#10/10 would recommend and will be doing this again

[crystal-rebellion]

My elderly mom has this and when I visited a bit ago, we'd sit out on the patio with our tea and boy howdy she got so excited to whip out her tablet when she heard a new song. She's been doing it so long now she can name the regulars at her feeders by their songs, it's amazing.

Then there was The Birb,a new song, very quiet, app couldn't quite grab it among all the others (did we mention it can handle multiple at once and will list all of them out AND have samples of their songs so you can figure out which is which? This app is dope)

Anyway it became a little hunt of its own. Over the two weeks I was there it went from "what the hell was that" to "that's the curious fellow again!" to "Where is that little shit I WANT TO KNOW YOU"

We suspect either a rare song (app also lists uncommon and rare songs) or a migratory bird that just was either off course or not caught by the migration feature (app also looks for birds that will migrate through your region).

Anyway as someone who wasn't even a birder before, the app has also made it profoundly accessible for me to get into, a nice thing to share with her. 10/10 would recommend the app.

I should ask if she ever identified 'That Little Shit'.

Feeling despair over the general state of things? Blorbo from your shows not enough to hold the horrors at bay? Need something healthier to be insane about? Need to go outside more?

Want to become a pokemon trainer like you dreamed of when you were ten?

MERLIN BIRD ID APP BY CORNELL UNIVERSITY

It's a fun little app that lets you use your phone to identify birds by song. You hear a song, open the app, let it listen for a moment and it tells you what the hell is making that noise (if it's a bird), and shows you a picture of the little feathery bastards, so you can squint at the surrounding shrubbery with a better idea of WHAT you're looking for.

After thinking "Man, I wish I had that app to ID that lovely bird song!" and then completely forgetting that I wanted to do that by the time I got back to WiFi approximately five million times, I have finally managed to install it.

Friends.

I am becoming a pokemon trainer.

This is very literally like the Pokemon anime where Ash would find some godforsaken beast in the shrubbery and immediately whip out his Pokedex to Identify it. I will be out walking the dogs and will hear... Something? And now I can find out what the hell it is! Curiosity immediately rewarded!

And that's one hell of a dopamine hit.

You can increase the immersion into the pokemon trainer by also having Dogs (TM) with you. It's like having a starter pokemon, if your starter refused to go in the ball and was less keen on battling wild pokemon so much as generally yelling at, attempting to micromanage, or just straight-up eating them.

My dogs (functionally an off-brand Houndoom and Yamper-if-it-was-a-psychic-type) are thrilled that they're getting this much walkies, if somewhat confused by my stopping on the trail at random intervals to wave my phone around. They're Very Excited by me taking new, circuitous routes around the lake to get closer to trees and bushes to pick up songs because my phone was old when the pandemic started and the mic sucks. I'm pretty sure it's a matter of time before one or both of them figure out that I'm following birdsong and then I'll really be up shit creek because they fucking LOVE going on a hunt for something, and know that if they alert at something correctly at least a few times, I'll believe them when they pretend to alert at something. Like say, pretending they hear another bird, no I promise it's real you're just a comparatively deaf-ass human no I'm not trying to extend walkies how could you say that-

FURTHERMORE, Merlin Bird ID will keep a life list for you.

That's right.

You can put Birds in your Pokedex to fill it out.

And boy fucking howdy does my autistic ass love collecting things/completing sets, and that "congratulations, new lifer!" Thing lights up my brain like nothing else. I saw a blue grosbeak for the first time ever last night because the app told me ITS BLUE LOOK FOR SOMETHING BLUE!! AND BEHOLD, IT WAS THE BLUEST OF BIRDS!! I sailed through breakfast with my in-laws, a normally harrowing experience, on that high and I'm still going.

Granted, once the Blue Grossbeak took off and I was released from its enchantment, I realized that Herschel was rolling in half of a dessicated fish carcass while Charleston was attempting to work down the other half at speed, but that's just the joy of pet ownership.

...what I need to do now is figure out how to enter birds I can see that are not making noise into the list. There's so many ducks here, and all of them shut the hell up whenever the hounds and I are near.

Anyway,

MERLIN BIRD ID APP BY CORNELL LABS!!

Go insane in a way that makes you go outside and touch grass!

[brokenbough]

Hear me outtttt 141 x reader who always moves around silently and keeps scaring (not like scaring scaring but like a flinch whenever they notice her) the guys in the barracks and they makes her wear small bells around the barracks earning her the call sign bell lol

Awwww this is so freaking cute 🥺

But I have to make it a trauma response now☺️

When you were first recruited, the 141 besides Price, didn't even know you were on base. You were silent when you went to the kitchen late at night for a drink when you couldn't sleep, showering at midnight, reading in the dark of the base's library with a small flashlight. You were silent when you entered the chow hall in the morning, head down and blending in with the masses so as not to get caught.

By who, you weren't sure.

It was safe to say you made it a point not to be seen, heard, or remembered. You were silent when it came to everything you did. It was one of the main reasons Price brought you onto the team, the main reason you were recommended to him.

But, on the off chance that someone was in your quiet spots when you were there, you usually ignored their presence, going about your business quietly. Too quietly for the 141.

This often led to a series of:

"Holy shit! How long have you been there?!"

"Fuckin' hell, don't sneak up on me like that."

"AHH, I didn't see you!"

Or even, "Fuck! You gotta warn me when you come in. Gotta put some fucking bells on you or something.."

You often got hit for waiting behind someone for a chance to the cabinets. It also led to you being constantly stepped on or getting knocked into. It was something you had grown used to and never blamed anyone for it. It wasn't their fault you couldn't walk like a normal person.

You tried to walk a little heavier, but the mere sound of your footsteps made you cringe.

And one day, after sneaking up on Gaz, Ghost, Price, and lastly Soap, they all agreed they needed to do something about this.

Yes, it was useful on the field, but not when they held a burning cup of coffee in their hand. So, they sat you down and had a serious conversation.

"Alright lass," Soap started, elbows on his knees as he looked at you earnestly. "We.. we gotta do something about your uh... lack of sound while walkin'. You're scaring half the platoon and they're all on edge thinking you might be there."

You nod solemnly, about to apologize when Gaz cuts in.

"A-and we know it's not your fault, so no need to apologize. We just gotta come up with some solutions, yeah?"

You nod again though still feeling bad.

Attempt 1:

"Some heavy boots. Makes a bunch of noise when you walk." Gaz suggested, smiling like he solved the problem.

Except, you really didn't like the sound of your footsteps and walked even quieter as to not hear them. Plus, they hurt your feet and thighs when walking, so... 2/10.

"I don't like them. They hurt." You tell Gaz a few days later, dodging a punch when he whipped around.

"Shit. Sorry lass. Alright, let's get something different." He said, heart still racing from being snuck up on.

Attempt 2:

"Maybe just hum a little tune when you come out of your room. Then we'll know where you are." Price suggested with an earnest smile.

You nodded, agreeing to sing or hum when you were out. The only problem with this was that, unless you were eating breakfast, you didn't really come out until later. At night, type of later.

So yeah, you would sing a song in the kitchen at night while making a cup of tea or getting water. It would creep out all the soldiers when the song traveled, and anyone up later would hear you and think they're being haunted, leading to Price checking it out himself at all hours of the night only to be creeped out by your choice of song.

"I'll.. be right behind you~ No~ matter where you goooo. I'll.. be there to surprise you. And I~ just want you to know~

"I'm the monster underneath your bed. I'm every thought inside your head. You can run, but you can't hide. I am already inside--"

"Hey." He cuts off, stepping into the dark kitchen.

You halt all movement, facing away from him.

"Uh.." He says, coming closer.

"Yes?" You prompt, finally moving again as you continue to make your tea.

"What're you doing up?" He asks, coming to your side to see what you're working on.

"Making tea. Would you like some?" You ask softly.

"Uh no. I'm gonna go back to sleep, but.... you're kind of creeping out the soldiers now." He says apprehensively, hoping to not hurt your feelings.

"I understand." Is all you say, taking your tea back to your room.

Attempt 3:

It's Soap's turn now to come up with something so that the soldiers stop being on edge, wondering if you're around the corner or the next.

"Well. On ma family's farm, we got a couple o' cows and put bells on them so we know when they're up and moving." Soap says, getting a few thoughtful hums around the kitchenette's small table.

It's a little dehumanizing to say the least, but you don't want to scare anyone anymore, or be stepped on, or dodge a hit when someone turns around. So yeah, you decide to get some small bells to put on your belt loops.

Every time you enter a room anyone there can hear the small jingle and not be startled when you're suddenly at their side. And it works. No more terrified yelps or being screamed at (by accident) for popping up out of nowhere.

Though still, some soldiers still have PTSD from your late night singing, or just being wary in general in case you forgot to put your bells on.

Anyway, the base starts to see you, hear you, and remember your cute little golden bells that rest against the side of your thighs, swaying with each step.

"Hey, Bells. Heard you this time." They all commend with a smile, thankful as to not be scared by you anymore. Some start to ask why you're wearing bells, others asking for pointers on how to walk silently for when they get deployed.

Sometimes, the recognization gets a little too much and you take off the bells so that you can go about your day without being recognized. It's easier that way more often than not, but you still try to wear them for the sake of everyone else

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

Bro, I walk like this cause of my misophonia 😢 sorry it took so long to complete, I didn’t know how to write this out 😭

[slattlicker]

HI!!! I've been waiting eagerly for your requests to open back up

I absolutely adore your writing!!

I was wondering if you could do a soft, comfy/comfort type fic of Schlatty and Reader dancing in the kitchen. Maybe My Way is playing, up to you (thats just been my comfort song recently)

thank you so much!! your writing is lovely ♡

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * finally come home ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮

imagine: a storm, a surprise day off, a kitchen full of half-ruined recipes and full-hearted apologies. he comes home early. you hold each other like it’s the first time. and for once—nothing is pulling you apart.

╰﹒♡₊˚๑ ✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: for the darling who asked for dancing in the kitchen to My Way. thank you for the compliments and i am glad to start this round of requests with this one first !!

warnings: established relationship, comfort fluff, emotional reconnection, missed-you kisses, slow dancing, hand pies, old family recipes, forehead touches, and being so in love it physically hurts.

highly recommend reading this while not hungry or thirsty lolol ♡

✧✧✧

the alert comes through around 10:06 am.

just one soft ding from your phone, where it’s face-down on the kitchen counter, forgotten next to a half-eaten banana and the unopened weather app. you glance at it only because the wind’s been whining through the trees since dawn, low and long like it’s warning something.

when you flip the phone over, the screen lights up:

⚠️ severe weather advisory all local travel discouraged after 11:30 am. shelter indoors.

you blink. then blink again, slower.

work was already feeling optional today—your boss had been eyeing the forecast for a week, and you'd noticed how quickly everyone cleared out yesterday, muttering things like “just in case” and “see you monday.” you hadn’t thought it would actually hit. but outside, the sky’s already gone that strange silver-gray, and the air has that heavy, electric smell—like wet pavement and ozone and far-off thunder. like a storm that means business.

your hands wrap around the ceramic mug you poured yourself over an hour ago. the tea’s gone lukewarm, but you sip it anyway. it tastes like something grounding—clove and orange peel, maybe—and it warms your throat just enough to make you exhale, slow and audible.

you glance toward the window.

raindrops are beginning to gather in stripes along the glass, tracing their way down in trembling beads. the house creaks once, almost thoughtfully, like it knows what’s coming too.

you should text him.

your thumbs hover over the keyboard, halfway through the thought:

hey, are you still at the—

the front door slams open.

you flinch, eyes darting up just as the wind howls into the hallway—followed by him.

he fills the doorway in one heaving, rain-slicked breath. drenched. dark slacks soaked through and clinging to his legs, a dress shirt—light gray, maybe white originally—gone nearly translucent across his chest and arms. the buttons are strained from the way the fabric's sticking to him, plastered over broad shoulders and the hint of a white undershirt that’s not doing its job anymore. his tie’s long gone. the sleeves are still rolled up to his elbows, and water drips steadily from his cuffs, down the backs of his hands, onto the floor.

and his hair.

curling in wet tufts over his forehead, frizzing at the temples, flattened down at the crown like it lost a fight with the sky.

you just stand there, frozen halfway between texting and forgetting how to breathe.

he looks up. eyes catching yours.

“it’s bad out there,” he says, voice roughened from the cold air. “gonna get worse.”

you blink at him. “you—what are you—?”

“boss let us go early,” he says, tugging the door shut behind him with a solid thunk. “didn’t want anyone getting stuck on the freeway. told me to get home safe. so…”

he looks around the room, then back at you.

“i came home.”

there’s a beat of silence. you can hear the rain pelting the roof now, harder than before. the lights flicker once. then settle.

you’re still looking at him.

he notices.

“what?” he asks, head tilting, already reaching up to undo the top button of his soaked shirt. “you’re staring.”

you are.

god, you are. because he looks like a man pulled from a cologne commercial—or an emergency fireman calendar. only real, and in your living room, and peeling soaked fabric off his chest like it’s nothing. his fingers work through the buttons slowly, half-numb with cold. the wet shirt clings to his back as he shrugs it off, revealing the soft stretch of his undershirt beneath—equally drenched, equally see-through.

you make a noise. it escapes before you can stop it.

his eyebrows lift.

“i wasn’t expecting you,” you mutter, which isn't even an answer. you turn toward the hallway, pretending to be very busy with nothing. “i’ll get you a dry towel—maybe something to change into—”

but his voice stops you in the doorway.

“hey.”

you turn back.

and there he is. bare arms crossed loosely, undershirt hugging him like a second skin, dark hair dripping water onto the hollow of his collarbone. his expression is soft now, warmer than the room deserves, even with the heater running.

“i missed you,” he says simply.

you swallow.

“yeah,” you whisper. “me too.”

you mean it in ways you haven’t said out loud. in every quiet morning you woke up alone. in every night you reached out for him out of habit and found only your own hand on the sheets. in the half-drunk mugs of coffee gone cold while you waited for a call, for a message, for a second of his voice in your day.

he doesn’t say anything back—not right away. but you can feel the words pressed tight behind his ribs. the ones he’s always so bad at shaping with his mouth and so good at spelling out with the curve of his palms, the press of his chest, the steady weight of his presence.

he uncrosses his arms. and suddenly, he's moving.

you don’t expect how quickly he crosses the space between you—how his hands rise, not rough or urgent, but with the kind of intention that comes from weeks of holding back. his fingers skim your arms, pausing as if to ask, and when you don’t move, he closes them around your waist. pulls you in.

the heat of him hits you all at once. damp skin, chilled breath, the faint smell of clean rain and laundry soap and him. your hands hover, suspended, then land gently on his chest. you feel his heart beating beneath his undershirt—steady and real and here.

“i hate it when we do this,” you murmur, voice nearly lost in the space between your lips and his throat. “when everything pulls us in different directions.”

“i know,” he says, quiet and rough. “it’s been killing me.”

you tilt your head up. he’s already looking down at you. his eyes are darker than usual, but soft. focused. his gaze drops to your mouth for the briefest second, then returns to your eyes like it never left.

you don’t mean to lean in.

you just do.

so does he.

and when your mouths meet, it’s nothing like the rushed hellos you’ve exchanged at airports, the distracted goodnights between late meetings and early alarms. this one is slow. intentional. it tastes like missing someone. like relief. like every touch he wanted to give you but had to store up instead.

his hands slide up your back, warm against the curve of your spine. yours rise to his neck, fingers slipping into rain-damp hair.

when he breaks the kiss, it’s only to rest his forehead against yours again. you both breathe like the air just got easier to take in.

“i missed this,” he says.

you nod. press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“go get warm...dry yourself off, i mean,” you whisper. “and then we can do whatever we want.”

he doesn’t argue. presses a kiss to your forehead before turning towards the stairs.

✧✧✧

the rain is louder now.

a low, steady percussion against the roof and windows, like the storm’s trying to rock the whole house into sleep. but in the kitchen, it’s warm. lived-in. the air smells faintly like the spiced tea you forgot to finish and the hint of lemon dish soap clinging to your fingertips.

you’ve got two pans out on the stove already. olive oil. garlic. a bundle of thyme you’re not even sure you’ll use. your hands move on instinct—grabbing the usual: pasta, a jar of red sauce, the same vegetables you always roast when it’s late and comfort’s more important than creativity.

you just haven’t had the space to think about cooking something new. not when every day felt like a countdown. not when dinners were leftovers and messages exchanged mid-meeting.

you reach up to grab the cutting board when you hear footsteps behind you. slow. barefoot. a little heavier than usual—like he’s taking his time with each one, grounding himself in the sound of home.

and then his arms are around you.

not rushed. not teasing. just there.

warm hands slide beneath your arms and rest on your waist, his hoodie soft against your back. you can feel the curve of his chin settle gently against your shoulder, the damp tips of his curls brushing your temple. he smells like clean cotton and your detergent.

you go still.

“thought i told you to get warm,” you murmur.

“i am warm,” he says, voice low and sleep-soft in your ear. “now that i'm next to you.”

your eyes flutter shut.

for a moment, neither of you moves.

then he hums, glancing at the counter. “you makin’ the same thing again?”

you peek back at him. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“it’s not,” he says. “but it’s not a usual day, is it?”

you raise a brow. “no?”

“it’s storming.” he sways you gently in his hold. “we’re both off work. power’s still on. you kissed me and it was more than 2 seconds...”

you blush.

he leans in a little closer. “so let’s do something new.”

you glance at the open pantry. the half-chopped onion. the already-oiled pan.

he squeezes your waist.

“c’mon,” he murmurs. “let’s wing it. pick something we’ve never made before. we’ve got all night.”

he kisses your temple before stepping away.

you miss his warmth the second he’s gone, but you can still hear him padding across the kitchen, opening drawers like he’s looking for treasure.

you turn just as he pulls out a small, battered tin from the bottom drawer—the one you always forget is there. it clinks as he opens it, revealing a tangle of old measuring spoons, a couple rubber bands, and a stack of faded index cards, curled slightly with age.

“oh my god,” you breathe. “where did you even find those?”

“back corner. buried under five years of takeout menus.” he props the tin on the counter and rifles through the cards, squinting at the labels. “ooh,” he says, tugging one free, “this one’s got grease stains. that’s how you know it’s good.”

you glance over as he holds it up between two fingers like a playing card.

savory pockets <3 — freezer-friendly! me and g-ma's favorite “always good for storms and sundays — love, mom”

your chest warms a little at the handwriting—familiar and looping, smudged in places from age or spills. the bottom corner is warped, and the middle’s hard to read. a few ingredients are legible, though:

dough (easy)

??? (cheese???)

1 small onion

leftover meat, shredded or ???

??? spice blend (you know the one)

brush w/ ??? before baking!!

you snort. “very specific.”

“she said ‘you know the one’ like it was a password,” schlatt says, already moving toward the fridge. “bet we can figure it out.”

“i don’t think i’ve ever made a hand pie in my life.”

“neither have i. but listen—worst case, it’s still flaky bread stuffed with hot stuff. i don’t see a downside.”

without another word, he pulls open the fridge.

you join him, shoulder to shoulder, eyes combing through the shelves. a half-used rotisserie chicken. one sad zucchini. shredded cheddar. cream cheese. a leftover container of roasted potatoes. half an onion. leftover marinated mushrooms. dijon mustard. a bag of frozen spinach. garlic. olives. a mystery jar labeled just ‘darren’s salsa (hot)’ in black sharpie.

you both stare at it.

“no,” you say.

“but what if—”

“no.”

"who's darren?"

"i thought you knew."

schlatt squints at the label. “no idea. maybe some weirdo who's been squatting in our house without us knowing?”

“great. i’ll let the authorities know.”

he chuckles and sets the salsa way off to the side. your unofficial absolutely not pile. beside it goes the olives (“too salty”), the dijon (“you’re not allowed to put that in things anymore”), and the mystery yogurt container neither of you saw at a first glance, labeled in a faded sharpie scrawl: “science project—do not eat.”

eventually, you cobble together a few combinations that could work:

chicken, spinach, garlic, cream cheese

mushroom, potato, cheddar

zucchini, onion, and a weird spice blend you hadn't yet thrown away, but nicknamed "ranch-esque".

and of course—one sweet one with half an overripe apple, cinnamon, sugar, oreo (??) and a spoonful of peach jam that schlatt insists “counts as dessert” if you bake it and eat it with vanilla ice cream.

you’ve both got flour on your forearms. on your shirts. on the side of your nose, apparently, if the way he keeps glancing at you and smiling means anything.

“okay,” you say, pressing the rim of a drinking glass into the dough to make circles. “we’ve got ten rounds. that’s five each.”

"i don't think numbers matter here when i know you're only going to eat three if these turn out delicious."

"nuh-uh, if these are delicious, i'm having all five of mine." you roll your eyes, but your smile’s already too wide. you pass him a small bowl of water to seal the edges, and he dips his finger in, tracing it slowly around the edge of one of the dough circles before plopping a too-large spoonful of filling in the center.

“that’s gonna explode,” you warn.

“nah. i’m the king of careful folding.”

“that’s what you said before the stuffed pepper incident.”

“low blow.”

you work in quiet rhythm for a few minutes—folding, pressing, crimping. his fingers are sure but clumsy, the way they always are when he’s pretending he knows what he’s doing. at some point, he leans over to steal a bite of the potato mix off your spoon, but misjudges the distance and ends up with a smear of cheddar across his cheek.

you try not to laugh. you fail miserably.

“what?” he asks, deadpan.

“you’ve got something—” you gesture vaguely toward his face.

“where?”

you wipe it off with your thumb. he catches your wrist.

you freeze.

he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move—just holds your wrist gently, his fingers curling just barely over your pulse. your breath stutters.

he leans in, slow.

“this is stupid,” he murmurs. “we’re making tiny pies.”

“you’re the one who wanted to.”

“i just wanted to do something with you.”

your lips part.

“everything’s been so fast,” he says, voice low now, close enough you can feel it. “and i—i missed this. us. doing nothing. messy counters. bad measurements. you laughing at me.”

“i’m not laughing,” you whisper.

“you are. but i like it.”

and then he kisses you again.

it’s softer than the one in the hallway. slower. covered in flour and something sweet. his hand still holds your wrist like it’s something precious, and your other finds the hem of his hoodie, curling there. you lean into him. breathe him in.

he pulls back just enough to press his forehead to yours.

“we’re probably gonna end up burning the pies,” you murmur.

“mm. if i steal your attention away from them long enough...we can count on it.”

✧✧✧

the cleanup starts easy. quiet.

he’s rinsing the cutting board, you’re scraping flour into the sink, the two of you moving around each other like you’ve done it a hundred times. your sleeves are pushed up, the hem of his hoodie’s dusted white, and your hands are just barely pink from the heat of the water.

you glance at him once—just once—and catch him watching you.

“what?” you ask, reaching for the sponge.

he doesn’t answer. just shifts a little closer, towel draped over his shoulder, hands casually braced on the edge of the counter.

you keep wiping the surface, ignoring the way he’s clearly up to something. “don’t even think about throwing that towel at me.”

“i wasn’t gonna.”

“you were.”

“i wasn’t.” he grins. “promise.”

you narrow your eyes. turn back to the counter.

and that’s when the music starts.

faint at first, filtering through the bluetooth speaker like a ghost in the walls. a soft swell of brass. familiar. slow. steady.

and now... the end is near...

you freeze.

“…you put on "my way"?”

“hey. you said it was your comfort song.”

you turn, sponge still in hand. “we’re in the middle of cleaning.”

“are we?” he says, stepping closer.

“yes. we are.”

he reaches for the sponge. you hold it out of reach.

“i will wipe this on you,” you warn.

“do it,” he dares, and his grin is downright smug. “won’t change the fact that i’m asking you to dance.”

you blink.

“you’re not serious.”

he takes a step forward. not touching yet, just inviting.

“c’mon,” he says, voice low. “just one dance. you can finish the counter after.”

you hesitate. your hand is still full of sponge. there’s still flour on the stove.

but then he offers his hand. a little dramatic, a little crooked. his eyes are soft and steady and just waiting.

you sigh.

“…you’re lucky i like you.”

“yeah,” he says. “i know.”

you drop the sponge into the sink. wipe your hands on the dish towel.

and take his hand.

he pulls you in gently—hands finding your waist, thumbs brushing over the fabric of your shirt. you settle your arms around his neck, and your cheek finds his shoulder like it’s been waiting for it.

i planned each charted course... each careful step, along the byway...

the kitchen sways around you. the world shrinks down to this: the slow drag of his fingers up your spine, the way he hums along without realizing it, the warmth of his breath against your temple.

the storm taps gently at the windows.

and somewhere behind you, the oven ticks quietly on.

his hands settle more firmly at your back. one drifts up—fingertips brushing the curve of your shoulder like he’s memorizing it again.

you close your eyes. let him lead you in the slowest, simplest sway. there’s no beat to hit. no steps to follow. just the sound of his breath syncing with yours, the familiar creak of the floor beneath your feet.

yes, there were times, i’m sure you knew when i bit off more than i could chew...

you feel the rumble of his voice before you realize he’s singing along.

not loudly. not like he’s trying to perform. just soft. casual. almost absentminded, like the words have always lived somewhere in his chest, and being here—with you—is the only thing that lets them out.

your throat tightens.

he gives you a little spin—nothing fancy. just enough to make your hair drift, your heart flip. you land back in his arms a beat later, laughing quietly, forehead against his chest.

and then his voice is right near your ear again.

“i hate it,” he says, barely above a whisper.

you blink. “what?”

“this,” he murmurs. “us being apart all the time. work. flights. scheduling dinner like it’s a business meeting.” he breathes in. lets it out slow. “i feel like i blink and you’re gone again.”

your fingers tighten slightly at his back.

“i know,” you whisper. “it’s been... hard.”

“i miss things. stupid things. you in the kitchen. you singing while you fold laundry. that little noise you make when your tea’s too hot.”

“i don’t make a noise.”

he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “you do. it’s like a little ‘huhhh’ noise. like a surprised cat.”

you laugh, even though your eyes are misting.

“i don’t want to keep missing it,” he says, quieter now. “i don’t want us to get used to missing each other.”

you reach up. press your hand against his jaw, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone.

“i’m not going anywhere,” you say.

“i know,” he murmurs. “me neither. i just... i want you to know that i don’t take any of this for granted. you for granted. even if i’m tired. or distracted. or not always home when i should be.”

you feel it settle between you. the heaviness of honesty, yes—but also something warm. something whole.

the music slows.

...and did it my way...

he shifts his grip.

and dips you.

it’s slow. gentle. dramatic only in how careful he is with it. his hand cradles your back like you’re made of something precious. his other steadies yours. and his eyes never leave yours.

when he pulls you upright again, he doesn’t let go.

he just leans in.

and kisses you—slow, steady, like he means to hold you there until the next storm passes.

when you break apart, his forehead rests against yours again.

you whisper:

“next time you miss me like that…”

“yeah?”

“call me. come home. put on music and ruin the kitchen. let's use some of those sick days i know you never use.”

he smiles.

“i guess i have been sick. homesick. lovesick.”

"me too."

“so…” he murmurs.

but he doesn’t get to finish.

because the oven dings.

sharp and sudden, slicing through the warmth like a hotel wake-up call. the two of you freeze for a beat—still in each other’s arms, still wrapped in sinatra’s final hum, still blinking through the haze of what that moment just was.

then—

apple bottom jeans... boots with the furrrr...

you snort.

“no,” you whisper, already laughing.

“i didn’t—i didn’t pick this!” he protests as t-pain and flo rida proceed to violently ruin the vibe.

“i think your playlist just gave up.”

“or it’s trying to humble us.”

you’re still grinning as you turn back to the oven, swiping at your eyes.

“they’re probably burnt,” you say, grabbing the oven mitts.

“they’re probably perfect.”

“perfectly burnt.”

you squat down, open the door, and immediately get hit with a wave of buttery, golden heat. the smell is unbelievable—cheese, garlic, herbs, and whatever strange magic you both summoned earlier.

but as you reach for the tray—arms shaking slightly from laughter, heart still buzzing—you realize something very important:

“oh my god,” you wheeze. “i’m too weak. i’m literally too giggly to lift this.”

you try. you fail. the tray wobbles.

“schlatt,” you gasp, panic-laughing. “i’m gonna drop them—please—”

he’s already behind you. one hand covers yours on the mitt, steadying it. the other slides beneath the tray, guiding it out with a little hiss as the heat blasts his face.

“i got you, i got you,” he mutters, voice low and smiling.

“you almost let the dessert pie die.”

“i would never let that oreo and peach monstrosity be destroyed on my watch.”

together, you lift it out and set it safely on the stove. the crusts are a little uneven, some fillings have burst at the seams, and the sweet one is aggressively caramelized—but none of it matters. they’re yours. and they smell like comfort.

you peel off the mitts and lean back into him, your arms wrapping around his middle.

“i love you,” you murmur into his chest.

he rests his chin on your head. breathes you in.

“i love you more,” he says.

✧✧✧

you eat curled into the couch. blanket over both your legs, knees bumping, storm still rattling softly at the windows like it wants to be let in. you each balance a small plate—two pies apiece, cut open and steaming, flaky and golden and perfect in their own lopsided way.

“okay,” you say around a bite of the mushroom-potato one, “this is stupid good.”

“i told you,” he says, already three bites deep into the chicken-spinach one. “we’re culinary geniuses. we should open a restaurant. call it leftovers by liars. and then just order a bunch of takeout from other places and sell it to people full price.”

you grin, elbowing him gently.

he holds up the dessert one next, sliced messily in half—the jam has oozed out in dramatic fashion, bubbling along the bottom. “you wanna split the disaster pie?”

“only if you let me have the oreo half.”

he frowns. “i made the oreo half.”

“and i let you put that in there.”

“fine,” he grumbles, handing it over. “but next time...”

you lean into him, shoulder against his. “okay, okay, grumpy...who knew you were such a sucker for artificial food?”

"you. you do. and yet..."

you eat it, blinking at him. it’s horrible. it’s delicious. like if oreo attempted to make an apple and peach cream, but kept their flavor of cookie. almost good.

you sit in silence for a little while after that—not awkward, not even tired. just full. full of food, of warmth, of each other.

“…i wasn’t kidding earlier,” he says. “about being lovesick.”

you glance up.

he’s looking down at the crust in his hand like he doesn’t know how to explain it, how to be anything other than joking or loud or trying to make you laugh. but now? now he just looks… earnest.

“i think i got used to being tired,” he says. “to filling the space with noise. but it’s not just tired. it’s—” he swallows. “—it’s missing you. even when i’m in the middle of something. even when i’ve got a thousand tabs open in my head. i still want to be here. with you.”

you set your pie down.

“i feel it too,” you say. “sometimes it hits out of nowhere. i’ll be brushing my teeth or sitting in a meeting and it’s just—god, i wish you were home. i wish i didn’t have to miss you this much to realize how much i need this.”

he nods, once. like that hurt a little to hear, but only because it’s true.

then his arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into him like it’s instinct. like his body knows how to keep you close, even when his words falter.

“we’re not built for long distance,” he murmurs into your hair.

“we’re not even long distance.”

“exactly.”

you let out a soft laugh, breath catching a little at the edges. the blanket slips as you shift, tucking into his side, your legs over his lap now, plates forgotten on the coffee table.

his hand drifts along your back, steady. like he’s tracing the outline of this moment, memorizing it. not wanting it to disappear the second the real world starts calling again.

“let’s make this the thing we protect,” you say quietly. “not just each other—but this.”

he hums in agreement. kisses the crown of your head.

“deal,” he says. “every sick day. every long weekend. every excuse to come home and smell butter and thyme and whatever monstrosity we create next.”

“and if it’s awful?”

“we eat it anyway. like the dessert pie. in quiet, stubborn denial.”

you smile.

outside, the storm begins to lose steam—wind softening to a whisper, rain ticking lightly at the windows like a polite goodbye.

you feel it then. not just safety. not just love.

return.

the sense that something has come full circle, and landed right where it was meant to. in his arms. on this couch. in a house that now smells like melted cheese, burnt sugar, and a little bit of rain.

you close your eyes.

and let the day end slow.

[aziraphales-library]

Hi there!

I am wondering if you have any fic recommendations based on movies? I read on based on the movie Overboard and was quite entertained, wondering if you know of any more?

Thanks so much for all the dedication! ❤️

Hello! There are loads of fics based on films. Your best bet is searching for whichever film you'd like an AU of. I'd recommend checking out the Do It With Style Silver Screen Bang collection on AO3. We also have a #crossover tag that has loads of film and TV fics. We have She Loves Me/You've Got Mail AUs here, Indiana Jones fics here, and horror film fics here, to link to but a few we have on the blog.

Sleepless in Swansea by anxilly, DreamsOfAlexandria (T)

Aziraphale Fell had just moved back to Wales with his kid Eric and was still coming to terms with the loss of his wife. Seeing how lonely their dad was, Eric took matters into their own hand. On a car ride in Scotland, Anthony J. Crowley listened to a random radio show. He had no idea that his life would change forever when a kid called in to find a new partner for their dad. An ineffable Sleepless in Seattle-AU.

It's About Wanting and Accepting by Emi_Hotaru, saesomewoo (T)

“Crowley thinks that the funny thing about grief is that it occurs both in loss and in gain. There is a kind of grief one can only feel when you gain something you've never had before. In the way you feel a dawning realization that you've missed so much of the experience others have all their lives. Now that he has it, he doesn't know how to hold it in his tiny, trembling hands. How does one make themselves a better container for all the good things being thrown their way?” Crowley gets pulled into a tornado of a family. Between navigating his newfound role at the center of this chaotic bunch and finding himself falling into trouble after trouble, he realizes that falling in love with the wrong person might have been the best mistake of his life yet.

it had to be you by curtaincall (M)

“What I’m saying,” said Aziraphale, looking fixedly ahead, “and please don’t take this as a personal insult in any way, is that an angel and a demon can’t be friends.” “Why not?” “Because,” said Aziraphale, firmly. “It’s against the order of things. You’re supposed to tempt. I’m supposed to thwart. We can’t go being friends.” * A canon-divergent AU inspired by When Harry Met Sally.

Mission: Ineffable by Andromeda4004 (M)

The Ineffable Mission Force is a top secret international network which will stop at nothing to make sure everything goes according to the Plan. Aziraphale Fell is a highly trained and trusted agent, deployed on a routine mission in Prague, until a betrayal results in him being branded a traitor and disavowed. Now, he must prove his innocence and track down the real double-agent with the help of an intriguing arms dealer, and a team assembled from other rejected agents. But who the hell can he trust when he’s playing both sides?

For His Eyes Only by AFrenchFanWriter (M)

Anthony J. Crowley has been an MI6 spy for 10 years, completing successful mission after successful mission under the guidance of his quartermaster, Aziraphale Fell. But this life is starting to take its toll on him as he is getting older; and when, one day, his past comes back to haunt him, Crowley realizes that it might be time for him to hang up his gun and face all the things he has left unaddressed… (Yep, it is basically a James Bond/Q AU!)

The Parent Trap by illustrious_slimeman, nonbinarysharks (T)

Adam and Warlock are identical twins, separated as infants and each raised by one of their adoptive fathers. When a chance meeting at a summer camp brings them together again, they hatch a plan to get their helpless parents back together. In the process, they learn more about themselves, each other, and their parents' history than they ever imagined. --- This is based off of Melonsharks' Parent Trap AU and is a fairly faithful adaptation of the 1998 Lindsay Lohan version of the film but with a few changes here and there, a whole lot of new scenes, and accompanying illustrations courtesy of Shark! The fic is pretty much fully written at this point and will be updating every Saturday

And because you didn't tell use which one you read, I know of a couple of Overboard fics...

Going Overboard by Fyre (T)

When you do a job, you expect to get paid. What you don't expect is for things to go overboard. Ineffable Overboard AU

Overboard by Joanofart (E)

Based on the 1980's romcom Overboard, Crowley is a carpenter who has a not-so-great first encounter with the rich and snobby Aziraphale Archer. After Aziraphale falls off of his yacht and loses his memories, Crowley comes up with an epic plan for payback. He will trick Aziraphale into believing he is his husband and the father of four rambunctious children. Can Crowley stick to his plan and give Aziraphale the payback he deserves? Or, will he find out that Aziraphale is much more than he first appeared to be?

- Mod D

[diz-eaze]

top 7 genshin yans who falls for your ragebait, in no particular order:

diluc. it's so easy to ragebait diluc it's actually kind of sad. and his rage isn't even the "🤬🤬🤬🤬" type, it's more of the " 😠😠😠" type. yes, there's a difference !! and after he falls for the bait he can't help but mope around his mansion, too. like damn... he really fell for that, huh. tries to promise himself that he'll spot your ragebait from a mile away next time, but the cycle repeats itself 🥀🥀 he's kind of your only source of joy in this excruciating mansion, so plus point for him...

wanderer. TRIES to tell everyone and himself that he would NEVER fall for ragebait so obvious, yet the way he seethes at your ragebait says otherwise :/. everyone in the akademiya knows it'll be a wonderfal day when they see that they're in a class that contains both you AND him. you always ask the stupidest questions during lectures, and he'd seethe at his stupid corner desk until he just blows up and answers the obvious questions for you. harrumphs in glee at his victory until it dawns on him that he just sunk his teeth on the cheese trap.

childe. even you don't know if he falls for your ragebait intentionally or unintentionally. like is he just entertaining your ragebait for the love of the game, or is he just born stupid? questions that will keep you up at night, you fear. either way, he never actually gets comically angry since his rage just tends to simmer until his scary, blue eyes pin you down with his stare and tell you to stop. before going back to acting like nothing happened? 0/10 ragebait victim, would not recommend.

mona. it's so corny of you to do so, but insinuating that she's broke definitely gets her going. you act dumb afterwards, so she starts acting all "erm 🤓☝️☝️☝️" as she pulls out her credentials and past steambird contributions. besides !! remind her again who exactly pays for your food and clothes? 🤨🤨🤨 exactly. never doubt the great astromancer mona megistus ever again.

citlali. she was born to fall for ragebait :( have you SEEN her crashout in the archon quest? that's an everyday occurence in the citlali household with how often you ragebait her. you tell her that her ritual was done incorrectly, and you'll be stuck in an hour-long lecture as to why she's right and you're wrong - as you can see, she already depicted herself as the chad and you as the soyjak.

xiao. you start blatantly warping around liyue's history and discrediting the yaksha's contributions, and while xiao is listening in on the balcony, he'll intervene when it gets to a point that he can't stand. he'll have this furrow in his brows as he tells you outright that you're wrong. but keep insisting that you're right, maybe even pull out a source that's so clearly fabricated, and you'll really get on his nerves. you'll know he was really at his wits end when he teleports away to cool his mind, lol.

xianyun. she's literally the facebook mom of teyvat. when does she NOT get ragebaited? you tell her upfront that the fontainian who stole her mechanism did it 100 times better, and she'll genuinely believe you with no proof before proceeding to try and convince you that she's better. oh, that cooking mechanism she did for lantern rite a few years back? you heard it's out of style these days :/ has she not been keeping up with the times? ah, but from how old she is, you suppose that it's expected of her (cue xianyun blowing up in the background).

[alien-girl-21]

.

[rhythmmortis]

kh1 is the best kh game because it lets you go Creature Mode

[cryngemania]

I think they're silly guys :) (I needed to make sure that this laptop wouldn't implode with a bigger canvas size lmao) Background for Ren was made by the lovely @martynsimp69 for a horror themed MC map you guys should go check it out!

[alan-without-the-an]

im back from camp

[stiltonbasket]

3 for the ao3 wrapped please 💜

The work I'm most proud of is my Bingqiu baby fic, may she be a light to you in dark places (when all other lights go out). (Podfic by @kickit-kick here.)

I started brainstorming an SV canon divergence fic with Luo Binghe as movie!Arwen from LOTR in February or March--but since I already had several MDZS projects in progress, I decided to shelve the LOTR AU and come back to it after completing one of my existing WIPs.

In April, I realized that I could use the Arwen!Binghe plot to fill a prompt for the SV Gotcha, so I got to work and managed to complete the fic in about two months. I'm very happy with how the story turned out, but finishing it within nine-ish weeks was a very welcome plus!

However, none of this would have been possible without my wonderful illustrator, @habunnn. A great deal of the fic came about thanks to their art; I wrote the passage about Tianlang-jun biting baby Hengxia to soothe her while she was teething because Habun drew a cute sketch of TLJ biting Hengxia's cheek, and the final chapter (where Hengxia celebrates her third birthday) was written because of Habun's illustration of Bingqiu and Hengxia cuddling outside the bamboo house after her birthday party. The fic was originally supposed to end with Hengxia's birth: but since we had art of toddler Hengxia, I had to write an extra chapter to go with it!

[callmemerry00]

I just think that his suspenders and stupid mop hair are neat

[justablah56]

do you guys ever think about when it's dark at night . and I close my eyes . I can see you there . only one who doesn't hate me . I think I dreamed it all . got your drawing on the wall . I just feel so calm . held by your aaaaarms . why are you so far . awaaaaaaay .

[mandalora]

Stolen from amidonexor, no one asked me either

[my-dark-happy-place]

Life of the Spider (Draft) by Halsey is genuinely the saddest song I have ever heard and 90% of all music I listen to is sad.

I fully get why Halsey didn't manage to fully record it in the studio and consequently why it's on the album as a draft.

[thatone-churro]

chat i am NOT appreciating the stares i got from walking across campus to cvs in my hoodie and sweatpants as if we didn’t just sit through ANOTHER hurricane like chill man i didn’t sleep well let me get my monster to finish my logic homework in peace 😭

[merthurians-prat-and-idiot]

I'm reading episode codas for 7x04/7x05 spec and all the bi buck goodness & I keep thinking "aw this is brilliant I wish they would do this on the show!" And then I suddenly remember- "oh they did, they actually did, its canon- he's bi!"

Like it keeps hitting me that it actually happened & I keep finding myself grinning like an idiot every time I think about it.

Every so often - "hey, guess what- remember- Buck is bisexual! Its real!"