides to hurt, because I’m expecting full participation. You can’t quit on me early,” and with that, the record starts turning. 

Let me tell you ‘bout a place, somewhere up a New York way, where the people are so gay, twistin’ the night away. 

Chanyeol and I might not be the best dancers, but we love a good competition. He took my earlier statement as a challenge, not only to see who could last longer, but who could do the most original twists. We both started off with your standard twist, nothing fancy about it, but soon arms and legs were being thrown around in an effort to make each twist funnier than the last. By the time the song ended, both of us were completely winded and laughing uncontrollably. Chanyeol was laughing so hard that he had collapsed to the floor in order to gain control of his breathing. As the song faded out, a slow melody played on a piano took its place. 

If I go a million miles away, I’d write a letter each and every day ‘cause honey, nothin’, nothin' can ever change this love I have for you.

“Mmh, I love this song,” I hummed as I turned to look out the open window. The sun was just beginning to set over the horizon. Chanyeol mumbled in agreement as he came to stand by the window with me. He wrapped his arms around my figure from behind and slowly we began to sway to the music, my hands coming to rest on top of his. Closing my eyes, I leaned my head back on his shoulder etching this moment into my memory. For a moment we stay just like that, the only thing filling the silence, the voice of Sam Cooke. 

Oh, you're the apple of my eye, you’re cherry pie. And oh, you're, you're cake and ice cream. Oh, you're sugar and spice, and everything nice. You're the girl of my, my, my, my dreams.

“You know, he’s right,” Chanyeol starts, “I really do think I’ll love you forever, even after I’m gone. Even after we’re both gone, I’ll still carry that love with me.” I open my eyes and turn my head to look at his face. “I know it’s cheesy to say, but I’ve never felt like this with anyone.”

I turn around in his arms to get a better look at him, but he’s not looking at me. In the orange glow, I can tell that the tips of his ears have a slight red tint to them. “I feel it too Yeol,” when I say this, his eyes meet mine. “I have so much love for you that I can hardly put it into words. Please never let me go.”

“Never.”

I know that nothin’, nothin’, nothin’, can ever change the love I have for you.

#exo imagines #exo #fanfic #chanyeol #chanyeol fluff #exo scenarios #chanyeol imagines #my work #idk i just had this on my mind for a while #figured i would write it down

[lxiewrites]

Underwear and Jellyfish

Ch. 8 of Altea High

Lance ran down the steps full speed, he hooked his hand around the frame of the wall and used his momentum to swing himself into the kitchen. He bypassed his mom pouring coffee and the freshly popped eggo waffles to launch himself at a certain sister who was seconds ahead of him. Said sister screeched and fled while the other watched amusedly from the sidelines eating her toaster waffles, syrup smeared on her cheeks.

Clara squealed with laughter as Lance chased her around the island in the kitchen.

“Get back here you!” Lance shouted.

Isabella watched as her youngest son chased her youngest daughter blankly. Eyes tracking back and forth as she debated whether to step in. She rubbed her forehead and took a sip of her coffee before putting it down and setting the waffles on a plate. “Lance, stop chasing your sister.”

“Ma!” he called as he passed her. “You don’t know what she did! I woke up to her dumping my underwear out the window!”

That made her pause. She stepped out of the way of her running children to poke her head out to look outside. Hung on the tree and scattered on the green-yellow lawn was her son’s boxers. “So she did.” She took another gulp of caffeine. She could see in the not-so-distance, in the direction of the school, some sort of golem creature swatting at someone who brought rocks from the ground before throwing them seemingly mentally.

Her nonchalance froze Lance on the spot. “Mamá!” His lack of movement was ignored by Clara who kept running, eyes closed in mirth, before running headlong into the back of his knees, which sent them toppling. Clara was on her stomach wedged under Lance who was awkwardly sitting on her, trapping her between one calf and his butt.

“HA!”

A literal boom of laughter echoed, making Lance lose whatever balance he had left and fully sitting on his sister with his leg bent under him. Clara squeaked with the extra weight and Melody had a hand clapped over her mouth with her eyes wide, barely breathing. Isabella righted her self after a small stumble but she couldn’t say so for the rest of her coffee, which thankfully was only on the floor and not her blouse. She grabbed a handful of paper towels and let it sop up the mess while she stuck her head out the door again, followed closely by her son.

Off the side of the road but not quite on the sidewalk was a boy a little older than Lance, groaning. She cupped her hand around her mouth and shouted, “Are you okay?”

Lance popped his head around her and instantly recognized the guy that ruined their morning. Cupping his hands in a similar manner as his mother he shouted, “What the he-heckie…R-Rax! We’re trying to eat breakfast!”

Clara shoved herself between their legs and shouted with all her might, “What the hell!”

Isabella immediately glared at her son, mouth in a tight line and eye twitching.

Lance’s eyes widened with shock before softening into a ‘trust me, I haven’t been swearing’ face. “I did not teach her that.”

She continued to stare at her son. “I swear I—“ His eyes darted between hers and the fallen classmate. “H-hey! Rax, aren’t you supposed to be practicing at school? Where it’s safe?”

Rax got up and brushed himself off, dark skin glinting in perspiration. He didn’t respond to him with anything but a glare.

Lance studiously ignored his mother’s gaze as well as the weight of his little sister on his leg, who he was sure making faces. “Come on, man! You could’ve crushed my little sisters or my beautiful, smart, wonderful mother!”

“…Nice underwear, McClain,” he said before his hands became enveloped in a blue glow and he grew a crystal. When the Balmarean crystal was large enough he hopped on the back, hands still glowing, and took off towards Shay who was making slow progress in her crystal form. She waved before turning around and following.

He squeaked as he remembered his underwear flowing in the breeze. His mother sighed next to him. “Go get your underwear. I’ll talk to Clara about not throwing underwear out the window later but take her with you to help clean it up. And I want to talk to you—“ she poked him in the chest— “when you get back inside.”

Before they left, she held onto Clara. “Clara, I know you like pulling pranks but this is very inconsiderate to your brother. He needs to wear underwear. It's also inconsiderate to our neighbors, who do not need to see or want to see his underwear, or me. I’ll have to clean it later because it’s dirty. If you want to pull pranks do it so it doesn’t hurt anyone and you have to think about the consequences. Now go help your brother clean up, and later you’re helping me with the laundry.”

Clara pouted and placed her hands on her hips the same way her brother does when he’s being stubborn. “It’s a sibling thing! We have to! If I didn’t I would be a bad sister!”

“I’m sure you’re a good sister whether you pull pranks or not, but this is what’s going to happen when you do. You have to clean up your mess.” Isabella turned her around and gave her a slight shove towards Lance, who was waiting for her. “Now I don’t want you to come back in unless you have his underwear and put it in the laundry.”

The little girl groaned but sprinted and leapt at the underwear hanging precariously on the lowest branch, hand brushing the cat printed cloth. Lance braced his hands on her wait and hoisted her up while she reached for the underwear.

Nodding to herself, Isabella turned to her other child, ready to help her get ready for school. She started to ask if she finished with her breakfast but the emotion on that little face stopped her short.

Melody was worrying her lower lip until it was red and indented from her teeth. Her fingers tangled in front of her, a nervous habit picked up from her older sister who moved out, and eyes casted aside to the floor. Her eyes were wide but her pupils were dilated in what seemed to be fear. Her soaked waffles were soggy due to the excess amount of maple syrup and ignored in favor of staring at the floor.

Isabella stroked her hand over the silk of her daughter’s hair, startling the girl who looked up at her so quickly she must have got whiplash. If she did she didn’t show it. Her brow furrowed and she bit her lip again. “Hey, chula, are you okay?” She waited for a reply she knew wouldn’t come. Melody didn’t say anything but only looked back to her breakfast and started picking at the soggy waffles. “Oi, por favor habla conmigo.”

The young girl didn’t say anything, only shook her head. Isabella looked over to where Melody was looking before and frowned. Right between the sink counter and the island. She looked back over at her daughter. “Are you upset because Lance and Clara fell?” Melody started to shake her head no but her face scrunched up even more and she nodded before shoving a bite of food in her mouth. Isabella stayed quite as she chewed, hoping for a clearer answer, but Melody only continued eating, her expression smoothing. Isabella continued to stroke her hair from when she briefly stalled, mulling over the next few words.

“Well… for one, they weren’t hurt. Even if it scared them a tiny bit they were fine. I understand if you were scared for your siblings but it was an accident. The boy didn’t mean it, he’s practicing to control his powers, like Lance.” Isabella frowned. She had no clue whether or not what she was saying was helping Melody but she didn’t know what else to say. She had an idea what the issue was but she didn’t know how else to phrase the words without more information.

Melody nodded, and continued to eat her breakfast.

The screen door clanged against the wall when Lance kicked it open, arms holding a small pile of boxers while a bigger pile bogged down Clara. “See Ma! I’m cleaning!” Clara declared as she wobbled into the laundry room. Lance laughed as he followed his sister. He swerved to make a small detour to peck his mother on the cheek and his other sister on the top of her head. He flashed them a quick smile as he moved to dump his armload into the laundry room.

She shook her head at her family as she turned back to her daughter who was more relaxed than what her talk did. She tilted her head down, making eye contact with her daughter. “Better?”

She nodded, small smile on her face. She pecked her on the nose. “Good.”

Lance came strolling into the room, Clara at his side, strides similar, if a bit disproportionate. “We have delivered the undies!” they chimed together.

Ah, her children.

“Okay, go finish breakfast. Lance,” she beckoned him with a wave of her hand. “a word.”

She got up to go to the hallway with the chorus of “ooohhh” from her youngest as Lance followed.

“Ma, I’m just saying that she totally was going to deserve it. You just don’t go throw out a man’s underwear out of the window! And what she did on Saturday! She had it coming!”

She cocked her hip, fists placed on her hips with attitude. “You’re the older brother, Lance, you have to set an example. But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.

“You’ve improved so much since you were little. You’ve strengthened your powers so much and you have excellent control.”

“Mamá, where is this going?”

“Have you considered tutoring other kids at school?”

His brow furrowed over his dark blue eyes. “Is this about one of your cases? I thought I wasn’t supposed to know who they were?”

She was silent for a minute or two before clucking her tongue at him and cupping his face. Squeezing his cheeks until his lips puckered up in an unintentional duck face, she said, “I am just saying my wonderful, hard working, and generous boy should keep an open mind if anyone needs help.”

He stared at her before sighing with his whole body, “Yes, Ma.”

 -

 Lance hopped off of the early bus and went straight to Nyma’s locker. He leaned next to the locker next to hers and waited for her to shut the door to surprise her. When the locker slammed shut he leaned his head against the cold metal with an award-winning smile and a fingergun. “Excuse me, beautiful, but do we have chemistry?”

She tilted her head at him with a flirtatious smile. A couple of swinging steps forward she was leaning towards him, arms wrapped around her books, head tilted until her nose barely brushed his. “Well I certainly feel like I’m having a reaction, how about you?”

He slid his hand into her dyed blonde hair and tilted his face up toward hers. “Mmm, I suppose I am.” She giggled as their lips met.

He wrapped his arm around her waist and felt her hand hook into his belt loop. He drew her close, smiling into the kiss. He parted with dopey smile on his face. “Hey, how about after school we could go to your—“

“No!” A couple of books fell from her arms, a textbook nailing him on the foot. She dropped and gathered her books at lightening speed, muttering sorry as she did. Popping back up, worrying her bright pink lip she said, “No, no, sorry,” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Not right now, my house is being fumigated right now so…”

His brows furrowed in concern. “Then where are you staying?”

She pouted. “I’m staying at Rolo’s for right now, sorry babe. I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want you to worry. And it’s not like that with Rolo, we’re strictly friends.” She emphasized that last point with a firm slice through the air with her hand.

His smile was weak and his stomach felt like someone decided to play cat’s cradle with his intestines. He nodded, a bit too forcefully. “Yeah, sure, cool, coolcoolcoolcool, I didn’t think about that before and now I am so heeeyyy.” He took a deep breath and exhaled, shaking his head a bit he smiled at her. “Yeah, it’s not a problem, I trust you.” He darted in with a sweet kiss to the lips.

She leaned into him and captured his mouth again, melting into him with a sigh. Again, he brought his hand to her waist, settling it on the small of her back reeling her—

“Really? Right here? In front of my salad?”

Lance separated from his girlfriend to level a look at the gremlin beside him. “Just because your sexuality is robots doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy kissing my girlfriend.”

“Yes, yes, I know your girlfriend. I got the group text. But I’m just saying A.I.’s can be incredibly advanced and we’re really close of having them like humans.”

Lance spun away from them, locker rattling when he threw himself against it, fingers in his ears. “Nope, nope, nope, nope we are not doing the movie Her nope! Nu-uh, not today.”

Pidge scooted up to him squeezing between Nyma and him, poking him in the side. “Hey, I’m just saying that being in a lesbian relationship with an A.I. would be the best relationship I would have. All the relationship stuff without the human stuff.”

Slowly, he turned his head from when he was trying to ram it into the locker. Looking into their smirking face he gently placed his fingertips over their mouth. “Pidgeon, I want you to shut up.” He shook his head, eyes wide and glaring. “You will not speak of this again.” They hiked up a side of their mouth higher, in a look that says ‘you’re not the boss of me’. A look he’s well acquainted with through his sister. They go to open their mouth but he clamps it shut with the hand still on their mouth. “Bah, bah, bap, nope. You will not say anything that has to deal with dating artificial life, agreed?”

Rolling their eyes they nodded. With that agreement he released their big mouth. They stared at him for a minute staring him down. Daring him. He stared back not daring to break eye contact. He lifted an eyebrow as a power move, he felt Nyma wrap her arms around him in support, her chin on his shoulder.

A hand waved between the competitors, breaking the contest. “Uh, hey, guys having a staring contest?” He glared at Nyma hanging over Lance like a jacket. “I’m pretty sure you don’t need to be hanging on him like that for a staring contest Nyma.”

She pouted and nuzzled into Lance’s neck, kissing his cheek, lipstick not even smearing. “He likes me here.”

“Hunk,” Lance sighed, “Come on, man.”

Hunk pouted and rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He went over and picked Pidge up, they didn’t even move from their position. Still making eye contact from a slightly higher vantage point. Nyma scoffed and bent her knees a tad and the next thing Lance knew his feet didn’t touch the linoleum. Even he knew he had such a stupid face on but he couldn’t help it! Forgive him if he found it hot that his girlfriend could lift him.

Before too long though the sound of soft footsteps of one Keith Kogane stopped in front of the spectacle. Lance barely saw him from his peripheral, mullet and all, but he didn’t dare let the midget win just because he was distracted.

His eyes were burning as he stared into the unblinking eyes of the infernal pygmy owl in front of him, who didn’t seem to have any issues staring at him like it was a day at the beach. He had the momentary thought of his eyes getting stuck like this and going blind like his Mamá said but he brushed it away.

“…. What the fuck is happening here?”

“Eye staring contest, duh. Keep up, Kogane.” Lance retorted. “Ack!” His body jerked and he lost eye contact, more in surprise than pain, when Keith jabbed his soft side with his pointy devil fingers. Nyma dropped him from his sudden spasm. Feet on the ground Lance glared up at Keith who's eye bags morphed from bored amusement to horror.

“Shit! Fuck! Sorry, I didn’t mean—fuck—“

Lance stepped into Keith’s space, arms spread. “Oh! It’s on now, buddy boy. I was going easy on you before but now.”

Keith dropped his expression, going blank before adopted a mix between disgust and exasperation. He stood his ground against the boy moving into his personal space. “Oh you’re so full of shit, Lance.”

“Yeah?! Well…you’re full of…worse than shit!”

A small round of applause behind him, courteous of his all-time best friend. “Came out strong, Lance!”

“Thanks, buddy,” Lance answered, not looking away from the pyromaniac in front of him. Keith never looked that great on a good day but today must’ve been particularly rough morning because those eye bags on that pasty white skin would have been charged double on a flight to emo-ville. And he was just getting worse as the week went on. Honestly, if he ever comes clean, Keith somehow doesn’t kill him, he would be kind enough to actually instruct him on proper skincare.

A warm hand squeezed his shoulder and a pair of soft lips kissed his cheek. “I gotta go to class. See you later, boyfriend.”

“Ye-yeah, bye girlfriend.” He could feel the stupid smile on his face as he continued to wave to her. She turned around, giggled, before giving another wave. Barely, aware that he’s still waving he sighed, still gazing stupidly in her direction.

He could feel Keith’s disbelieving stare but he was too much on a girlfriend high to be bothered. “You’re dating her?”

The high was nice while it lasted.

“What is that supposed to mean, Mullet? We’ve been dating since Saturday!”

“Woooww, a whole four days, must be a record. Isn’t she a little out of your league?” he said, raising a sardonic eyebrow.

“Oh! Hey! Keith! I didn’t realize that I didn’t have your number!” Hunk shouted, physically stepping between his two friends and shoving his phone in Keith’s face.

Lance glared at the back of his friend, fully aware of what he was doing. He stepped forward but Pidge dragging him back by a point in the middle of his jacket brought him up short. He looked down to see them raising their eyebrow before swatting him in the stomach. Walking up to Keith he held their phone out, typing in the response he was giving to Hunk.

“Could you repeat that?” they asked bringing out a second phone, tossing the one they previously had at Lance.

He fumbled a bit before it landed nice and safe in the cradle of his palms. “Hey! When did you get my phone you gremlin?!”

They shot him a sly smile and gave him a single jazz hand, still typing with the other, numbers matching up perfect. Okay, so maybe they are a robot. “I have my ways.”

He rolled his eyes and tapped on his screen. “Fudge!” He surged forward and grabbed Hunk from where he was talking to Keith. “Dudes, we need to get to class asap. Come on, Keith! Bye, Pidgeot!”

The gremlin waved as the rest of the group fled down the hall.

Keith ran a little ahead of him, arms pumping, backpack thudding against his spine. “I swear to God if I have to make another fucking birdhouse…”

At this point Lance let go of Hunk who was right on his heels. “Then run faster, Mullet!”

“Uh, guys? Maybe we should… just focus on getting to… class? That sounds like a good idea.” Hunk panted between breaths.

Lance spun around and jogged backwards. “Don’t worry, Hunk! We’ll be there i—“

“Lance!”

“Augh!”

Lance flopped onto his stomach and pushed up from the ground. Hunk fidgeted behind him, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Keith just ahead of them, poised to run but slightly turned back to see what kind of idiocy that Lance did.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry, ma’am. I didn’t see you,” He extended his hand to the woman on the floor. “I’m so, so, so sorry.”

She grasped his hand and used her other to push herself off the floor. Standing, she pushed back the curtain of platinum hair obscuring her face. Smiling at him she waved away his apologies, hazel eyes sparkling. “Don’t worry, I was young once, get to class. I’ll see you boys in biology.”

When the bell chimed over their heads they nodded and sprinted toward their class, Keith a good few feet in front of them before making a sharp left turn and disappearing into the classroom.

“Bro,” Lance huffed, “our new biology teacher is hot.”

“Bro,” Hunk groaned, accidentally stepping on the back of Lance’s shoe, tripping them both up. “She said, ‘I was young once’ she’s gotta be old!”

Lance stomped his foot into his shoe while running. Step, STOMP, step, STOMP. “Well she has really good genes then! And beauty does not stop with age, Hunk!” The bell stopped just as they jumped through the threshold.

“Well—“

“Cutting it a little close today, my boys.” Coran said, mustache twitching. He threw up on hand. “Ah, well, I guess I have volunteers for handing out the papers for the semester project!”

With a grin he handed them each a stack of packets. He leapt behind his desk to rummage about while the boys handed out the assignments. Each taking half of a classroom, in the front desk of the first row was Keith, who was smirking at him. Lance glared in return, handing him the packet before moving on. Despite his speed he still heard the whispered, “I won,” from Keith.

He turned back around and loud-whispered back, “It wasn’t a race!”

With a smug look Keith just raised his eyebrows at him and mouthed, “still won,” and stuck out his tongue.

Lance reciprocated the gesture and handed back the rest of the papers. Taking one for himself he sat next to the empty seat next to Keith.

It was moments like these that made him think that he and Keith would actually get along. When Keith’s actually relaxed and he himself actually makes an effort of not being totally annoying to the fire starter. Sometimes he forgets that there is this giant, gaping cavern between them. Once Keith remembers then he’s probably going to hate him. So it’s best to keep that cavern where it is.

On the front page of their quarter-inch thick packets was a picture of a little house with BASIC SKILLS bolded at the top. Lance snickered when he heard Keith mutter something about birdhouses. Coran did love his birdhouses. He kept a few favorites dangling outside the window; despite the fact they were too high for the birds that are supposed to fit in there. He’s not too proud to brag that his bird mansion is among the favored few.

The teacher clapped calling their attention. “Attention students! We have some exciting new today. Today we will explore the future!”

Hunk raised his hand, without waiting to be called on he continued, “Does this mean it’s true that the school has a time machine in the basement?! Do we all go or do we have to go in shifts? What if we irrevocably change time? Oh, man, I can’t wait to tell Pidge!”

“No!” Coran shouted, he at eased from his stiff position before continuing in a calmer tone. “No. We do not have a time machine. You are simply going to build your lives from the ground up. You’re going to do taxes, choosing your education, which schools, degrees, careers, spouses, children, wills and funerals, the whole shebang!” He spread his hands in a small explosion of excitement, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Ah, yes, in the back.”

The student dropped their hand and adjusted their glasses. “Mr. Smythe, what about the students who are planning to be superheroes?”

“Oooh?” He raised a bushy orange eyebrow. “You don’t think that this is applicable to superheroes? Well, what league, or organization will you go through if you will? How will you be paid? Will you go through commercials, ads, or just by donations? What name will you go by? Will you be a public super or will you want a civilian identity? And what will that civilian identity be? What would they do? There are only so many freelance writers in one neighborhood before it can be suspicious you know.”

The kid in the back had no response.

Coran chuckled, “That’s what I thought.” He clapped. “As extra fun, those who wish to have offspring will pair up, or not it’s your choice, to map out their future. And to take care of this bundle of joy!” He held up a stiff bald doll by its leg. “But be quick, we only have a few of these little buggers. The rest of the period is to work on your packets, have fun!”

Lance immediately looked over at Keith to find that he was staring intently at the child portion of the packet.  He cleared his throat until Keith looked up at him, not irritated but…looking. “So…you want kids?”

His brow furrowed. “I never really thought about it.”

“Well, I for one want kids.”

“Yeah? And? You don’t need me for that dude.”

“Well you are my partner and,” He flipped through to the children section. “There’s an entire section here on adopting.” He looked at Keith expectantly, the other boy’s face scrunched up in either displeasure or confusion. He held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Just think it over, I’d rather not raise Camilla and Tomás and Genevieve by myself. I’d rather not tell them that their father abandoned them.”

It took a hot second for Lance to register what the fuck he just said. “I did not mean it that way I swear. Fuck! I’m so stupid, I’m so sorry.” He barely noticed when his phone buzzed.

Keith’s eyes were wide at the onslaught of apologies. “Lance, it’s fine. I’ve gotten over the issues with my dad a long time ago.”

“Still, dude, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.”

Keith shook his head and went back to his packet. “Yeah, it’s fine. You’re an idiot, I expect as much.”

Lance’s expression flat-lined but the tension in his shoulders eased and his stomach went from a churning ocean to more of a rippling puddle. “And here I am apologizing. Rude.”

Keith didn’t deign that comment worthy of a response except for a roll of his eyes. Lance pouted and returned to his packet, paging through the education and career section. His stomach still churning a bit from before. Bringing up his father who abandoned him? Yeah, smooth move, McClain. Not to mention his mom… But he didn’t seem to connect this with that. Thank God.

Granted, from his reaction…it might not be that bad? From the past couple of weeks he is not that bad from when he remembered. Obviously. They’ve grown; he’s grown. He hoped anyway. And he was pretty mellow from when Lance ate his own foot. But just because he hadn’t melted him yet doesn’t mean that means he’s going to forgive him. Or that they’d be friends.

Lance tapped his pen on the stack of papers, pouting.

He sighed and put down Voltron Alliance in the superhero affiliation spot.

-

“We have done this, no! We’re not putting a squid on my head again!”

“Aw, come on, Lance! The squid was really close!”

Lance glared at the girl with a yellow jellyfish on her head. “Sedna, the jellyfish don’t work. Luxia could still mind swish me.” He took out his phone to check on his messages. Luxia wouldn’t care. He winced when he read the text from his mother.

Remember, Lance, you are an example to your siblings.

His mind ticked back to when he swore and hoped her omnipresent mom powers didn’t pick up on that. Or that she had him bugged.

She rolled her eyes through the translucency of the jellyfish but, thankfully, took it off, dark hair slicked and gooey. “I’ve told you to call me Swirn,” she muttered.

Lance looked at Plaxum for help, she just smiled at him and patted Swirn on the head, ignoring the goo. “Swirn, we’ve used this, I know you and Buford like them but maybe we should try something else.”

“If he was here he would agree with me! The antidote was found in the Baku Pufferfish, the secret to the prevention of mental attacks could be in sea life.” Swirn reasoned.

Lance leaned forward, arms on his knees. “Just because it was found in sea life doesn’t mean it will be found in this particular sea life. It might be in a squid or something. We’ll have to keep trying.”

Just then a steady beeping grew closer indicating the arrival of their faculty advisor. A stately woman came through the door, preoccupied with the files in her hand. Not a wrinkle on her pantsuit but fashionable with the organic pattern that was only offset by the blinking red ankle monitor. Buttercup yellow hair was streaked with the same turquoise that her daughter’s hair was.

“Hi, Mom.” Plax chirruped.

“Luxia! Could we get some more samples from those pufferfish?”

She nodded, not even looking up from the papers. “Hi, sweetheart. Lance, I’ll ask at the faculty meeting, but yes, I think we should put the jellyfish to rest.”

Swirn merely scoffed and looked at the jellyfish in her hands lifting up to eye height. “Don’t worry, Squishy, you’re special and you’ll be useful for something. I know it,” she said sagely, and then promptly threw it into the pool.

Lance looked at as Squishy shuddered at the contact with water then rejoined its brethren, glowing a slight pale yellow. He watched as the jellyfish glowed in their different colors, circling around each other. They never sting and whatever venom they have in their tentacles it wasn’t deadly. For the most part harmless and pretty.

He got up, droplets of non-chlorinated water following his footsteps. He took a towel and dried off his feet before putting his socks and shoes again. “Welp, it’s almost the end of free period. Imma go to my locker for my next class. See ya!”

He left the pool area with a chorus of goodbyes. He jogged to make the closing doors of the elevator. “Hey! Hold the doors!”

A black boot stopped the doors from closing, the doors automatically retreating.

“Hey, thanks man—Oh, hey, Keith.”

His face was flushed and his powers were drying his hair leaving the stale scent of sweat. Lance wrinkled his nose at the smell. It wasn’t necessarily bad but…it was sweat. Ignoring the smell of BO he pressed the second floor button.  

For whatever reason the mood felt too…awkward or calm for him to start aggravating the other boy. Instead he shifted from foot to foot and stared at the numbers at the top of the elevator decreasing from B6.

As odd as the atmosphere the silence still settled on him like an old itchy woolen sweater. Uncomfortable, twitchy, and he was constantly shifting to somehow make it feel better. He cleared his throat, deciding to discard the wool sweater. “So, how was free period?”

Keith looked at him from the corner of his eye, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, brow furrowed just a little bit. “…Fine. Everything is set up for next period.”

Lance’s head bobbed, “Okay, cool, cool.” They lapsed into silence again. The next numbers were slow to come, stuttering a bit before it finally rolled up. His lip jutted out, eyes squinting as the elevator’s numbers continued at a sluggish pace.

“…So how was your free period?”

Lance looked at him in surprise. “…Good, good, uh. Luxia finally put the end to the jellyfish.”

“Luxia?”

“Yeah, she’s my faculty advisor for my work tuition. She actually happens to be a reformed villain.”

Keith nods. “I heard that actually.”

The lights flickered as the numbers slowed again. This time the numbers stopped moving all together, a blank space with half numbers on either side. Then the lights go out.

Keith groans and goes up to kick the door, not too hard, just enough to make a point. “Stupid door. This is the third time it’s done this to me.”

“Really? It never happened to me.” Lanced felt his way through the dark, accidentally brushing against warm skin and soft hair, which flinched away until he heard a dull thump. “Sorry, dude,” Lance ignored the reaction until his hands were on the panel. “Isn’t there supposed to be an emergency button or call button in here.”

The heat that naturally radiates from Keith warmed up his side. “There is, but it never works. Or no one’s there to monitor it. We can only wait it out.”

Just then Allura’s voice echoed through the tiny chamber. “Attention students. There has been a slight mishap in the mechanics labs. We shall be out of power for the time being. Thank you for your patience.”

Lance slammed the meaty part of his fist against the door. “Goddamnit Allura!” He crossed his arms, slammed his back to the metal wall, and slid down. “I bet it was her stupid mice.”

A rustle of clothes and a sense of movement, Keith must have sat down too. “Her mice?”

“Basically her spies. She has a telepathic communication with them.”

“I thought her powers were energy manipulation?”

Lance rolled his eyes even though Keith couldn’t see him. “You know how it’s really rare for people to have two powers? Well Allura has three.”

“What?! How do you know?”

A smirk crept across his face and he snorted. “Would you believe we used to date?”

…

A long, loud, guffaw was his answer.

This was the loudest and longest time he’s ever heard Keith laugh. He was lucky to get a chuckle out of the man with his best material. And here he is laughing at his expense, the evidence echoing around him in the small space.

…It was really nice. He has a nice laugh.

Mentally he shrugged. If laughing at him is what would make him laugh like this he guesses he just has to update him material. He would do this with anyone really though. Like, he uses science jokes with Pidge and puns with Hunk. That’s Lance. A humble servant to humor and the populace. Yup.

When he finally quieted there was another rustle and a sniff. “How-how do you really know?”

Lance pouted and wrapped his arms around his knees. Lowering even further he buried the bottom half of his face in his cocoon. He sighed. “Okay, fine, she was friend’s with my older sister and she used to babysit me. Happy?”

“That makes so much more sense.”

Lance harrumphed.  Granted, at that age when he thought he had a chance with Allura she was sixteen and he was six, so in his toddler mind he totally had a chance. But then he got older and realized she was too old for him. To be fair it was more like her sitting him down and outlining every reason in a logical PowerPoint. But she pretended to marry him when he was younger so could you blame him for harboring a torch?

At the time he thought it had less to do with their age difference and more in the direction that he couldn’t protect her. But he quickly learned that she could protect herself and him and probably every person in this school.

He let his powers tickle his fingertips, the icy bite of his magic comforting him, reminding him of how far he came since he was young. He tucked away his magic into himself so only Keith’s heat radiated. Then thought better and let some of his own trickle out to even out the temperature.

He shifted his foot out, searching. Until it hit a jean-clad leg. “Hey, uh, I have to tell you something.”

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.6 Ch.7

Ao3

Translation: 

chula - Cutie

“Oi, por favor habla conmigo.” - Hey, please talk with me

#Altea High #klance #Lance #keith #pidge #hunk #vld #Sky High AU #nyma #i know this took a hella long time #I'm really sorry #but hey #better late than never

[justanotherwaywarddaughter]

But Seriously, Though, You Liked the Hat?

Characters: Dean x Reader, Sam

Word Count: 2945

Warnings: Saccharine fluff. Sorry not sorry. Scattered plot (is this a warning?) I still suck at titles.

Summary: The reader and the Winchesters have been on a case that has been going on for quite some time. In their eagerness to follow a lead, they stumble upon some witches. Dean’s plan backfires on him a bit, and suddenly, he's a baby. The reader takes care of him. 

A/N: This is my entry for @deals-with-demons 200 follower challenge. Congrats, Sarah! Hope you like it! (I’m running right down to the wire here. Guess who took too many hours this semester.) I had one thing in mind when I took the prompt, which is bolded below, but this one kinda just took over. It’s just a little something. It’s unbeta’d, so all the mistakes are mine. Italics are reader’s thoughts. Feedback is always welcome and is more than appreciated! Thanks for reading!

What have I gotten myself into?

Life with the Winchesters was not all you’d thought it would be. The men who managed to keep the world from ending couldn’t manage to keep from bickering with each other. Constantly. The men who managed to kill monsters for a living couldn’t manage to kill a spider. Ever. The men who managed to clean up crime scenes after a hunt couldn’t manage to clean up… well, anything, really. The men who managed to always have near perfect aim couldn’t manage to aim for the laundry basket. Or the trashcan. The list of things they couldn’t manage to do was ever growing.

They did, however, manage to get on your nerves; sometimes purposefully, sometimes accidentally. The eldest Winchester had a special way of getting under your skin; it was a gift, really. He picked at you every chance he got. As little brothers often do, Sam fell in line, taking his cues from Dean. The two of them together was enough to drive a normal person crazy. It’s a good thing I’m not a normal person.

I did not sign up for this, you groaned inwardly, seeing the disaster zone that was the motel room you’d been sharing with the brothers.

Kicking your way inside past the fast food wrappers, dirty socks, and the leftovers in varying stages of decomposition, you griped, “Is it too much to ask for a room that doesn’t smell like something died? I don’t understand how you all think this is okay. Why do we always have to go through this? It’s the same routine: you all make a mess, I nag about it, we eventually clean it up. Why can’t we skip a couple of steps? You all could just be clean from the get go. It would save so much time and energy.”

Looking up from the newspaper he’d been reading, Dean asked, “Does it bother you, sweetheart?”

“You know it does, Dean,” you grumbled, dangling one of his socks in front of his face.

Snatching his sock and smirking, he rolled off the bed and tossed over his shoulder, “That’s why we have to do it.”

You rolled your eyes and half-heartedly bit back a curse, picking up a sticky soda can from the nightstand and chucking it at Dean’s head.

Having been on this wild goose chase of a hunt for over a week, you were tired. Tired of playing mom to two man-children. Tired of fruitless research. Tired of dead ends. Tired of long nights. So, when you heard Sam mention something about a possible lead, you were, understandably, eager to check it out, foregoing your usual air of caution. When Sam mentioned this, you replied, “What’s the worst thing that could happen?” The three of you parted ways, you and Dean going to check out the address Sam had dug up while Sam went to the police station to grab a few case files.

This. This is the worst thing that could’ve happened, you thought, taking in your surroundings. Instead of finding a routine vengeful spirit or a run-of-the-mill demon or even a nice werewolf, you managed to stumble into the command central of some new practitioners of black magic. Apparently, Fate had decided to cut you a little slack, though– Wait, isn’t she dead? Anyway, the point remains. Only one of the witches was home. Hallelujah. The only problem was that while she was inexperienced, she was anything but ineffective. From the time you two had clamored in like you owned the place, she’d been on you hot and heavy. She’s just one person. WHERE IS SHE KEEPING ALL THESE INCANTATIONS AND SPELLWARES?

After a solid thirty minutes of bobbing and weaving, you were all on the verge of exhaustion. The witch paused, panting. Seeing an opportunity in the lull, Dean, ever trigger happy, squeezed off half a clip, effectively solving your witch issues.

“A bit much, don’t ya think?” you asked, moving to nudge her with the toe of your boot.

“Better safe than sorry,” he said with a smug grin, and began straightening the mess the firefight had made. I knew he knows how to clean. Jerk. You moved to help him, setting a tipped table aright.

“Where the hell did Sam go? He was supposed to come here after he got done at the sheriff’s office. If that jackass is taking a nap again, I swear to the gods–“ you were cut off by shrill yell. Spinning on your heel, you were met with the sight of a disheveled young girl, her blond hair sticking up in irregular tufts. She shakily made her way to the corpse lying in the middle of the room, her once red face becoming ashen.

“You,” she growled, reaching out a clawed hand toward Dean. “I will end you,” she vowed, her childlike voice at odds with her words.

“End me? I’d like to see you try, sweetheart. Who invited the overgrown child?” Dean snorted, looking around the room as if for the person responsible for her.

No no no no do not agitate the unstable witch. Do. Not. Provoke. Her. You shot Dean a warning glance, but he continued to snicker seeing her burning glare.

“What, you gonna bop me with your magic wand? Bibbidi bobbidi boo me? Come on, princess. We both know you couldn’t hurt a fly,” he taunted, swaggering her way.

What the fresh hell are you doing, you idiot?

Dean flashed you a quick I-know-what-I’m-doing look. You swallowed a sigh.

“Overgrown child? OVERGROWN CHILD? I’ve been casting spells longer than you’ve been alive. I’ll show you an overgrown child!” she shrieked, her spritely figure contorted in her rage.

Oh, I get it.

With the witch’s attention diverted toward Dean, you were able to slide the gun from the waistband of your jeans.

One more smartass remark. I just need one more. That shouldn’t be difficult for you, Winchester. He grinned, seeing that you were catching on.

You took aim, “That’s enough. Back away,” you motioned with the barrel of your gun.

Sadly, the little witch didn’t head your warning. She lunged at Dean, and you pulled the trigger.

Bullseye.

But before she went down, the witch managed to fling some harried Latin and a shimmering powder– Seriously though, where the hell do they keep this stuff?– at Dean.  Your first priority was to make sure she was actually dead. No pulse. Check. Your second priority was to check on Dean. Turning from the two corpses– That’s gonna be a bitch to clean up– you looked around the room trying spot your hunting partner. This should not be this hard. He is literally over six feet tall. HE’S THE ONLY OTHER PERSON HERE. Your gaze caught on a pile of clothes that hadn’t been there a second ago. Drawing your weapon once again, you moved toward it with measured steps.

“Son of a bitch. Dean?” you questioned, taking in the tiny figure burrowed in the Led Zeppelin t-shirt Dean had been wearing. Sighing, you picked him up, his chubby fingers immediately finding and tugging on your hair.

“I freaking hate witches,” you grumbled, pulling out your phone to call Sam. Three rings later, a groggy voice answered with an air of annoyance.

“Hello, Samuel. Enjoy your nap? Good, good. It’s the last sleep you’ll get UNTIL YOU FIGURE OUT HOW THE HELL TO GROW YOUR BROTHER UP. What am I talking about, you ask? If you’d been here, you’d know! Witches, Sam. I’m talking about witches. Plural. We got ‘em, but they apparently got Dean too. He’s an infant, Sam. I DON’T KNOW HOW TO TAKE CARE OF A BABY! I’m coming to you, and you better have that nose of yours buried in whatever book will tell us how to fix this by the time I get back,” you said, angrily hanging up.

I miss the days when I could slam my flip phone shut. Hitting the end button violently just doesn’t do it for me.

Looking down at the baby in your arms, you sighed.

I did not think this through. How am I supposed to drive and hold him?

“I guess we’re winging it, Deano. You know what this means? I get to drive Baby,” you said with a grin. At that, he let out a high-pitched wail.

“Don’t get your diaper all in a twist. I’ll be careful. Shit, you aren’t stopping. What do I do?” you asked frantically. I guess we’re winging it here too. You began to gently rock him, bringing his head up to rest on your chest. In response, he curled his fingers in your hair and grinned.

Alright, we know that works. I’ll tuck that away for future reference.

With a now content Dean still nestled on your shoulder, you gathered his clothes from the floor and shoved both your guns in the waistband of your jeans. After dropping the stuff in the backseat of Baby, you grabbed the spare gas can from the trunk, soaking the perimeter of the house.

“This will have to do for clean-up, kid,” you said to the little boy dozing on your shoulder as you flicked your lighter onto the accelerant.

Your drive back to the motel was mostly silent. Turns out babies aren’t much for carrying on conversations. Pulling into the parking lot, you scooped a now sleeping baby Dean up and ran toward the door.

God this is weird.

“Sam, open the door!” you said while banging with your fist, waking the little blonde headed baby on your shoulder. Fat tears started streaming down his face just before he let out a wail. “SAMOPENTHISDOORRIGHTNOWDAMMIT” you yelled, causing him to be even more upset.

“Okay, this is fine. We’re fine. You’re fine,” you attempted to soothe him, bouncing him up and down before snuggling him close to your chest again.

Hearing the creak of the door, you almost bowled Sam over in your determination to get inside.

“Dude, you have to take him. He’s your brother. This is just too weird,” you said as soon as Sam had locked the door.

“I don’t know anything about babies. I was the baby,” Sam said, putting his hands up in front of him.

“This isn’t a stick up, so you can put your hands down. I can’t take care of him, and you know damn well why,” you said, once again trying to hand off the baby that had settled his hand on your cleavage. Even as a baby, Dean. Un-freaking-believable.

“That’s a shitty excuse, Y/N. I’m not taking care of him just because you have some silly little crush,” Sam said, dropping down onto the sofa.

“Oh my God, Sam. Don’t say stuff like that in front of him! We have no idea what he’ll remember! You make it sound like I’m some fifteen-year-old school girl or something. What happened to ‘It’s no big deal’ and ‘I swear I won’t say anything’?” you shot back.

“Relax. He’s asleep. I didn’t mean to get you all riled up. If you think about it though, we’ll get this solved more quickly if you just let me continue researching. We both know I’m faster,” he shrugged.

“You. Owe. Me. What am I even supposed to do with him?” you asked, sitting down on the bed, automatically adjusting Dean’s position not to jostle him.

“I don’t know. Go get him some clothes, figure out how to make a bottle? I’m sure you’re a natural,” he rattled off, not really paying attention.

“Guess that’s what we’ll do,” you sighed, grabbing your keys and stolen credit card from the night stand. “Wait. Moms carry purses. I think I have one here somewhere... Aha! Got it.” You stuffed your pistol, keys, card, and an extra magazine in the little black bag. Grabbing a shirt to use for a makeshift blanket, you headed out the door.

How am I even supposed to know what a baby needs? Aimlessly wandering down the aisles with a gurgling Dean in your arms, you chose things at random. Bottles, diapers, wipes, pacifiers, stuffed animals; into the cart they went. Until you got to the clothes, that is. ALL THIS STUFF IS SO LITTLE. I CAN’T. If we have to do this, we’re gonna do it right. You chose a fuzzy penguin sleeper and a matching onesie pant set with little baby bears. OH MY GOD THERE’S A MATCHING HAT WITH EARS. You’re gonna love it. I can just tell. Eager to get Dean home so you could play dress up, you quickly made your purchases and left.

Once you were back at the motel, you dropped the bags on the bed, digging in them with one hand for the things you needed to dress him. Sam eyed you with curiosity as you put on Dean’s tiny little outfit and blew a raspberry on his stomach. Scooping up a now giggling Dean, you tossed him up in the air, earning more giggles, the ears on his hat flapping as he went up and down.  You two continued on like this until Sam, who’d had enough of the baby talk, suggested you put Dean to bed.

Flipping off the lights, you gently placed a footie-pajama-clad baby Dean next to you in bed. He promptly rolled over and stuck his butt in the air. Suppressing a giggle, you rubbed circles on his back and patted him until he was snoring softly. You gently placed him on your chest to ensure you wouldn’t roll over on him.

“You know, you’re not so bad, little man. You can’t speak and annoy me like grown-up you does. I know this was really weird at first. I’m permanently blocking the memories of those diaper changes, by the way. But this was kinda nice. It wasn’t all bad. I wouldn’t mind being this close to you when you’re all grown up. I’m a snuggler. I know you don’t see me that way, but hey, a girl can dream right? Sammy’s right. It’s just a little crush. I’m sure I’ll get over it. You know, you’re a good listener when you’re sleeping,” you whispered, finishing with a snicker. You placed a soft kiss on the top of his head and nodded off.

I can’t breathe. I can’t freaking breathe. Why is it so damn hot? You thought, your eyes snapping open. Instead of a sweet little baby snuggled into your chest, there was a grown man lying on top of you.  

HIs snoring isn’t so soft now.                                                                                                Aaaaaand he’s naked.

“Dean… Dean,” you whispered, poking him. Sighing, you said a bit louder, “Dean. Get up. I can’t breathe.” Giving up being gentle, you shoved at him and all but yelled, “DEANGETOFFYOURESUFFOCATINGME” The snoring man woke with a start, falling off the bed and pulling you with him. Hearing Sam’s chortle, you popped up out of the floor and made a beeline for the bathroom, leaning against the locked door for support.

Okay, so that just happened. Calm down, Y/N. Calm down. This is fine. You’re fine. Just give him a minute to put some clothes on. That’ll make this a little less awkward. Please, for the love of all that is good and holy in this world, don’t let him remember all that.

Taking a deep breath and steeling yourself, you unlocked the bathroom door and stepped outside. Sam was gone. You and Dean were alone.

Well this isn’t awkward at all.

“Morning,” you said hesitantly.

“Morning,” he replied.

After an awkward silence that seemed to last eons, you broke down, “All right. I’ll bite. How much do you remember?” You avoided eye contact like the plague.

That’s a nice lamp. Why is he taking so long to answer? Was that stain always there on the carpet?

You were so wrapped up in trying to decide if the blob on the edge of the bed skirt was jelly or pudding that you didn’t notice Dean approach you. You didn’t see the tender look in his eyes or the little half smile he had when he said, “I remember everything.”

Startled at his sudden close proximity, you took a step backward. “You want to elaborate, Winchester?”

“Not particularly. I liked the hat, though” he said, his usual arrogance returning.

“Oh. Okay. Glad you’re back to normal,” you said uncertainly, turning away from him and looking for something to do with your hands. You settled on making coffee and had just placed a filter in when two large hands clasped around your waist, spinning you around.

Your gaze locked with Dean’s as he emptied your hands and moved them so they were joined behind his head.

“I remember everything,” he said again.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’ is right. Just so you know, I’m a snuggler too,” he said with that grin that made his eyes crinkle. God I love that.

“You heard that?” you asked warily.

“Every. Single. Word.” He said, his words each punctuated with a chaste kiss; one to your nose, one to the corner of your mouth, the last lingering on your forehead.

Taking advantage of where he’d put your hands, you pulled him down, connecting your lips with his. His eyes, wide with shock, eventually fluttered shut as your mouths moved in synchrony, tasting, testing, and exploring. You broke apart, breathing heavily. Trailing openmouthed kisses across his face, you worked your way down and nipped at his jaw.

“You missed,” you said with a sly smile.

“My mistake. Won’t happen again,” he said, claiming your mouth once again.

You pulled back. “But seriously, though, you liked the hat?”

“That’s what you take away from this?” he sighed, incredulous. “Yes. I liked the hat,” he chuckled, pulling you in closer.

  I knew it.

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[sanctimoniousscrawlings]

Journal Entry #2

Or Cognitive Dissonance in Perception of Personality: An essay of negativity

    I see myself in an extremely negative light. I know it’s unfair to myself but I can’t seem to shake the feeling that I’m basically scum. I see myself as a selfish failure of a manchild with extreme anger issues and a severe lack of motivation. The thing is, all of those things are correct, but so is the opposite viewpoint.     I went to (one of) my best friend’s (we’ll call her S) birthday party about a month ago and there were nine of us. After a while of sitting in a circle and playing some tabletop games, my friend’s boyfriend (A) made the observation that we were sitting in a pattern where the most similar personalities were sitting in triangular formations. My triangle was my friend, another girl (R), and myself- which according to A was the triangle of kindness. I, being entirely too self-absorbed and fairly high on the spectrum, responded with, “Me, kind? Where?” because I genuinely don’t perceive myself as being very kind (and definitely not nice like S and R are). He was quick to remind me that they’d been borrowing my car for a month-and-a-half and that when I found out they had no vehicles (one was stolen, the other completely broke down and was basically totaled) I immediately offered to lend them mine. (Ironically this screwed me and my grandparents over because it was our only vehicle with four-wheel drive and we ended up snowed in for a week.)     So maybe I’m not always selfish- but I do selfish things so often that I feel it’s a core trait of mine. I’m constantly “borrowing” money from my grandparents- that I still live with at nearly 27 years old. Borrowing is in quotes because it’s always with the pretense that I’ll pay them back when I can (and sometimes I do) but also with the shared knowledge that I probably won’t be able to any time soon. My grandmother waves me off when I’m upset that she offers to take care of something for me because she “knows I’m good for it/knows where I live” and because I help her do things she wouldn’t be able to handle on her own like taking care of my grandfather who has been acting like he’s completely incapable of doing anything (ex: we have to serve him everything he eats if we’re home bc he’s ‘too weak’ to get up and do it himself, but if we leave him alone or turn our backs for a second his diabetic ass will race to the kitchen and eat stuff he’s not supposed to have. This man makes and scarfs down triple decker sandwiches faster than 625/Reuben.) which he is not, for the most part. He’s disabled, but he isn’t anywhere near as disabled as he acts.     I see myself as a failure for the same reason I see myself as selfish. On top of that, I have little to no impulse control. If something I should be doing is in the way of something I want to be doing I will 9/10 times completely pass what I should be doing over. I don’t have a strong will when it comes to taking care of myself/my life/etc., but I’m extremely willful when I see something I want. I will do the impossible to make it happen especially if someone tells me not to or that I can’t. For fuck’s sake, My grandmother’s suv got stuck in the snow when she was trying to back into place and I got out and lifted the front end/pushed the car back so it wasn’t stuck- which brings me to my next point: anger.     I am fueled by an immense rage at all times. I jokingly say that everything I do, I do out of spite but it’s not exactly distant from the truth. The angrier I am, the more driven I become and I get mad easily. My grandmother worries for me because I am extremely similar in personality to her- the second someone tells her she can’t do something she goes out and does it because fuck you, that’s why. I told her she shouldn’t go outside with all this snow because she’d likely get very sick and might get pneumonia. Unbeknownst to me, she immediately walks the trash down to the bins at the end of the driveway- at the other end of our 5-acre property- because she thought I was saying that as a joke at her expense. The next day she’s coughing and sneezing and miserable and admits she went out. I had to explain that not only is she too elderly to be doing things like that (the phrase she originally found offensive when I warned her the first time) but she’s grieving and depressed because her sister had literally just died a couple days before and that grief/depression weakens your immune system. Like, no, lady. You’re seventy and dealing with not only the death of your sister but the fairly recent death of your aunt. Your immune system isn’t gonna exist for a minute and you will die if you go within 500 feet of a preschool, let alone trudge through a quarter mile of snow. You don’t even own snow boots or a heavy jacket.     I’m getting way off topic there. Anyways. I got pissed because I signaled my grandmother that I was ready to start pushing her SUV, which was stuck in the snow and she a) spent a minute adjusting stuff while I was pushing after giving the signal instead of immediately hitting the gas and b)let off the gas when she saw how red I was turning because she thought it was from the strain (the only strain was on patience). I got madder when I started putting groceries away because there is ALWAYS shit (by which I mean the laundry basket) blocking the freezer door from opening all the way and stuff also fell out of the freezer when I opened it, and the door to the laundry room had stuff blocking it from opening all the way and I started throwing stuff because WHY DOES NOTHING EVER COOPERATE? Honestly, I’m still salty about it but more of a vaguely jaded salty than an “I need to break stuff because I’m irate and all cognitive function flies out the window when I’m this mad” kind of salty. I’m basically the hulk but I turn red and stay the same size.     I ended up guilting myself for hours after mistreating my cat because I was in a particularly venomous mood from being in so much pain. Her only crime was being in my way and almost tripping me several times when I was trying to feed her so I started flicking water at her whenever she would come near me. It was cruel and I still feel really bad about it- especially since it’s basically how my mother treated me when I was a child (ironically when she was going through the same tooth pain I am now) and it was one of my mother’s traits that made me always say I’d never be like her.      It’s also only little things that ever do that to me, though. When something happens that should by all logic tip me over the edge, I become cold and calculating. This is with all forms of stress, too. Grandfather fell on a vase because he didn’t drink his juice before getting out of bed and his blood sugar was low? There’s blood everywhere and my grandmother is running around like a chicken with its head lopped off? I got this. Abusive and controlling (to my little primo) aunt calls to tell my grandparents they aren’t allowed to see my cousin anymore? I was so irritatingly calm and matter-of-fact about telling her exactly what I thought of her my grandmother could hear her shrieking through the phone on the other side of the house and had to stop herself from cracking up when she saw how pleased with myself for making a grown woman (I was 15) throw such a tantrum. Girl my boyfriend cheated on me with tells me so- and that they’re dating now? She was more frightened at how quickly the rage visible in my face evaporated than anything, which was a mistake on her part.     But why can’t I do that with the little things? Why can’t I reason with myself? Is it because I can’t plot any more satisfying revenge for the inanimate objects that get in my way than to yeet them into another dimension? Because there’s no vengeance to be had on something that should prove to only be a minor irritation? It’s the same with pain. If someone purposely causes me pain, I’ll crush them without emotion, but something like a toothache I can’t do anything about (because I was snowed in) turns me into a monster (in fairness I wanted to take a sledgehammer to my face the entire time). Is it because I’ve trained myself not to be helpless- but when things are too minor for me to go into eye-of-the-storm mode (for lack of better description) I panic and feel helpless and lash out? I hear jokes like “hell hath no fury like a minorly inconvenienced gay man” and I also hear that people with severe trauma/mental illnesses/etc handle huge problems immensely well compared to others, but can’t deal with the little things- but like, why? I get that I’m a manic depressive gay guy and had an exceptionally shitty childhood but why can’t I handle the little things. I know, logically, that they don’t matter, but what do I do when that logic goes out the window? How do I drag myself back to reality when I’m throwing a block of frozen shredded cheese at the ground because it won’t. Stay. Put.     And how do I motivate myself to actively make the changes to make myself better? Because right now I am a lazy fuck slumming it in a pile of dirty clothing and half-empty water bottles, between mountains of books and other unknown items like a hoarder because I still haven’t fucking cleaned my room. At all. To my credit, I have done some cleaning in my grandmother’s office. Not much, but some.

    A different best friend of mine has always liked to joke that I am a creature of contradictions because I have always had opposing personality traits- always shifting from one extreme to another and never in the middle. Is it normal to have such divergent personality traits? Is it because I am bipolar?

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