#Between dishwashing and ironing

[pouillumoidanslatoufasse]

Sound advice?

When you want to iron your clothes, don't let them pile up.

That's how you end up with a 6+ ironing session

[thebibliosphere]

It hasn’t happened for a while but every so often a doctor will ask me why I think I have POTS/dysautonomia because cardiology still won’t officially diagnose it and I just gesture at my heart rate variability like…

ID: a screenshot from a fitness device that tracks heart beat. The results show that over the last six months heart rate has ranged from 40bpm to 180. Further analysis estimates the resting heart rate to range from 67-78bpm with a walking average of 104-131bpm. Work out is estimated to range between 66-180bpm with a sleep average of 40-152bpm.

I failed the shitty tilt table test—that was only performed once—by the skin of my teeth (diagnosis requires heart rate variability of 30 beats during a tilt table test, my heart rate went up by 29 🫠) but, y’know. Clearly I just need to exercise more, eat right, etc

Also that 153bpm during sleep is what a POTS episode/migraine attack looks like when I’m asleep. Fun times. Also that 180bpm from “working out” is what happens when I have to use the stairs to do laundry lmao.

Just dysautonomia things ✌️

It’ll be interesting to see if iron infusions make a difference. It sure would be nice to be able to bend down and load the dishwasher without tasting blood.

[nininikki]

divorced-ish — n. kento

content warnings: ex-husband!nanami, delusional!nanami (he’s cute tho)

author’s note: sigh i need him

ex-husband!nanami who just couldn’t stay away from you if he tried

ex-husband!nanami who you’d originally separated from on account of his work seeming to hold more priority over you, and then your newborn daughter.

ex-husband!nanami who still keeps a photo of you and the baby on his desk at his job (which, ironically, was the thing that ultimately led to his marriage failing). when asked by his nosey secretary why he still kept the photo, he only responded, “it’s my family. why wouldn’t i?”

ex-husband!nanami who had yet to actually finalize the divorce. but really, it wasn’t his fault. he just hadn’t gotten around to sending the papers over (or having them printed up at all), what with all those crazy shifts at work. oh, well, it didn’t matter. he would do it at some point.

ex-husband!nanami who had left you virtually everything in the not-so-finalized-divorce. the four bedroom, four bathroom house, your diamond 6 carat engagement ring, your wedding china, the aston martin db9 he had gifted you for your birthday, the park avenue apartment, the country house in monaco—all of it.

ex-husband!nanami who you had never been able to turn down whenever he stayed over just a little later after dropping the baby back off with you. the two of you would sit on the couch and catch up over a glass of wine. then one glass turned to two, then two to three. and for a minute it would almost feel as if you were still married.

nanami never ended up leaving until the late hours of the night. by which point you began to wonder where he’d gotten all the free time he couldn’t seem to find when you were actually married.

ex-husband!nanami who internally scoffed whenever you mentioned going on a date with another man.

“do you think you could watch her on saturday? i’ve got a date i really don’t wanna miss.” you’d asked at the tail end of an already too long (thirty minute) phone call.

nanami breathed a recognizable, pensive sigh on the other end, chewing through what he’d earlier told you was tempura, but considering how long it was taking him to answer, it may as well have been your nerves.

“you know i will, but, uh,” you heard him swallow. “a date?”

although your ex-husband didn’t exactly sound like he was joking, you couldn’t help the giggle that vibrated through your body. glancing at the clock on your nightstand that read eight-thirty and the baby sleeping soundly in the crib next to your bed, you propped the house phone between your ear and shoulder. what was the harm in killing another thirty minutes?

“yes, kento, a date. his name is scott. he’s an art dealer. i think you’d like him.”

“does scott know you’re still married?”

“separated,” you corrected him. “and no, he doesn’t. do you tell every woman who asks you out that you’re married?”

nanami hesitated for a second before answering, “yes, i do.”

ex-husband!nanami who came to your house with flowers and a store bought pumpkin pie for thanksgiving. more than you’d like to admit, you liked having him around for the holidays. he was so good with the baby, and so attentive to everything else. cleaning up all the leftovers and stray baby toys as the night came to an end.

it was nearing ten o’clock when he had successfully put the baby to sleep, and then came down to help you tidy up the downstairs. “y’know you didn’t have to buy a pie, right?” you told him after you’d discovered it hidden amongst the array of leftover pots and aluminum pans. “i know it’s your favorite. i’d have made you some.”

nanami brought his task at hand (loading the dishwasher) to a stiff halt and joined you at the island countertop. “but hey,” you added, tearing the lid off the pie. “we could see if it’s as good as the real thing.”

your ex-husband, usually the most well-spoken man you knew, could only stiffly nod in your direction while you retrieved a pair of shiny silver forks, still in the drawer they’d always been in. “and i got some whipped cream if you want.” you added as you gave him a fork, now taken aback by his sudden lack of speech. seriously, he hadn’t spoken this little since the year leading up to your separation.

what you didn’t know was that nanami couldn’t speak if he wanted to. he needed this. the three of you hadn’t had a real holiday together since last halloween, and even that was admittedly very bleak. “i miss you,” nanami blurted.

and he did. he missed your desserts for every holiday—savory pumpkin pie for thanksgiving, sweet apple pie for christmas, strawberry eclairs for valentine’s day. he missed opening his eyes every morning to the sight of your face smushed into a pillow, or a bit of drool gathering at the corner of your mouth. he missed coming home from work to the sight of you and the baby sound asleep on the couch. he missed being your husband, and even more knowing you were his wife.

ex-husband!nanami who spent the night fucking his ex-wife into the couch as though they were still married. wrapping you in his strong arms, while murmuring promises of change and betterment. “i’ll never go to work again, swear,” he said, shuddering between deep thrusts. “please just take me back, baby.”

[noyzinerd]

Derek's Journey Into House Husbandry

Listen, Derek's inheritance was $117 million, same as Peter's. Derek's childhood was spent in a multimillion dollar mansion, with his multimillion dollar family, and he's had an affinity for expensive muscle cars. Then, all the places he lived in after the fire were decrepit safety hazards.

What I'm saying is this boy was a pampered little rich kid for most of his life before living as a hobo for the rest of it.

I like to think that for the first few months of Stiles and Derek living together, Stiles learns very quickly that Derek isn't exactly well-acquainted with "middle-class living".

Just imagine:

When Stiles gets home from work, he asks if Derek could start boiling two cups of water so that Stiles can make rice for dinner after he takes a shower. To which, Derek says "Um...sure."

However, once Stiles finishes and comes to the kitchen, he's met with this:

So, okay, that's on Stiles. Sure, he noticed Derek ordered food a lot and ate out constantly, but it had never occurred to him that he was literally living on takeout because he could afford to. The only reason he wasn't right now was because Stiles had cracked down on takeout (Stiles still had to stay relatively healthy for his job, afterall).

Unfortunately for Stiles, this isn't a one off.

When it's time to tidy up the place a little bit, Stiles tells Derek that he'll vacuum the carpet if Derek will sweep the hardwood.

Unbeknownst to Stiles, Derek hasn't ever needed to sweep before. So, about a half hour later, Stiles checks in, and Derek is just-

sweeping side-to-side, kicking up dust in the air and just spreading it to different areas of the room like a cartoon character because he doesn't know that you're supposed to use the broom to gather the dust into a centralized area (the dust pan) to be thrown away.

But Stiles doesn't have it in him to find it anything other than endearing. It's hard not to when Derek is so fucking earnest. He wants to be helpful. He wants to know how to take care of a house of his very own. Fortunately, Derek's eager to learn and a very quick study.

He learns that dish soap does NOT go in the dishwasher. He learns about the difference between laundry detergent and fabric softener, about emptying the lint trap, about changing the A/C filter, about ironing, about all the vacuum attachments and how to change the bag.

And every time Derek succeeds a little bit at adulting, Stiles sees this spark of joy and sense of accomplishment that is absolutely adorable.

It's not long before Derek takes to being a house husband like a fish to water. Which, honestly? Suits him. It isn't unusual nowadays to find Derek baking bread and watching telenovelas while Stiles is at work, or comparing cantaloupes at the grocery store in a cable knit cardigan and sweat pants.

Watching Derek do a little fist pump to himself every time he earns gas points on his rewards card at the grocery store makes Stiles want to melt into the floor.

[eatmangoesnekkid]

Crying and hip shaking (powerful when done at the same time) are two of the absolute best medicinal rituals for female body wellness. But you do have to shake your hips ongoingly and incrementally for hours, with breaks in-between until the wee hours of the night. Shake while you iron your child’s clothes. Shake while you make a juice. Shake will you work on your projects. Shake while making love with your lover. Shake privately behind your cubicle at work. Shake while you clean. Shake while unloading the dishwasher. Of course you can’t shake for 8 hours straight but you can shake 10 minutes here or 20 minutes there and it adds us significantly by the end of the day. The other day I incrementally cried while shaking for 5 hours in total over a span of 14 hours and doing so removed stagnation and increased blood and lymph flow to my hips, psoas, buttocks, and sacral creative center, where a female’s natural beauty and radiance emanate from. Shaking and crying (whether singularly or together allows your body to move out pain (emotional, energetically, or physical). My body was looser and more flexible in my class the next day. Shake to 285 hertz binaurals. Shake to nature water sounds. Shake to jazz. Shake to rock. Shake to r n b. Shake to the sound of quiet or honking horns heard in the distance.

Drink lots of water to help you to flush out the toxins being decompressed from your center from crying and shaking. The next day you will wake up looking and feeling more radiant due to the deep clearing from yesterday’s crying and shaking ritual. —India Ame’ye

I will archive this in 48 hours….enjoy!!

[ivysangel]

Honey clings to your fingers, viscous and sticky, stringing every time it touches itself. Lines of liquid gold run down the curves of your hand, streams of goopy liquid pooling in your palm and flowing down your wrist in a few collective lines. You plunge your thumb back into the honey pot, the thick substance clinging to your skin instantly, and you bring your hand back up again, the honey only stagnant for a second before it starts its descent down your arm.

A large hand, strong and veiny, grabs your wrist. An unrelenting grip bringing your hand forth to him. He presses your thumb to his lips, smearing the sweet substance to and fro, to the corners of his mouth and back, leaving translucent liquid behind when he catches your thumb between his teeth, grazing the appendage and scraping it clean. A guttural groan sounds in the back of his throat, and you know that means he likes it.

"'s good, huh?" you watch the way his eyes flutter as he lets the rest dissolve in his mouth, ecstasy written all over his features. An emotion he only exhibits when he's eating good food or fucking you. "Yeah, really good." His voice is hoarse as if the honey absorbed all moisture from his larynx and left him in need of a glass of water, ironic given its effectiveness in soothing sore throats. "Thirsty?" you hand him a cup filled with cucumber water, a palate cleanser. "Real sweet," he says before tipping his head back and downing the drink. "But I liked it. What's next?"

Your eyes peruse the board of half-eaten sweets and treats in front of you, searching for one that was untouched. The beech wood board, previously a nice light beige, is stained a multitude of colors. Splotches of deep reds and purple form puddles where you had put the berries, frosting is streaked across the entirety of the board from the multiple unfinished slices of cake, chocolate chips and sprinkles from cookies lay scattered on both the countertop and floor, spoons and forks that were only partially licked clean can still be found near their designated desserts. Cubes of angel food cake half-dipped in chocolate and tooth-rottingly sweet marshmallow squares sit on napkins, drying out more and more by the second while long-forgotten brownies soak up various fruity jellies and jams, having been discarded with no regard for keeping flavor profiles separate.

It was a nightmare to look at, an even bigger one to clean up, and if anyone else had been the cause of this mess, you wouldn't have even begun to entertain the idea of letting it get this bad, let alone cleaning it up. But it wasn't anyone else, wasn't just some random stranger; it was Jason, and to you, spending weeks curating the perfect Valentine's gift to satiate his sweet tooth was a testament to your love for him. Who cares if you have to break out the good cleaning supplies.

"Hmm," you do one last once over, nothing catching your eye that hadn't already been touched, "I don't think so." unintentionally, you start to clean up, collecting dirty forks and spoons for the dishwasher, stacking empty bowls on top of each other to toss in the sink. "What a shame," he mumbles, appearing beside you seemingly out of thin air and taking the utensils from your hands before setting them down haphazardly right where they started. You look at him with confusion, silently inquiring about his undoing of your work, and you open your mouth to verbally ask but are stopped by the wolfish grin adorning his face and the way he begins to lift the hem of your shirt up. "d'ya think we got anythin' else," he asks, moving in closer, eyes locked on you like a predator with prey. "I'm still hungry."

[thezombieprostitute]

The Arrangement - Part 10

Summary: Jake's done a lot of things to keep his sister, and then his niece, safe from his parent's influence and manipulation. If he wants to keep them safe, he has to marry you.

Warnings: Bad parents, Implied abuse, Implied violence. Let me know if I missed any!

Part 9 -- Part 11

Series Masterlist

As you calm down, Jake waits until you tell him to before he lets you go. He can't imagine how much you might need this so he'll hold you for as long as you want.

You sniffle and shake your head as you gently push away from him. "I'm sorry about that," you splutter.

"No need to apologize," he assures. "It's been a really crazy couple of days. Probably a lot longer than that for you."

"I should get to work on the dishes." You try to move past him but he holds out his arm.

"I said I'd do the dishes," he reminds you. "Not only did you cook breakfast, you cooked a lot more food than you should have. The least I can do is help out with the clean up."

"You had to actually talk to them," you quietly argue. "I just sat and refilled drinks."

"You also really helped me out, reassured me when I was feeling lost," he gently countered. "Please let me do this for you?"

It takes you a minute of internal waffling before you tell him, "okay. And thank you."

As you start tearing up again Jake is quick to ask, "are you okay? What's wrong? Do you need another hug? Are you hurt?"

"I'm just...I'm just not...not used to such kindness," you confess as you wipe the tears away.

"Doing the dishes for you is more than you're used to?" You nod and Jake feels a renewed wave of anger at your family. "Would...would it help if you supervised my cleaning? Make sure I'm not cleaning your cast iron by putting it in the dishwasher?" Your eyes go wide and you gasp, but he's quick to smile and reassure you that he would never do that. "It's one of the few cleaning things I will forever know, if only because it came up in a trivia night one time."

The giggle escapes before you even knew it was forming. You slap your hand over your mouth, embarrassed but Jake's eyes are lit up. Everything in his body language tells you he's not angry or offended at your outburst, but happy about it.

"If you want me to ignore that, I will," he comments. "But I would be happy to acknowledge it!" He looks at you like an excited puppy eager for praise and you can't help but continue giggling from behind your hand. He starts shaking with excitement but he's not saying or doing anything because you haven't said if you want it acknowledged. Unfortunately that's just making your fit more uncontrollable.

You remove your hand and gasp between fits, "it's okay. I'm so sorry. I don't know why I'm laughing this much. I'm sorry."

Jake lightly bounces as he assures you, "it's okay! There's nothing to apologize for! Sometimes a thing just tickles your fancy. It could also be a response to all the stress you've been through. When was the last time you had a really good cry? Or a really good laugh?"

"It has been a long time," you sigh, keeping your head down as you finally get your laughing under control.

"So, would you be willing to supervise me in the kitchen?"

"That sounds nice," you nod.

"And you promise to correct me if I do something wrong? Or before I do something wrong?" You hesitate at that. "I promise I don't want to upset you. I just...we're going to be going to a lot of parties soon. I'll have no idea what I'm doing. I'm going to need your help." You look up at him, eyes a mix of emotions. "I...I get the impression you're not...you don't correct others." You lower your face in shame. "Hey, it's not...I get why. I really do! It's not a judgment, I promise!" Jake's tone becomes a little more frantic, but no less pleading, soft. "And I'm gonna need your help to not make an ass of myself at these parties. That includes correcting me or stopping me before I do something stupid. The kitchen supervision could be a good way to practice that for us?"

"That...that makes sense," you agree. "I promise to try?"

Jake smiles, "thank you so much, Sharky!"

"Sharky?"

"Sorry, I'm used to friends with nicknames," he quickly explains. "And, I figured you...you like sharks so much you literally studied them...I swear it sounded better in my head." His face looks chagrined as he rubs his hand on the back of his head.

"I...I've never really had a nickname before," you tell him. "I kinda did when I was studying, but it was definitely derogatory." Jake's eyes turn sad. "Derogatory regarding my background. No matter how much work I did, I was still called 'Princess' because of my family." You shake your head to dispel the memory. "But 'Sharky' sounds a lot nicer." You give him a soft smile that has Jake's heart fluttering.

As the dishes get loaded into the dishwasher and the others await the required handwashing, you decide to ask Jake about something that's been bothering you.

"Your father," you hesitate, knowing it's a sensitive topic. "He mentioned something about your niece?"

Jake sighs, the smile on his face dropping. "You remember my sister was engaged to Travis?"

"Of course."

"I got her out of it by, essentially, hiding her far away from here. She met someone, fell in love, and they had a daughter." Your eyes widen slightly in surprise. "She's only 8 years old," he continues. "But she's super stubborn, like her mother. Smart, like her father. And she's damn good at soccer, minus some bad calls from a ref."

You smile a little at that. It's very clear he cares a lot for her.

"But my parents found out about her," he continues. "They hinted that they know where she and Sarah live and they flat out told me that, unless I agreed to marry you, to be the obedient son they always wanted, they were going to marry her off to your brother."

You gasp at that. You knew your parents were determined to solidify power and position by combining the families but you didn't think they would go so far! And to your brother, who would be twice her age upon marrying her! Your blood freezes as you think of how badly he'd hurt her.

"Hey, Sharky? You okay?"

Jake's voice breaks through the bad memories, "sorry. I just...I'm happy to help you keep her safe."

"Thank you for that."

Part 9 -- Part 11

Series Masterlist

Tagging: @alicedopey; @ashdoctor; @delicatebarness; @ellethespaceunicorn; @irishhappiness

@jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @lokislady82; @ronearoundblindly; @thiquefunlover63

[octuscle]

How to become the fuck whore

Lawrence was ruined. Really broke. He had lost his job. He had lost his apartment. And the suitcase containing his last belongings had been stolen. Now he stood in the rain on the street and waited for a lightning bolt to strike him. That would have been the best solution. He was now in his late 50s, had never furthered his education, was unathletic. He didn't see that there was any perspective for him.

Just as he was considering whether he should really throw himself off a bridge, a group of obviously drunken partygoers came by. "Dude, you look like shit!" one of the young lads said. "Do you need help?". It didn't matter now, his dignity was already shot to hell too. So Lawrence started crying bitterly and outlined his story. The lads around him were embarrassed at first. But then one started grinning whispering with the others and interrupted Sebastian's lament. "Dude, come join us. One of our roommates is abroad for a semester. You can have his room for a few days."

A few minutes later, Lawrence was sitting in the kitchen of the student housing community. He had taken a jogging suit from the closet of the lad whose room he was staying in. A little tight in the waistband. A little loose at the top. The lad obviously had an athletic build. It did feel a little strange to be an old man sitting among all the young studs. The lads all knew each other from sports college, two were assistants there, three were still studying. All well-built and picture-perfect alphas! He didn't fit in here. But Lawrence had no choice either.

After three beers and a joint, his eyes fell shut. He excused himself and threw himself on his bed. As he fell asleep, he noticed the smell of sweat in the bedclothes. And he wondered why such athletic young people were drinking, smoking and smoking pot. But he didn't care. He had already fallen asleep.

When he woke up, the sun was shining. He had to orientate himself for a short time until Lawrence remembered where he was and who he was. In any case, he was well rested. And he felt better than he had in a long time. He went to the bathroom of the shared flat in his borrowed jogging suit to pee. And one look in the mirror confirmed it: the night had been good for him. Maybe everything really was going to be okay. The bathroom looked like he had imagined the bathroom of a student shared flat would look. Dirty, untidy. So he made himself useful. The others seemed to be still asleep, in any case he didn't hear a sound. When he was done with the bathroom, he continued in the kitchen, where there were still weeks of dishes. And while he was dishwashing, two of the lads came into the kitchen. Obviously both had been jogging, sweat glistened on their bare torsos and they were breathing heavily. Sebastian handed them both a glass of water and asked if he should make breakfast. The two lads grinned at each other and exchanged a fistbump. And ordered scrambled eggs and coffee.

For the rest of the day, Lawrence cleaned the apartment until you could have eaten off the floor in every room. He'd also been to the laundromat, and for the evening he'd made plans to iron the clothes. The lads came and went, had food made for them in between, and had no problem leaving a trail of devastation behind them each time. But Lawrence thought it was only fair to tidy up and clean again. In the process, he found himself getting a stiff cock more and more often at the sight of the lads. Why did they all have to walk around the apartment bare-chested, too. Or directly completely naked.

For ironing Larry was allowed to come into the living room of the shared flat. The lads were lounging on the sofa watching a football game. Every now and then, someone would ask for a beer or a sandwich, and Larry would interrupt his ironing to go to the kitchen. It was late when he was finally able to go to bed. But he still wanted to clean up the last remnants of the TV evening before he went to bed himself. In the process, he had already taken off the top of his jogging suit. And while cleaning the bathroom mirror, which was already smeared again, he noticed that he didn't look so bad with his naked upper body. And as he lay in bed, he noticed that his room was the only one where the beds were not freshly changed. And it hadn't been cleaned yet.

When Larry got up the next morning to get rolls and make breakfast, something was different. The top of his jogging suit was stretching across his chest. And he had trouble pulling his pants up over his thighs. Maybe he'd have to go through the closet later to see if he could find something better to wear. But now he had to hurry. The first of his masters would be leaving for their morning jog in a moment. By the time they returned, he had to have breakfast ready. As soon as he got back from the bakery, he had to take off his sweatshirt. Way too tight. Besides, it was rude to cover his tits when he was allowed to see his masters'. And his tits were something he was proud of. He was proud of his whole body. But as his masters' cleaning slave and fuck whore, he also had an obligation to do his best.

[lmskitty]

teacher AU totally dumb ficlet for fun

The worst arguments that have happened in the satosugu house ranked.

5. Aged 11 Nanako and Mimiko turned Geto's shirt pink in the wash and blamed Megumi. They had to be separated at dinnertime because Megumi pulled out Rabbit Escape and swarmed the front room with rabbits that kicked Nanako and Mimiko in the face. Gojo held Megumi in the air stopping him from pulling Mahoraga while Geto held the twins on the table. Tsumiki sat at the table petting one of the rabbits. Dinner was ruined. No cursed techniques were allowed in the house after that and the twins and Megumi were sent to their rooms. Tsumiki finished her dinner and continued to pet the rabbit unbothered.She named it floppy because of its notable ear difference.

4. Megumi pretended Gojo was invisible for a week and didn't exist because he kept coming to pick him up from school in clothes matching his despite being asked not to. Megumi was 8 and it hurt Gojo deeply especially when Geto found it incredibly funny and started doing it too. Gojo did not enjoy this and apologised properly to Megumi.

3. Megumi defaced Nanako's BTS posters drawing moustaches on them all after she kept putting pictures of sea urchins online and tagging him as it. Geto and Gojo established a "no going into each other's bedrooms" rule which worked until the twins room got into such a state that their dad's had to intervene and amend the rule that people shouldn't go into each other's rooms for nefarious reasons. Retrieving laundry should be allowed.

2. Gojo and Geto had been known to bicker from time to time however they had had few genuine arguments. Geto binned a hoard of Gojo's sweet wrappers he was storing in a drawer without asking. Gojo was hoarding them to enter a competition with the details on the back and receive a life supply of the mochi brand.

Gojo yelled at him for binning his stuff without asking.

Geto said he wouldn't have to if Gojo tidied up after himself instead of leaving a wake of soft drink cans and wrappers throughout the house like a child.

Gojo asked if he had married a fucking tanuki since he seemed to love going through his garbage so much.

They spent a day not talking to each other and directing comments to their kids like "Tsumiki can you tell your dad to pass the ketchup" Tsumiki stood up and yelled that they were both acting like children and ran upstairs. The shock that Tsumiki could yell ended their argument.

1. Gojo put Geto's cast iron pan in the dishwasher.

It was a genuine mistake but Geto still took it v personally. Gojo offered to get him a new one, Geto enraged said that not everything could be fixed with goddamn money and that the pan was the first piece of kitchenware he had brought himself with his money as a sorcerer and had cared for since the age of 14 and that it just represented an ongoing argument between them that Gojo treated everything trivially that it could be fixed with money rather than communicate and treat things with care. Gojo said he didn't like that he saw him like that.

Geto said he should try thinking about things from other people's perspective then. Gojo scrunched his nose but took a moment.

"Then show me. I don't get it, I don't work like that but I don't want to live like this and hurt the people I love."

Geto stared at him for a moment and then gave him a kiss before showing him how to care for the pan properly with oil, putting it in the oven, explaining how it worked. Gojo listened intently and after that never made the same mistake again. He also started therapy. He knew Geto was right, when you can use infinity everyday things seemed trivial but the look on Geto's face when he was upset was enough to make him want to adapt and learn.

(Bonus: Tsumiki once kicked over a laundry basket in a fit of tiny 7 year old rage. Geto tried hard not to laugh at her adorable anger as Gojo spoke with her and she revealed that it wasn't fair that she had to be perfect while everyone else was able to be naughty and she didn't like it and didn't want to keep being good. They told her she was a child and was allowed to express her emotions so long as she wasn't hurting her self or family members and no one wanted her to be good, they wanted her to be Tsumiki and happy to be so. Tsumiki said good and that she wouldnt bottle it up anymore.

At dinnertime she stood and politely said that she hated peas and didn't like the way Gojo cooked potatoes. She sat down and then burst into tears and said she had gone to far in expressing her emotions. Gojo and Geto instantly pulled her in for cuddles. Megumi said she could have gone further and that all of Gojo's food sucked. Gojo called his comments rude and unnecessary. Megumi rolled his eyes and ate his peas.)

[therealvalkyrie]

the morning, the evening

Pairing/setting: Farmer!Ushijima Wakatoshi x Fem!Reader Word Count: 2.6k Warnings: very fluffy, implied sex, reader wants a baby AN: I've been working on this sporadically for *checks watch* 2.5 years so I hope y'all fucking like it lmao. I really struggled with tying up the ending, so if it feels abrupt that's why! also was too intimidated to try and write baby-making smut, so feel free to imagine those particular shenanigans in your own huge and wrinkly brainsicle. love you all! ~valkyrie

It’s on mornings like this that you feel most unlike yourself. When you slip out of bed before your husband and tug on one of his huge flannels, the sun just peeking into your window. It’s too early. Too early to think, too early for food, too early to do anything but slip out onto the porch in bare feet and curl up on the porch swing. The birds are just waking up with you -- chickadees singing a greeting and the chickens clucking softly in reply. The dewy air sends goosebumps up your bare legs and settles in your lungs as mist clings to the ground. It makes you feel a little lost, a little out of place; mornings have never been meant for you.

When your husband wakes up with the rooster, he joins you on the porch swing, the screen door creaking shut behind him, and hands you a cup of coffee. You lean into his sturdy side and clutch your third favorite mug with both hands (the handle broke last year when you dropped it on the kitchen tile). He doesn’t say anything, just presses his lips to your temple and looks out to the mountains with you. He knows you’ve never been meant for mornings.

When his yellow mug is empty, he rubs your bent knee with a huge hand and leaves you to start farm chores. You may be entitled to a slow start, but the horses expect breakfast before 7 or they’ll be ornery all day.

The sun burns enough dew away for the farmhand’s truck to kick up dust as he drives up your long driveway -- your cue to go put on pants. Back in the bedroom, the stained glass ornaments hanging in the windows are casting shifting rainbows on the wall. This is what lifts your lips for the first time today and prompts the first sip of tepid coffee. You sprawl out on your unmade bed, stretching like a cat in a sunspot made just for you.

By the time you pad downstairs in jeans and an airy blouse, the morning has begrudgingly made a space for you in between its sense of purpose and quiet watchfulness. You set about making breakfast and more coffee, nudging the kitchen awake. You say good morning to the toaster and the butter bell and the kettle on the stove and purposely ignore the dishwasher, which has been giving attitude since the weekend.

You’re murmuring quietly to a pancake when Wakatoshi clomps back in, hanging his hat on the hook by the door.

“Good morning,” you greet, offering up your cheek, which he kisses along with a heavy hand on your hip.

“Does the pancake ever talk back?” he wonders aloud, looking over your shoulder into your cast iron pan.

“Not yet,” you reach for your spatula and grin up at him, “which is what makes it such a good listener.”

He hums thoughtfully and squeezes your waist with his big hand before turning away to reach for plates from the cupboard.

Breakfast passes in conversation about the farrier visiting in the afternoon -- some horses are due for new shoes -- between bites of food. Toshi disappears out the back door to start the rest of his day and you load dishes into the dishwasher. It grumbles to life after a swift kick to the bottom left corner. You’ll have to call the plumber before the weekend.

You’re feeling halfway back to yourself again when you settle into your creaky wooden office chair. It’s nearly the end of the month, which means today is for paying bills and making calls. It’s not nearly as much of a task as it was when you first took over the business side of the farm. Then, you’d had to wade through fifty years of an unintelligible filing system and re-negotiate deals that Wakatoshi’s grandparents had made just as long ago. You’ve always had a way with numbers and a sense for business; it’s the local politics that gave you trouble. People this far into farming country simply don’t trust outsiders, no matter if they’re married to the local golden boy.

Wakatoshi says it had been the same for his father, coming in as an outsider and marrying the beloved daughter of a beloved family. That’s why he’d left, when Toshi was just a kid, never having managed to really feel at home in the community or on the farm.

“But he didn’t have the advantage of your smile,” he’d joked, poking the corner of your mouth gently as you lay in bed late one night a couple of weeks after your wedding.

You’d giggled, swatting his hand away and burying your face into his broad chest. “Do you really think they’ll like me?” you asked in a small voice after a quiet moment.

“They’ll love you. Just like I do.”

You wouldn’t quite say they love you, but the town has at least grown to tolerate you after you’d asserted yourself into their daily lives. Miss Betty at the feed store still doesn’t give you a discount on grain like she had your mother-in-law, and Mary Fletcher still calls you a gold digger behind your back. But at least you’ve made good enough friends with her cousin Amber, who boards her horse in your stables and comes by almost every weekend, to hear about it.

You begin to sweat as the summer announces that it’s still here in the late morning and turn on the rotating fan in an effort to stay cool. The dial of the old rotary phone whirs under your fingertips as you call up the bank, one bare foot bouncing in the air where your leg dangles over the armrest of your chair and receiver cradled to your ear.

It’s a tedious conversation with Laurie, the one and only bank teller, whose daughter is going off to college in just a couple of weeks, that carries you over into lunchtime. You eventually manage to steer her in the direction of the purpose of your call, learning, amidst tidbits about her daughter’s roommate and her son’s soccer tryouts, that your check to the vet had bounced because of an error on the bank’s end. Thank God.

“Shit, that woman can talk,” you breathe when the receiver is safely in its cradle, and Laurie won’t threaten to wash out your mouth with soap for using foul language.

With a deep exhale, you allow your head to fall onto the back of the chair, languishing in the buzzing heat. For the millionth time this summer, you think back to your tiny city apartment, with its shitty water pressure and shitty commute and heavenly air conditioning. What you wouldn’t give….

Well, you wouldn’t give up Wakatoshi, for one.

And you’d had that, with him. You fit him into your tiny shower, washing each other’s bodies and then fucking on the bathroom counter when he couldn’t figure out how to finagle his limbs to fit. He kissed you every morning before work, pressing a packed lunch into your hands.

He proposed under your favorite oak tree in the park at peak foliage, asking you to marry him and move back to his home. You said yes.

You meant it.

But, God. This heat.

The afternoon drags you down, oppressive and lingering, and you find yourself incapable of thinking anymore.

You pass Wakatoshi on your way across the driveway and give him a brief wave, your ring of keys hanging off your middle finger.

“I’ll be back for dinner,” you call as he takes off his hat and runs his fingers through his sweaty hair.

He watches the way your legs propel you up into the elevated cab of his truck, loaded with some buzzing anxiety to move, even through this thick air.

“Okay,” he says.

The first summer you knew Wakatoshi, he invited you to visit home with him for a week. You weren’t together yet, still dancing on the periphery of a relationship with that youthful arrogance of those barely touching adulthood. Halfway through the six-hour drive from the city, he pulled over at a farmstand and bought peaches and lemonade. You ate them in the bed of his truck parked under a maple tree, boughs flush with green and peach juice slipping down your chin.

These grocery store peaches aren’t quite as tender --  you’re just too far North to get them really fresh -- but they’ll do. Still, you worry they’ll bruise as you set the paper grocery bag on the passenger seat next to the bakery box already there. You stand there for a second dumbly, trying to think of a better way to pack them in among your other groceries so they won’t bump around, until the afternoon sun has sunk into the top of your head so it feels like your brain is melting to the inside of your skull. Feeling a little foolish, but otherwise at a loss, you buckle the grocery bag and the box into the seat.

That makes you grin to yourself and snort a giggle as you slam the passenger door and circle around to the other side of the truck. The engine turns and complains for a second before giving in.

Sometimes this is all you need to put yourself back in your body. This little ritual of grocery shopping by yourself -- driving with the music turned up, reading ingredient labels, watching the deli counter guy slice half a pound of provolone. That mundanity, that routine of an adult woman who buys her own groceries, puts everything else in perspective.

You’re here because you want to be. Because you chose to be.

You come to a decision.

Wakatoshi doesn’t pick up the phone when you call on your way out of town, but that’s to be expected. This time of day, he’s most likely out with the horses, and cell reception gives out only a quarter-mile into the pastures. The call goes to voicemail, and you smile to yourself as his recorded voice instructs you to please leave a message. The tone beeps.

“Hey, I’m headed home now. I’ll be there in, uh, about fifteen? Anyway, meet me down at the pond for dinner. Maybe… six-thirty? I thought we’d do something a little special. Okay, I love you!”

The pond is at the East edge of the property, fed by a brook that bubbles out of the foothills. On the side opposite of where the horse pastures end, there is a willow tree that stretches and drapes down to trace the surface of the water. It is under that willow tree that you unpack your picnic basket, pouring white wine into thermos mugs as the low sun streaks through branches.

The heat of the day is finally breaking, giving way to a cacophony of peeper frogs that you can normally only hear distantly in the house. Here, it fills your mind and allows you to think of nothing else but watching the distant silhouette of your husband crossing the pasture towards you. He’s backlit, long shadow reaching across the fence long before he does. You watch him walk in an easy, rolling gait through long grass, watch him hop the fence like he was born for it.

And he was, you remind yourself. He was born for these wide spaces and nature smells. Where you must find space for yourself in the uninhabited corners of the farm (the office, the Eastern edge, the kitchen), he fills the rest as naturally as water fills the pond.

He says your name at the edge of the willow tree, ducking under a bough.

“Hello, love,” you say and smile and pat the blanket next to where you’re sitting.

Your husband sits, folding his legs under him like a little kid. It makes your heart feel a little tender as you tuck yourself into his side and explain your meal: sandwiches and fruit, cherry pie and wine for dessert. He thanks you simply, bending down to kiss you in that slow way that caught you like honey in a trap that first night in front of your apartment building, all those years ago. He tastes like vanilla chapstick.

You eat. Wakatoshi tells you about his day. About the farrier's visit and fixing a leak in the chicken coop’s roof.

“Wakatoshi,” you say, leaning forward to pick at the grass as he works the stone out of a peach with his pocket knife. He hums, deft in his work but listening. “What would you say about having a baby?”

He makes a sharp noise of pain and you look over, wide-eyed, to see he’s sliced clean through the peach and into his own palm. The blood wells before your eyes, mixing with peach juice as you gasp and lunge for the paper napkins in the basket.

“You have to be more careful! What if you seriously--” “Yes,” he cuts you off as you’re taking his hand in both of yours, setting the fruit and knife aside, and wadding up the napkins to stop the bleeding.

“What?”

“I’d say yes to having a baby.” He’s looking right at you with those hazel eyes, the expression in them so close to reverence it stuns you.

“Oh,” you breathe, staring straight back.

At that exact moment, the setting sun glows orange at the top of the pasture hill, streaking Wakatoshi’s cheek with gold through the willow branches. All the breath is gone from you, your head gone light from having this question you’ve mulled over for weeks answered so simply.

His uninjured hand finds your cheek, tucks stray hair away from your face.

“Are you asking? Do you want to have a baby?”

“I-- Yes. I’m asking.”

He smiles, soft as the cattails that sway at the opposite edge of the pond, and leans in to meet your lips with his. You let yourself sink into it for a moment, unable to stop smiling against his mouth, but pull away to further inspect the slice across his palm. He lets you, his fingers curled gently inward while you dab away blood and rub a gentle thumb on his wrist, but his gaze never wavers from your face. It’s intense-- almost like how it was when you first knew him, but with an undercurrent of affection that makes your chest warm.

“It doesn’t look too deep,” you conclude, folding up some clean napkins and pressing them to the wound. “But we should clean it--”

“It can wait.”

“But it could still get infected, what if--”

“It can wait,” he interrupts again, insisting with gentle obstinance. The next words are low in his chest. “I can’t.”

You don’t get back to the house until late, August constellations suspended thickly overhead. It’s like you’re kids again and the barn cat is your mother, watching disapprovingly from her perch on the porch railing as you sneak in after curfew, wine-tipsy and elated. Your husband crowds in the door after you, handsy even after you’ve done nothing but touch each other all evening. You pull him into the kitchen and make him wash his wound thoroughly, your thumbs rubbing into the meat of his palm.

“I hope our daughter has your eyes,” he says. He’s close, his own eyes finding yours in the almost-dark.

“A daughter, huh?”

“A daughter. She’ll be just like you.”

“And what am I like?” you ask, coy, looking up at him through your lashes in the starlight streaming in the window.

Wakatoshi leans forward gently, resting his brow on yours. “You are,” he swallows thickly, eyes fluttering closed, “you are the world.”

Your day ends nothing like it began. Your day ends with utter surety of your place in this house, in this town, in Wakatoshi’s arms. The day ends and you feel completely yourself again, cradled in the gently rolling hills of the life you’ve chosen.

[solacescastleglow]

🩰🍳🌿 Daily Life Aesthetics 🌿🍳🩰

What do you do when you can't motivate yourself to do things without a moodboard, but you don't want to look at a screen? Print the moodboards out of course! These will be going into a binder along with some troubleshooting notes so I can get things done even when my executive dysfunction is an issue. I highly endorse making these, the process was so fun.

Morning Routine

light stretches, the clean feeling of having just brushed my teeth, sesame turkish bread with hummus, reading with bleary eyes, chai lattes, the certainty of knowing exactly what I'm going to do that day, upbeat music, fresh air through the windows, saying good morning to my cat, picking out a cute outfit.

French

the sound duolingo makes when you get 10 in a row, nasal vowels, repeating phrases under my breath, understanding a new sentence for the first time, writing a ç by hand, watching french movies with french subtitles, studying the republican calendar to learn new nouns, understanding cooking and ballet terms instinctively.

Studying

the ritalin kicking in, getting 100% on a quiz, write now edit later attitudes, marginalia, a cup of tea slowly cooling next to my laptop, messy desks, flashcards, today's study schedule on the wall, feedback from professors, watching online lectures at 1.75x speed, going to a cafe to think.

Leaving the House

the sun on my face, buying flowers for the house, the smell of a secondhand bookshop, museums, getting a little treat, sitting in the shade, reading on a park bench, farmer's markets, the sound of rain hitting an umbrella, picnics, finding a cool record, seeing people wearing pretty outfits (and telling them that).

Exercising

winning badminton, feeling not exhausted but satisfied after a game, seeing my muscles actually move when I flex them, happy baby pose, better posture, laughing through the pain when doing bicycles, going on a walk, connecting with my sibling through pilates, high reps on the lightest weight possible.

Going to Therapy

the catharsis of crying, the ache in my chest fading after years of heaviness, allowing myself to be a kid again, feeling more whole, finding parts of me I thought were gone forever, knowing I can handle whatever life throws at me, laughing with my therapist about serious topics, curling up in a safe corner of my room.

Working on my Book

designing characters, research, writing rich descriptions of settings, planning out illustrations and page layouts, bringing imaginary conversations to life, watching over someone's shoulder as they read what I've written, finally getting a frustrating sentence right, dreaming about children who will see themselves in my writing.

Housework

a little nudge from the robot vacuum, the smell of steam coming out of the iron or dishwasher, exhausted satisfaction after finally getting the fitted sheets on, laundry in the wind, everything in its place, a clear mind in a clear space, rinsing the dust off the damp duster, the smell of fresh laundry.

Planning my Week

neat rows of binders, colour coded spreadsheets, calendars with everything in place, vision boards, grocery lists crumpled in a hand, knowing exactly how this week will go, step by step guides to each task, feeling safe in case of emergency, a messy journal and a neat wall calendar, time blocking.

Personal Finance

putting away 50% of my income into savings, being surrounded by beauty, a comfortable sinking fund, transferring money between sub-accounts, getting everything I've ever wanted, investing in things I'm passionate about, creating stability for the future, being debt free, being able to get a little treat with what I've saved.

Participating in my Religion

a cheekful of wine, the presence of g-d in the room, candles on ornate candlesticks, tikkun olam, the cycle of the year, awe as the ark opens, ripping challah apart, the grounding points of the magen david when I squeeze my necklace, playing with tzitzit, praying sounding like birdsong, the dusking of a new day.

Cooking

mise en place, the smell of garlic and spices, bubbling pots on the stove, the whole house warmed up, chatting with my dad, fresh vegetables, mountains of parmesan cheese, the chime of the pressure cooker, pretty plates, sitting down to eat with family and friends.

Showering

double cleansing, feeling literally squeaky clean, gourmand scents, leave in conditioner making my hair feel like seaweed, the tingly feeling of glycolic acid, burberry her mixed with cocoa and coconut, scented candles to set the mood, listening to self improvement podcasts, smooth skin.

Nighttime Routine

cookies and chamomile tea with my family, watching tv, calling 'goodnight' down the stairs, overheads off and warm lamps on, teeth feeling so clean after an everything toothbrush, reading in the faint light, filling out my journal, nighttime yoga, daydreaming about the future, an easy slip into a deep sleep.

[m1d-45]

I don't know when, i don't know how, but SOMEBODY has ruined my day by giving me flashbacks of my most embarrassing moments from years ago.

Tongue frozen on the iron bars, check, had to alert the peeps to get the teach to bring hot water and she kept giggling at me.

The first time i tried proper kissing? Fucken awkward.

Accidentally mixing my coca cola glass with dads wine glass, and spurting it out with ews in a FUCKEN BUFFET?! FULL OF PEOPLE?! WHO TURNED TO LOOK AT ME AS MY FAMILY LAUGHED AT MY MISFORTUNE?!

Getting whacked in the head by a ball during gym class when a classmate threw it? AND they had the AUDACITY TO LAUGH AT ME! (And people wondered why i skipped that class-)

But honestly, i want schadenfreude and a creator x a hot guy (you can choose who, i'll take anyone at this point to ease me) with just these scenarios in mind, if you could.

i have found that even forced exposure can help with younghood embarrassment.

-🥘Stew

tongue tied

a/n: maybe this isnt what you wanted. maybe it is. idk i have writers block like you wouldn't believe man.

word count: ~6.5k

→ warnings: none? mention of alcohol and injuries but nothing awful or severe. just nice :]

→ g/n reader (you/yours)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me

< masterlist >

diluc is a man with many skills.

he’s led the dawn winery for many years and have taken hundreds of shifts at the angel’s share, every item on the menu practically muscle memory by now. he knew the regulars and their typical orders, he knew the quickest way to strip mint stalks of their leaves, how to stack wine barrels most efficiently and how hot he could make his flames without getting burned, practically every skill he could reasonably need mastered when he was young.

…practically was the operative word, of course.

in business, it was practical to learn how to perfectly sign his signature. it was practical to know how to be diplomatic, practical to know how to properly tie a tie or check if a suit was fitted properly, practical to learn all of the skills he’d need to be the head of the dawn winery when he was young, so that by the time it was him sweeping a heavy coat over his shoulders for a meeting, he’d have every ability necessary to tackle whatever faced him.

but of course, his “training” didn’t cover more… personal things. he was too busy learning dining etiquette to know how to make small talk—that didn’t revolve around one party trying to get something from the other, that is. he knew how to set tables and properly pour wine, but his greetings were industry-approved stiff, responses a standard dialogue that he had nearly memorized. everything he said was mapped out in his head far before he’d say it, neatly laid out in his mind as he guided the conversation where he wanted it to go. efficient for formal meetings, but it left him… he didn’t like the word ‘lost,’ but it was the only one he could reasonably apply.

diluc set down the glass he was cleaning, picking up another to keep his hands busy. yes, there was a formal dishwasher hired, but he didn’t like being idle. he didn’t quite know what to do or where to put his hands, feeling a bit exposed without his coat. the bar provided a wide berth between him and any customers, but he couldn’t quite get a handle on the easy banter charles had with the patrons during his shift. it was like he was locked in an odd limbo between work and rest hours; without his gloves, vest, or other protective layers, all shed to prevent them from being stained in the case that something went awry, but still needing to keep face in front of others. he didn’t have his gloves to pull down, no comforting weight of his coat, his vision on a clip on his belt instead of the knot it usually hung from. everything wasn’t quite where it should be, and he was reminded of that every time he reached or twisted in the right way and the small spikes on top of his vision pressed through his shirt and into his side.

he felt… exposed. lost. and he didn’t know what to do about it.

he looked up as the tavern door opened, whatever expression he had before falling away as he was brought out of his thoughts. relax, he tried to tell himself, but it’s hard to believe that when one of the worst reasons for his confusion just walked in.

you.

archons, diluc was awful when it came to interacting with you. his heart beat too quickly and a shockingly large part of his brain thought that this meant he was in some sort of stressful meeting, all of his words coming out flat. while in its intended environment that would keep him from losing his temper or showing any weakness, in here it just made him feel more weak.

your head dipped. “master diluc, captain kaeya.”

and his brother certainly didn’t help the situation.

kaeya had turned when you entered, and greeting you with a sweeping arm and a cheery call of your name. “i didn’t think i’d see you so late; how kind of the heavens to bless me with your presence once again.”

diluc’s jaw tensed, and he traded glasses again. the pile of dirty cups was quickly dwindling, in no small part due to his own thoughts. he tended to be a bit quicker at the rhythmic movements of washing when he was caught up in his own lackluster abilities.

you laughed, taking the seat next to kaeya at the bar. all at once diluc was hyper aware of every action he made, from the change of towels to wipe off the water lingering on the cup to the smallest twitches in his expression or shifts in his weight.

“got caught up in some last-minute stuff, a coworker needed my help. i do hope you weren’t waiting too long?”

kaeya’s eye flashed, and he downed the rest of his drink before launching into a clearly fake story, talking about how actually, in the half hour or so delay in your appearance, the angel’s share was stormed by hundreds of fatui.

as if either of them would let that happen.

you played along, though, asking questions in the right spots and getting him to spin the story further. diluc exchanged his glasses again, doing a double take at the empty rack once he did.

that was far from ideal.

“-right, diluc?”

he looked up in an instant, eyes flicking about as he assessed the situation. clearly, he’d missed some part of the conversation, but what?

you, blessed you, had noticed his confusion, a smile on your face as you rested your hand on your chin, leaning on the bar. “i don’t know, would you really waste a bottle of dandelion wine like that? surely your claymore would do just fine.”

with a sharp swallow and a quick prayer—not that that would do much, knowing the archon he was praying to—diluc took a chance.

“of course i would. one bottle is worth it to defend mondstat, and it’s quite unwieldy to use a claymore in such a confined space.”

he fought a grimace the second the words left his mouth. his tone was too flat, his words uninteresting, certainly less entertaining than whatever fantastical tale kaeya had spun.

you nodded, and he could thankfully see amusement in your eyes. “how noble, master diluc.”

kaeya cut in, picking up his empty cup. “if you can spare a bottle for the fatui, then you can spare a glass for the cavalry captain, can’t you?”

he took the cup, but added it to the dirty rack alongside the one in his hand, taking a new one and wiping it to remove any water despite the fact that he knew there was none. archons, when had he gotten so…

he pushed away that train of thought, pulling out a bottle as he set the fresh glass down. “certainly not. wine is to be drank and paid for, that bottle was… an unfortunate accident.”

“my my, you’re no fun.” diluc poured his glass quickly—”not too much, not too little, okay? a little more, a bit… there, that’s good. well done, son.”—and moved it in front of him, pushing the cork back into the bottle with the heel of his palm. he set it back in its place, and noticed kaeya’s eyes on him as he took a sip.

no, not him, on-

“not worth a bottle, but worth a new glass? perhaps i am a hero after all…”

why was he unsurprised he noticed?

“i don’t want it to stain,” he lied, knowing damn well that stained glasses was something he was more than capable of handling. kaeya hummed, swirling his cup once before you prodded him about his day and he was back to his usual self, talking with significantly less grandeur than his tale from before.

diluc tried to pace himself, being extra meticulous in his cleaning, but there was only so many times he could twist a glass before he had to accept that he was done with it. an odd sort of dread settled over him as he reached for the last cup. today was a slower day, and he normally didn’t run out of cups until everybody was too drunk to notice how awkwardly he stood behind the bar. but kaeya was too smart to get properly drunk, you’d just arrived, and the night was far younger than he’d like.

he was cleaning too quickly again. normally, getting everything he needed to done with fast was a good thing, but now it just left him uneasy. charles didn’t have this problem, and he didn’t even clean glasses during the downtime. no, he struck up conversation with every single person that sat at the bar, no matter how downtrodden or celebratory. he was naturally friendly, always knowing exactly what to say despite the fact that diluc would bet serious mora on the fact that he didn’t have the faintest idea what he’d say until the other person was done. if he thought about it… even kaeya had a script of sorts, a certain way to twist the situation back in his favor, but he managed to talk to people just fine. no, that wasn’t the problem.

the clatter of the cup in his hands on the drying rack pulled him from his mind. he shouldn’t be zoning out so much on the job, but what took his attention first was the fact that he was now seriously out of tasks to complete.

…beautiful.

“diluc? is everything alright?”

it’s your voice, surprisingly, that asks for him, and he fixes his expression in the split second it takes to look at you instead of the glasses. his mind reaches, grabbing the familiar sentence that must have left his lips a thousand times.

“everything is as it should be. why do you ask?”

a defense of his position, dismissing any ideas of weakness, and a prompt as to why that line of thinking was in discussion at all. part of him recoiled at the idea of treating you with the same recited lines he did a business partner, but he genuinely didn’t know what else to say. he was distracted, to come up with another acceptable response would make him hesitate, which would set off yours or kaeya’s alarms- or both, if he was particularly clumsy with his speech.

“did the glasses offend you, or something? you’re glaring.”

and yet, despite his prerecorded reliability, he is at a loss once more. genuine inquiries about his well-being were rare in the spaces he typically interacted in, and it didn’t help that he was still stuck in work mode.

“…they have not,” he decides, picking his language carefully. “i am simply thinking about something else.”

horribly vague, and would almost certainly warrant a follow-up question. before you even opened your mouth, he knew what you’d say.

“what are you thinking about? do you need help?”

the second part was a shock, but he blessedly had an answer for the first. “nothing important. it will be handled in due time.”

kaeya raised a brow, and diluc pointedly ignored his questioning look. it wasn’t often that he resorted to diplomatic language in the presence of civilians, but you… he could never quite think right when you were around. he could only hope you never misinterpreted his odd words as mistrust.

you hummed, changing the subject shortly after with a question about the vineyards, something about a particularly bad season for crops you’d heard from sara. he paused for a moment—an acceptable pause, he told himself, as most people did think before speaking—before settling on giving you an update on the winery as a whole. anybody that listened in would only find what they could learn by asking his workers, and no trade secrets were to be found in the fact that his grapevines were regularly checked.

with the slightest twitch of his hand, he realized he was speaking to you like a businessman again.

kaeya’s cup had emptied at some point, and diluc reached for the bottle of dandelion wine without stopping his sentence, a small nod from kaeya the only confirmation he needed to pull off the cork.

“the staff have been doing well, though this is shaping up to be a rather warm summer.” not that you asked, he notes, internally chiding himself as he pulls over kaeya’s glass. he considers swapping it for a new one to give himself something to do, but decides against it. he rattles off a few details about some dahlias that adelinde is trying to grow, how they keep seeming to wilt. he doesn’t stop talking to pour kaeya’s wine, eyes focused on his task as he continues talking nonsense about flowers. flowers. since when did he talk about the hobbies of his staff when asked about the vineyards?

he twisted the bottle as he pulled away—“this way any wine that drips will land on the back label. you don’t want the front to look messy.”—corking the bottle and forcing himself to finish this childish line of speech.

it wasn’t childish, not if you seemed genuinely interested, but any more and kaeya would have too much to leverage against him later. granted, he likely knew more about diluc than he’d like given how irritatingly good he was at reading people, but that was a problem for another day. for now, he let kaeya grab his cup on his own, wiping his hands of nothing as he waited for your response to what had certainly come off as nervous ramble.

your head tilted. “has she asked flora?”

“assumedly, or she had another worker do so for her. it’s not like her to let something rot like that.”

“that’s good to hear. and you?”

“pardon?” his hands had frozen, towel still in his hands, and he turned your words over in his mind. his reply had been instinctual, mostly to buy him time to think.

“how are you doing? don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to hear the winery is well, but you seem nervous.”

kaeya chuckled into his wine, and diluc’s jaw ticked.

“i am well, my apologies if i have worried you.”

“oh, alright… it can be hard to tell sometimes with you, i wanted to be safe.”

he knows. he’d meant his apology, but any sincerity was likely lost in whatever filter was placed between his mind and his mouth.

the air was awkward, and he didn’t know how to fill it. kaeya was looking at him, clearly expecting him to continue whatever tentative conversation was lingering, but he greatly overestimated diluc’s ability to do so.

he hung the towel back in its place, finally meeting his brother’s eyes. “behave.” they flicked to you, and his words were slower coming out. “make sure he doesn’t steal anything.”

you smiled, swearing on it even as the three of you knew kaeya wouldn’t do such a thing. diluc stepped out from behind the bar, grabbing a large serving tray and walking from table to table, collecting empty glasses.

maybe he was a coward for avoiding conversation- scratch that, he definitely was, but what was he to do about it? talk? that was already established to be off the table, and one could not typically make conversation without talking.

diluc shook off the topic, climbing the stairs to the second floor of the bar. all he could do was hope you didn’t hold it against him, or archons forbid think it were somehow your fault. hopefully you wouldn’t hate him by the time he managed to get his words in line with his thoughts.

diluc stared at the empty page in front of him, twisting the pen in his hand.

another skill he didn’t have. informal letter writing.

letters to merchants, fine, letters to buyers, he had a standard template for. letters to and from employees, informing him of upcoming leave or similar work related matters, all of this he was prepared for.

but this…

he sighed, watching as ink dripped onto the page, setting down his pen.

what did he say? what did he want to say? what was appropriate to say? you were rather close to his heart but how did he come across? would an inquiry about your well being be too forward? was a letter at all too forward? friends- no, you didn’t consider him a friend, right? or did you? how did people act around their friends? how did you act around your friends?

he tugged at his gloves, fiddling with the hem nervously. he’d finished most of his paperwork and had intended to take a break by writing you a letter, but… was it even a good idea? he- oh archons, he didn’t even know your address-

diluc crumpled up the paper in one hand, throwing it in the trash with the beginnings of an embarrassed blush on his face. writing a letter and not even knowing where you lived- he could count the amount of proper conversations he’d had with you that had progressed past basic small talk on one hand, and he wanted to write you a letter?

he covered his face with his hands, resting his elbows on his desk. papers shifted beneath him but he didn’t pay attention, his thoughts in circles.

he wasn’t an idiot. he knew exactly why his heart picked up when you were around, why he had to default to more familiar speech to not make an utter fool of himself. the entire reason he’d tried to write you a letter was because he wanted to clarify his behavior towards you, to hopefully build a prior relationship with you instead of learning about you by proxy from your conversations with kaeya. yet, in his hurry to fix what probably wasn’t even broken to begin with—he knew of his reputation, in reality you probably weren’t at all surprised at his inability to make small talk—he’d forgotten the most important detail.

on one hand, he probably could ask kaeya, or poke around in other ways, but that felt disingenuous. if he was going to try and… for now he’d call it making a friendship with you, then he wanted to do it right. of course, he didn’t know exactly what ‘doing it right’ entailed, but… he supposed he’d just have to guess.

diluc had learned a considerable amount in his childhood, yet none of his lessons taught him how to pursue a partner.

diluc swept his cloak around his shoulders, fastening the clasp with one hand and reaching for his vision with the other. with practiced movements, he undid the knot tying it in place, attaching it to the back of his other hand. he hooked his mask onto his belt and closed the door of his room behind him, walking down the stairs quickly.

“be safe, master diluc.”

“master kaeya has kindly informed us that the knights have a patrol for the whispering woods, so it would be wise not to stray too far.”

diluc paused at the door, mentally rearranging his patrol route with a nod. “thank you adelinde, elzer. pass on my gratitude, please.”

he pulled open the door to the manor, walking up the familiar trails and into wolvendom. his vision lit his path as his eyes adjusted, free hand affixing his mask to his face as he walked. since he couldn’t head as far north as he’d like, he’d settle for a loop around windrise and then one in wolvendom. not ideal, but it would have to do.

windrise was lighter than expected. a budding camp of hilichurls here, an abyss mage to the east (thankfully hydro, he’d been on a bad streak with pyro mages for a few days now) and a few slimes that got a bit too close to the merchant trails for his liking.

speaking of the trails, those were clean too. he snuck around springvale, keeping the hand with his vision on it tucked into his cloak to mask its light. hilichurls didn’t hang around this part of wolvendom, so unless he wanted to go shoving through wolf hook bushes for the chance to knock out a camp or two…

he looked between the two paths back to the winery. he could go through the gorge, or the typical way taken by his suppliers. the former was mostly guaranteed to have at least one or two monsters picking about, but it would be better if he cleared his trade routes…

it didn’t matter, in the end. he stepped out from the shadow of a tree, boot barely making contact with the dirt before he picked up the sound of another’s footsteps. heavy, quick, rapidly coming his way-

he summoned his claymore, turning north toward the sound, seeing a figure stumble from the bushes of wolvendom. they were wrapped in a too-thin jacket considering the weather, arm pressed to their chest. details were lost in the darkness, but he could see their head twist, how it snapped to him.

the figure waved with a shout to get his attention, and his heart dropped.

you. what were you doing up so late?

you jogged up to him, clearly out of breath, and he could see that you were holding an armful of unripe wolfhooks. “do.. do you know the way to springvale?”

by the archons, abyss, and celestia above-

“what business do you have there? it’s late,” he said, keeping his voice low. his hands trembled slightly in his gloves, eyes searching your figure for any injury. you had a nick or two on your arm, thankfully not bleeding, but everything else was obscured by shadows. you had clearly been running for quite a while, judging by how harshly you breathed, were you running from something? had you ran into trouble?

“i gotta get back to the city,” you explained breathlessly. “i kinda got lost in the forest.”

“lost?” his hand tensed around his claymore, the action reminding him it was still there. he dismissed it, crossing his arms to try and stabilize himself.

“long story, not worth telling.” you waved your hand, and he could see how it shook a bit. whether from adrenaline or exhaustion (both?) he knew he couldn’t point you toward mondstat in good faith. what if something happened to you? what if he’d missed a camp and you were attacked? you were weakened, tired, and his mind raced with all the potential injuries you could sustain just trying to go home-

“uh, stranger?” your hand waved again, this time to get his attention. “you with me?”

“the city’s too far. you’re better off seeking shelter at the dawn winery just up the road.” what was he saying? “besides, you could be injured, and not be feeling the pain due to adrenaline. let me walk you there.”

his heart hammered against his ribs, every single way you could reject him and then some swirling in his head. he was a stranger to you, you were clearly scared by something, and he directed you elsewhere out of what, selfishness? he knew that springvale was likely closer, that someone would be up and willing to help, and yet he was asking to walk you to the winery?

“are you sure? you don’t have to.”

“i’d rather not send you off when i’m not certain of your safety.” your eyes widened slightly, surprised at the care in his voice, and he forced his tone to flatten before you recognized him. “besides, the staff are friendly and willing to help. they’ll understand.”

you hesitated for a moment, then nodded, holding your wolfhooks closer. absently, he wondered if he had any at the winery. probably not, but he could likely ask-…

in barbatos’ name, how was he going to explain this to the staff?

“alright. lead the way.”

he turned before his expression could change, keeping his steps a bit slower than usual so you could keep pace easier. he wanted you inside as quickly as possible, obviously, but you had clearly strained yourself earlier. going quicker would only hurt you more, and it wasn’t as if there was any immediate threat. even if there was, he was confident in his ability to keep you safe. the trees lining the path were large, wide enough to protect you if trouble came up and he needed to use his vision.

he set aside that line of thinking, sparing a glance at you. you’d switched which arms held the wolfhooks, and in the more open light, he could see the small pricks on your skin where the points dug in. you winced when the fruit resettled, moving one away from your inner elbow, and he stopped walking.

“give me those. you’re hurting yourself.”

“it’s fine, don’t worry about it. we’re nearly there, right?”

“wolfhooks aren’t clean, you could get an infection. you’re supposed to harvest them with a basket and gloves, not carrying them bare armed.”

“you don’t have the thickest clothes either, what’s to say you won’t get hurt?”

diluc searched the small area of the path you were on, trying to find a compromise. his first instinct was to use his cloak, but his hair was tucked into the hood, and that with his silhouette would certainly give him away. his eyes caught on a tear in your jacket, just below the shoulder, and he held out his arms.

“use your jacket as a sling. it’s already torn from the forest, so it’s not the worst loss.”

firm solution, reasonable and immediate justification. he was doing it again, no matter how well it disguised itself as casual speech.

you gave in, thankfully, and he didn’t let the minor pain from the wolfhook’s points show on his face as you removed your jacket. it was as thin as it looked, and he found himself frowning as he helped you stow the berries inside.

still, it wasn’t his business. maybe if he were your friend he could suggest that you purchase a heavier coat, but… you were getting a new one anyway since this one was ruined, so that seemed like a null point to bring up.

he settled your stuffed jacket into your waiting arms, hands lingering for a moment to ensure your grip was stable. “better?” you nodded, and he began walking again. “good. and don’t forget to mention your wounds to the staff, the last thing you want is an infection from… why did you need wolfhooks?”

“bennett asked me to get some for him and his friend… i think razor is his name? but with bennett’s luck, he didn’t want to risk going in himself, so he asked me to help.”

diluc frowned. “why does he need wolfhooks?”

you shrugged. “he offered some mora in return, but i mostly accepted because i felt bad. his luck seems to ruin everything for him, the least i could to was try.”

“even at the risk of your own health?”

“the things you do for friends, you know how it is.” his hands twitched at his sides, curling into loose fists. did he? “but what about you? why are you out here?”

he thought over his answer carefully, mixing various bits of his typical sentences to craft a half-truth. it was getting easier, he noticed, but put that thought aside just as quickly as it came. “wandering, doing my part to keep the area safe.”

“that’s noble of you.”

it wasn’t. would you believe the same if you knew how selfish he was in his desires? he kept mondstat safe for himself, so that he could rest knowing he’d done what he could—he patrolled not out of some moral righteousness, but because it made him proud to know that he’d chipped in to the city’s safety, that he was handling threats the knights didn’t, that he could keep his staff, his brother, his life, keep you-

“have you considered joining the knights? i’m certain there’s some night patrols, and it would surely be nice to have backup.”

he almost responded, almost said that he was in the knights, at one point, before he remembered where he was. who he was. to tell you that would be too much, too much information and too much for you to identify him with.

when did he become so loose with his words? normally he was so uptight around you… was it the fact that you didn’t know he was him right now? did.. he seriously operate best under anonymity? archons, how weak was that, to only be able to say what he meant when you didn’t know anything? was he that socially inept? so desperate for a proper conversation that he’d nearly slipped a major part of his life to you, just based on an offhand comment? how pathetic was he?

he forcefully shut down that line of thought and grit his teeth, well aware it had been too long since you’d spoken. “i’ve considered it. it’s not for me.”

not an entire lie, at least.

you were silent, and he knew he’d ruined the atmosphere. crystalflies fluttered in the trees, lazily flapping through the air, but he couldn’t appreciate their beauty like he typically could. the walk all the way down to the manor was spent in silence, and aside from a minor stumble you had on a jutting rock, it was as if he was walking back on his own, as he typically would. he even began to reach for the doorknob, then caught himself and used the knocker instead.

it was weird. he knew the door wasn’t locked, yet he waited for footsteps to approach the door, seeing elder’s worried face greet him. “master diluc, are you-?”

elzer’s eyes found yours, a tiny hint of shock crossing his face before he settled it back into the same polite smile he always used when greeting guests.

“ah, my apologies. i wasn’t expecting visitors at such a late hour.”

diluc bowed his head in what he hoped came off as a thankful action. “my apologies for disturbing you.”

he explained the situation as swiftly as possible, elzer urging you towards adelinde to treat your injuries. the medical supplies were just inside, near to the door for the sake of diluc’s own health.

“and what of you, stranger?” elzer asked, a bit louder than necessary. “will you be staying?”

diluc sees you look up, understanding clicking in an instant. “no, i won’t,” he answers, “but i thank you for your hospitality.”

elzer reached for the coatrack, pulling down two, both his and diluc’s, keeping the door propped open and passing him his where you couldn’t see. “then let me walk you to the edge of the vineyards, in exchange for your chivalry.”

“it’s alright, thank you. have a nice night.”

“the same to you, stranger.”

the door closed, and diluc relaxed, clutching his coat close as he turned away from the manor.

that was too close. he shouldn’t have suggested to bring you here in the first place, and thank the gods that elzer was so quick on his feet. he’d completely forgotten that he would have to return to the manor as diluc at one point in his rush to get you here.

he ducked behind a tree at the edge of the winery, exchanging his cloak for his jacket. he folded it neatly, stowing his mask and gloves inside. he didn’t have his usual clothes on, but… he could make do. he’d lied before, he’d lie again… even to you.

his grip around his cloak tightened. especially to you. you had no business in his shady practices, in what he did in the dark. it was impossible to keep you entirely safe and sheltered, nor was that healthy or his place to do, but he could at least keep his darkness from encroaching upon your light.

by the time diluc returned to the manor, you had already been sent on your way to a guest room. blessedly, neither adelinde nor elzer were in the front room to make a remark to him about it, likely busy with other work or asleep themselves. he locked the door and hung up his coat, heading up to his room after a swift double check of the first of those facts.

he went about his night, changing into sleepwear and setting his boots by his bed, his vision on his nightstand. it was admittedly a little more difficult falling asleep than usual—were you comfortable? did you like the guest room?—but he managed, waking up with the sun. his routine was the same, but when he arrived at the bottom of the stairs, he paused, looking up at the guest rooms. it… was strange, to know you were here. he felt like he should be doing something, whether saying goodbye or good morning or-

he looked away and shook his head. or nothing. he wasn’t as close to you as you were to him, how did he keep forgetting that?

“is there a problem, master diluc?”

he turned, seeing adelinde setting down his breakfast on the table. “nothing at all, and thank you for the food. did you sleep well?”

“i was a bit late in going to bed, a strange guest brought us some worry.”

he smiled at the pointedness to her tone, “really? how odd, to have a visitor so late.”

her mouth opens, but another speaks before she does.

“sorry if i caused any trouble.”

he paused. blinked. took a moment to register the fact that he just heard your voice in his home.

then he turned, attempting a smile. “it’s alright. your being here is unexpected, yes, but not unwelcome.”

you had clearly just gotten up, clothes rumpled and pillow creases along your hands. you nod, stepping closer, and he grasps for any viable threads of conversation.

“is the manor to your liking?”

“it’s beautiful.”

pride bloomed in his chest. “i’m happy to hear it. come sit, have some breakfast.” adelinde excused herself with a bow and he moved to pull out a chair for you, praying the action looked as natural as it felt. you accepted with a smile, and he pushes you in with relief in his when he sits. “she should return shortly with your food, apologies for the delay.”

“it’s fine,” you said, looking around the main room. he tries to find something else to talk about, already feeling the awkward silence set in, but fumbles. the last time he had someone at his table was with the traveller for the weinlesefest, and they and paimon mostly carried the conversation along. he only ever heads business discussions, or staff meetings, or interrogations, and this was certainly none of those.

“are you alright?”

he blinked away his frown, realizing too late he’d been glaring at his cup of grape juice. an instinctual response rose to his tongue, but he hesitated. maybe it was the early morning hour, maybe it was the genuine concern on your face, maybe it was the light of dawn streaming in from the windows that fell across you so delicately, as if it knew how beautiful you were.

he discarded that response, but exchanged it for another. “are you? adelinde told me you were injured.”

a lie. he hadn’t spoken with anybody about your injuries. archons, was this worse?

your smile grows. apparently not? “just a few scrapes,” you say, lifting your arm to show where adelinde bandaged you. “wolfhooks are a lot sharper than they look.”

“wolfhooks?”

you waved a hand. “i needed some for bennett, long story. don’t worry, adelinde gave me a basket for them.”

“that’s good to hear.”

and just like that, the topic was exhausted. did he bring up something else? how much was too much? what was even an appropriate topic? what did the average person talk about? not that you were average, he’d never dare-

he’s talked himself into a corner in his own head. how in teyvat did that happen?

“you’re frowning again.”

“my apologies, i’m lost in thought.” he was quiet for a moment, then continued, “a problem i’ve encountered before is more prevalent now.”

…it wasn’t the most eloquent of phrasing, but it should do.

“do you want to talk about it?”

does he? how would he even put this into words that didn’t make him sound… is pathetic the word?

‘i can’t talk right around you because i’m not used to talking with someone that does so in good faith’? yeah, that’s something a well-adjusted adult says.

“i don’t have the words for it,” he decides. “the words…” he takes a quick glance at you to gauge your reaction but regrets it just as fast, whatever he had to say next vanishing into thin air. it’s unfair, really, how pretty you are, his eyes fixed to yours. “t-they-“

adelinde set your plate down in front of you, blessedly saving him from the situation. “thank you for your patience. please let me know if anything is unsatisfactory.”

diluc grabs his cup as you thank her, turning away to hide behind the grape juice. he can’t even really taste it, focused on how clumsily he had spoken. were he anywhere else he’d surely be laughed out of the room, and he’s certain adelinde’s going to tease him for it later as it is.

“diluc?” he looks over at you again, keeping his gaze quick before he fumbles again.

“what is it?”

too harsh, too cruel, he’s being cold to you again-

“are you busy today?”

he thinks over his schedule. no meetings that he can remember, nor any deadlines. he’d prefer to finish up some forms sooner rather than later, but if you need him for something…

“no, i’ve got time. what do you need?”

“would you like to go to good hunter for dinner later today?”

he can only hope you accept his nod as an answer because between the knowing smile on your face and the bright blush on his, there’s no way he’s getting a word out.

[densi-mber]

A/N: Takes place post Deeks’ injuries in 10x01, “To Live and Die in Mexico”.

***

A Moment of Weakness

Deeks grabbed a glass from the dishwasher, filing it with water. He was a little embarrassed at how much effort the simple action took. Everything exhausted him right now, but he didn’t feel dizzy or completely nauseas for the first time in days, so he planned to take advantage of the reprieve for however long it lasted.

Slowly, he worked his way through the rest of he dishes, lining everything up on the counter first. After relying on Kensi for everything the last few weeks, it felt good to finally do something.

Kensi walked in just as he slid the last glass into a cabinet.

“Baby, you’re supposed to be resting,” she protested.

“I’m fine. A few dishes aren’t going to kill me,” he said, continuing to sort out knives and forks.

“You don’t have to. I can take care of the dishes, the laundry, and whatever else needs to be cleaned.” She joined him at the counter and pushed the silverware to the side. “Please, go sit down and I’ll get you some lunch.”

“Kens, you’ve been waiting on me hand and foot. You have to be tired. I mean, you barely even had a chance to recover yourself,” Deeks argued, ignoring how heavily he had to lean on the counter to not visibly shake.

“Mine weren’t as bad as yours. C’mon, you don’t want to set yourself back,” Kensi insisted.

All the frustration of the past weeks spilled over, and he snapped. “Oh that ironic coming from you. I seem to remember you falling and gashing your leg in because you tried to walk with half your body paralyzed,” he bit out. He knew it was cruel, but he threw in one last jab. “But sure, I’m the one pushing it.”

Kensi’s mouth opened slightly, her eyebrows narrowed in obvious hurt and shock. In the next moment, her face blanked, the only obvious emotion in the flashing of her eyes.

“Fine.” Her voice shook ever so slightly. “Do it yourself then.”

Pushing past him, she stalked out of the kitchen, and he heard the back door slam a few seconds later.

“Damn it,” Deeks hissed, leaning over the counter. “What is wrong with you, Marty?” As quickly as it hand come, his anger disappeared, replaced by remorse and disgust with himself. His head hung low between his shoulders as he replayed the hurt on Kensi’s face.

He didn’t know if Kensi would even want to hear an apology from him, but he had to try. He found Kensi in the backyard, curled up on the love seat. Deeks walked around to face her, not taking a seat; he hadn’t earned that yet.

“Kens.” She lifted her head from her knees, and the sadness in her eyes made his chest squeeze.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured hoarsely. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Why did you?” Kensi asked.

“I was…frustrated with how long my recovery is taking and now useless I feel, but that’s, uh, that’s no excuse. I—”

“I forgive you,” Kensi cut him off.

“What?”

She shrugged, her eye softening with understanding. “I wasn’t the most patient or wonderful to be around after my coma. In fact, I was pretty awful to you.” She patted the spot beside her, waiting until he sat next to her to scoot closer. “Sometimes we say and do things we don’t really mean.”

“I do appreciate everything you’re doing for me and I have no excuse for what I said,” he said, pulling Kensi against his side. “And I promise I won’t say anything like that again.”

“I know you won’t,” Kensi murmured, resting her head on his.

***

A/N: And we have the first angst of the season! Deeks may be a touch OOC here, but pain and injuries, particularly TBIs can bring out unexpected responses.

[horny4hetfield]

Rockies Christmas - Day 3

Warnings: Fluff and Shameless Product Placement

I wake up with a grunt.  Everything hurts.  I can’t lower my left arm.  James is face first into my side, his arm wrapped around my ribs.  Our legs tangled up together.  I can just reach his silvered locks with my right hand, playing with them softly.  Damn, but the short haircut looks good on him.  I would have loved to have known him in our 20’s when his hair was probably as long then as mine is now.  But the short silver hair works on him.  He grunts into my side, rubbing his face into me.  His mustache gently rubbing me.  His lips press against my ribs.  “Morning my woodsman” I whisper at him.

He groans, “I forget every year what a workout that is.”  He slowly pushes himself up on his elbow, gently caressing my stomach with his left hand.  “But it’ll be worth it!”

I smile at him, “I know it will be.”  He leans down and gently sucks on my nipple.  His stomach rumbles.  We both giggle.  “We didn’t have anything after the sandwiches.  I bet you are starving.”  He nods, my nipple still between his lips.  “Burrito morning?”  His eyes light up.  “Ya gotta let go of my boob.”  He pouts slightly, gives my nipple a hard suck as it pops out of his lips.  I grab my boobs, “They are still not fully recovered from the other day.”  He’d pinned me in bed in my NYC apartment and spent who knows how long sucking, pinching, nibbling and lovingly torturing my nipples.

He kisses my knuckles giving me a wicked grin, “And you enjoyed every moment of it!”

I cup his face, “I did.  My nipples haven’t yet decided” as I kiss him. 

He kisses me firmly.  Then breaking the kiss, “I should go squirt the creepy crawlies out of the tree again.”  He again tickles the side of my neck with his fingers.

“Stop that!” I giggle, squirming.  He plants a kiss on my forehead, flips the covers off us and climbs out of bed.  I watch as he stretches his back.  “You ok?”

“ayup.  Just super sore.”  He helps me straighten the bed up.  I smile as I watch his naked frame walk into the bathroom.  This, the megarocksuperstargod helping tidy up the bed.  The sunlight catches my ring.  The megarocksuperstargod who is mine.  I make my way to the closet and pull on a pair of stretchy pants, a tank top and a thin sweater. 

Heading to the kitchen, I hear his phone ring in the bedroom.  From the ring tone, it’s his son, Castor.  I pull out the ingredients to make burritos.  I’m browning onions in the cast iron skillet when James comes into the kitchen.  “Castor is going to arrive about the same time as the girls” he grins.

“I thought that he had some press to do before getting here.”

“It was decided that the press can wait until after the New Year.  So, it will be a full house in a few days!”

“Then you better get that tree debugged.” 

“On it” he grins cheerily, heading to the front door.

“Breakfast will be ready when you get back” I call after him.  I can hear the hose running out front.  Just as I hear it shut off, I put the final roll on the burritos.

“MMM!  Those smell good!”  He looks out the patio door, “I didn’t get the firepit started.”

“That’s ok.”  I hand him his plate, “Sour cream?”  He nods, I plop a large spoonful on top of his breakfast.  Putting some on mine, I join him at the kitchen table.  Between my own bites, I watch him happily munch his breakfast.  He pats his stomach as he sits back in his chair.  “So, what’s next?” I grin at him.

He heaves a sigh, “Pull out all the decoration boxes.”

Collecting our plates, “Where are they?”

“Some in the garage.  Some downstairs.”

I add our plates to the dishwasher and I rinse the sink, “I’ll get the ones from downstairs if you’ll get the ones from the garage.”

He’s grinning, “You trust me to pull them off the shelf so close to your Shelby?”

I cock a smile at him, “You trust me and my short little arms” I flap my forearms holding my elbows to my sides  “to reach them in front of your truck?”

He stands, “I’ll get the ones in the garage.”  He pulls me into a kiss.

I press against his chest, “Show me where the others are, please.” 

Another deep kiss, “You are beautiful.”

I caress his head down to his neck, “You are my handsome woodsman.”

He leans into my neck, kissing me.  Still holding me, “Let me show you where those bins are.”  He takes my hand, “The tree will go in that window corner.”  I nod.  He leads me downstairs to a storage area by the media room.  “You’ll want to check, but I think all the red bins are Christmas decorations.”  There were a lot.  “Here, I’ll pull down the top row.”  He lets go of me and starts unloading the bins.

“Thank you.”

He grabs my shoulders and rests his forehead against mine, “Do not over do.  This doesn’t have to be completed today.”

I grab his neck, “Same thing for you.”

He nods, “Agreed.”

I smile, “Agreed.”  We seal that pact with a deep kiss.

The next hour or so is spent shifting the bins to the living room near where the tree will stand.  I find that some bins hold other holiday decorations in them and put those back on the shelves downstairs.  I find a sharpie and label those bins accordingly. 

I come upstairs to find him sitting on the floor with light strings between his long legs, testing them.  As he finishes a set, I put the working strings on the big living room sofa.  The non-working strings are set aside.  A couple bins have the light strings with the big bulbs for outside.  These also get tested.  In the bottom of a bin is a small box with the spare bulbs in it.  I hand that to James and soon all the lights are ready to go up.

“Hey, wanna take a break and get lunch?” I ask as James stands up off the floor.

“Yeeaahh” he answers as he stretches his back.

I gently rub his back, “You ok?”

“Just a little sore.”

“Well, maybe sitting on the floor wasn’t the best idea” I smile gently at him.

“Yeah, maybe I should have sat on the sofa.”  He wraps an arm around my shoulders as we head into the kitchen.

Grabbing some ground meat, James puts together burgers for us.  I pull out some macaroni and toss together a quick pasta salad as a side.  He lights the firepit and we sit on the patio eating lunch.  The wind is picking up and the last of the leaves are dancing around.  “We’ll need to get the tree in before this wind knocks it over” he says watching the leaves.

Grabbing his empty plate, “I’m ready when you are.”

“My little steam engine” he grins at me.  He kisses me as he stands.  Turning off the firepit, we head back inside.  I put the dishes in the dishwasher and start it.  I follow James out the front door.  He hands me another pair of the blue gloves just before he puts on his work gloves.  Going to the tree, James steps behind it, leaning side to side.  “It’s going to fit!”  Then reaching into the branches and grabbing the trunk, he picks it up and lets it drop on the driveway a couple of times.  The last of the water drops splash off.  “Think you can handle the top of the tree?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok, it’s going in stand first.  I’ll go slowly so I don’t pull you over.”

“That’s appreciated!” I smile at him.

He pushes the tree over and I catch it a couple of feet below the very top.  He hoists the trunk end with the stand and we maneuver the conifer in through the front door.  Shifting it around the sofa took a moment as I was still in the entry hallway with the top.  But we managed that swing and got it into the corner.  We were both breathing a little hard.  “A real tree is heavy” I pant out.

“Yeah, they can be” he smiles at me.  “But they are pretty.”

I stand beside him looking at the tree.  It’s bluish green branches glinting with the stubborn water drops in the midday sunlight.  “That is pretty.”  I inhale deeply, “It smells good too!”

The wind slams the front door against the house making me jump, “Oops!”  James is quickly down the hallway.  He checks the door and the outside of the house.  “No damage done” he says closing and locking the door behind him.  “But that wind is kicking up.”  I shiver a little.  “Is that cold or nerves?” he asks pulling me to him.

“Both?”  I lean into his chest.  “I mean, I’ve been through snowstorms in NY.  But this wind is different.”

Wrapping his arms a little tighter around me, “I got you.”  He lifts my chin and gently kisses me.  I sigh into him enjoying his body close to mine.  “Here” he gently separates us.  Moving to the fireplace, he starts it.  The glowing flames spread their warmth to the room and that glow is friendly.  Again, wrapping me into his arms, “Better?”  I just sigh into him.  “Yeah, that’s better” I can hear the smile in his voice.

I lean back gently, “These lights aren’t going to put themselves on the tree.”

“No” he smiles at me, “they are not.”  He kisses the top of my head, “And I suppose my height is an advantage to putting them on?” he gives me a wonky grin.

“Do you trust me on a ladder?” I raise an eyebrow at him.

“Absolutely not!” he chuckles and squeezes me a little tighter.  Then he looks at me.

“What?”

“You’re beautiful when you smile.”

I pull his head to me and kiss him gently yet deeply.  “You are my handsome woodsman.”  He leans in and we kiss again.

“Lights” he whispers into our kiss.  I start giggling.  He follows with outright laughter.  “I’ll go get the ladder.  Will you please plug this extension cord in behind the tree?”

“Happy to.”  As he walks away, “I suppose water needs to get put into the tree stand?” as I look into the empty basin through the branches.

“Shit!” I hear from the storage room.  “Hang on, I’ll show you that.”  He comes up with a short step ladder and pops it open leaving it in the living room.  He digs into a bin and pulls out a rather large pitcher, “Here, let me show you.”  He takes my hand and leads me into the kitchen.  Starting the hot water in the sink, he pulls down a bottle of karo syrup from a top shelf.  “There’s a line on the bottom here for this” as he pours the syrup into the pitcher, leaving the bottle on the counter.  “Then it fills with the hot water.”  He lets some fill the pitcher, swirls it to mix the syrup, then tops off the pitcher.  “Now, this gets poured into the stand.”  He grabs a kitchen towel and I follow him to the tree.

“I guess my shortness is best for this task?” smiling up at him.  He smiles sheepishly at me.  I slip under the tree, “Extension cord before the water, please.”  He hands me the plug end and I find the socket.  “Ok, pitcher please.”  He hands me the towel, then the pitcher.  It was a little tricky dodging the boughs, but I was able to get the stand filled with only a little spillage.  I had to basically do the worm to extract myself from under the tree.  James grabs my waist and helps me stand.  “Ta dah!  I just watered my first real Christmas tree!”  He laughs with me and pulls some needles from my hair.

“Ok.  Lights.”  He pulls out the other end of the extension cord and plugs in a string of lights.  And they don’t turn on.  “Oops!”  He crosses the living room and turns on a switch.  The string of lights flares to life.  “Ta dah!”

“Almost like magic” I grin at him.

We spend the next couple of hours lighting the tree.  I fed the strings to James as he wraps them into the branches.  The sun is setting when he finally climbs down off the step ladder, “There.  I think that’s got it.”  He moves around the living room looking at the tree.

“What are you doing?”

“Making sure that there are no light holes.”  He goes to the tree, “Like here.”  He shifts the light strings a bit, then steps back.  “There.”  He pulls me into the sofa with him, “That’s going to be pretty when the ornaments get put on it.”

I lean into him, “I am looking forward to seeing your ornaments.”

He grabs my boobs, “I love yours” as he gently squeezes them.  I squeal in laughter and twist to get my boobs out of his reach.  He simply yanks me back, “Nope!”  His lips find my neck.  That special spot.  I wilt into his arms.  “Works every time” he breathes into my neck.  His stomach rumbles.  He starts to giggle, which sets me off and we both end up laughing.  He gently releases his hold on me, “Pizza?”

I caress the back of his head, “Yes, please.”

He pulls me up with him and we walk into the kitchen.  “I suppose you want your rooty-tooty-fruity pizza?”

“Yes please?” I give him my puppy eyes blinking at him quickly. 

He pulls me into him, “There’s a price to pay for that in this house” his hands grope my ass.

I arch my butt into his hands, “Gladly” I purr at him.

He plants a passionate kiss on me, “Thought you’d agree!”  He makes sure that I can stand before grabbing the house phone.  He places the order – 1 meaty pie, 1 fruity pie, 1 large salad, 1 pan brownies – and winks at me.  “Dinner will be here in about 30 minutes.”  The wind flips a cushion off a chair outside.  “Or maybe a little longer.” 

We both quickly move to the patio doors.  James pulls the cushions off the chairs and I stack them inside the door.  He checks the other items on the patio before coming back inside.  “Damn, that wind is cold.”  I press my hands to his bright pink cheeks.  “Your little hands feel so good!” as his big cold hands cover mine.  His blue eyes capture mine.  I pull him to me and tenderly kiss him.  “Your lips feel good too” he smiles at me.  I take his hand and move him to the living room.  I turn his back to the fireplace and just wrap my arms around him.  “Ahhhhh.”  He takes up what I call his stage power stance to hold me while kissing me.  Then, he picks me up and moves away from the fireplace.  “Bit warm on the butt there.”  I reach back to his ass, rubbing it while smiling up at him.  The doorbell rings.  “Dinner!”  He carries me toward the front door, setting me down to open the door.

The poor delivery guy looks frozen.  James hands the kid a tip and collects our dinner.  I close the door and make sure it’s locked.  I rub my arms as I walk into the kitchen, “That wind is cold.”

“Yeah.  It’s going to knock down the last of the fall leaves.”  His eyes look to me, “Glad we got the tree yesterday.”  I just look at him.  “Pizza’s getting cold” he smiles softly at me.  He turns and pulls out a couple of plates.  I hug him from behind and kiss his back.  He pulls me around in front of him, putting me between him and the counter and starts loading salad on his plate.  Then several slices of his meaty pie. 

I pile up salad on my plate and grab a couple of slices of my Hawaiian pie.  Slipping away from his body, I open the fridge, “What do you want to drink?”

“Severed please!”  He turns on the TV.  The local news is on.

I grab a couple of the Severed Lime cans, close the fridge and grab my plate.  I join him at the table.  The repeating story is the wind.  Some trees down across the freeway, a couple of houses clobbered by trees, some power lines down.  No one hurt.

James heaves a sigh, “Great way to start the holiday.  With a wind event.”  He looks at me.  “You look scared.”  I nod smally.  He pulls my chair - they are wheeled - to him, “Hey.  This house can – and has – gone a week without power.  There’s a generator on the backside of the garage.”

“I’m not afraid of not having power.  It’s the tall trees.”

“Ahh.”  He rubs my back, “I had all the trees that could potentially do damage to the house cut before I moved in.”  He smiles encouragingly at me.  “I got you.”  I just blush and smile.  He rests his left hand on my right arm and returns to eating his pizza.  I ate what I could with my left hand.

As we clean up from dinner, I can tell he’s still super sore.  I gently take his hand, “Come with me.”  I make him sit on the sofa as I stand behind.  I dig into his shoulders with my fingers.  His shirt gets in the way, so I tug it off him.  Then I return to digging into his shoulders.  His upper arms.  His neck I’m a little more careful around with the herniated disc.  I watch as his eyes slowly close.  I gently stop digging into his muscles and start just rubbing, touching him.  I look around the room.  Although the living room is still filled with storage bins, it feels festive.  The lights on the tree twinkle warmly.  The fire sheds a warm glow to the room.  The fresh smell of pine fills the house.  James snores loudly.  I just smile at him.  I turn off the fireplace and figure out which switch is the tree.  “Hey sleepy head, c’mon” I pull his hand.  He sniffs awake, stands and follows me to our bedroom.

He disappears into the bathroom as I tug down the covers and drop my clothes to the floor.  He pads to the bed naked and slides into it, pulling me close to his body as I pull the covers over us.  His lips caress my neck, “I’m sorry that this has worn me out so.”

“I blame the altitude.”

“Colorado’s or mine?” there’s a smile in his voice.

“Both.”  I wrap my arms around his.  I feel his breath on the back of my neck, his nose buried in my hair.  My eyes close as his breathing evens out.

I don’t hear the winds at all.

[trivialbob]

Our Christmas gathering was fun. Gifts were thoughtful and nice. People who were meeting for the first time seemed to enjoy the interaction.

It was amusing having Jack and Ali's dogs here. My BIL's Stella and my Sulley chased Luca around the back yard quite a bit. When they stopped chasing him, he chased them. Like iron man football, they play offense and defense. The three older dogs found people inside to snuggle with. By evening there was hardly a peep out of any of the dogs.

After dinner we played a trivia game called Mind the Gap. "Your team will need knowledge from every generation-from Boomer & Gen X, to Millennial & Gen Z." It was good. Lily here is useless at trivia but insisted on sitting in my lap during some of the game.

Between Thanksgiving and Christmas I wish the kitchen had three ovens and an equal number of dishwashers. I obsess over cleaning kitchenware throughout the day. I ran the dishwasher three times. That was in addition to hand washing a few items while the machine ran.

Luca and Stella volunteered for pre-rinse duty:

A tidy kitchen makes me happy. This morning, as the other people still sleep, I drink my coffee in utter silence and revel knowing everything was cleaned and put away last night.

After the board game we sat around the dinner table enjoying some cocktails and hot tea, telling family stories to Ali and Michelle.

The Heineken Bottle story is one of my favorites. After a party at this house 20-some years ago, on a cold autumn night, the adults had gone inside and were talking and laughing. Someone said, "Wait, what I just hear?" We quieted down, then heard the sound of breaking glass.

I walked outside to the cement patio to see two little boys surrounded by what seemed like a field of green broken glass. "What are you doing!?" I asked.

The boys looked up at me. Both seemed confused, because wasn't it terribly obvious?

"We're breaking the bottles," one of them politely answered.

Trying hard not to laugh, I carefully picked up the boys and brought them inside. Then I used my Shop Vac and a shovel for a good long time, getting all that broken glass off the patio.

[insipid-drivel]

Sharpening vs. Honing: Sword & Edged Weapon Upkeep

We've all seen it on TV or read it in books: the iconic brooding warrior, campfire blazing in the evening gloom, staring off into nothingness as they slowly and painstakingly sharpen their token weapon before the Great Battle the next day...

Except that's not sharpening!

This is something that pretty much everyone gets confused at some point: What is the difference between sharpening something, and honing it? Aren't they synonyms?

Well, in the world of knives and metal edged weapons (even kitchen knives!), there's actually a pretty big difference in terms of vocabulary between when you're "honing" a blade, and "sharpening" one. The game is very different when you're talking about alternative cutting materials, like obsidian or ceramic, but this post is specific to metal blades in particular.

Here's an example of a freshly-sharpened knife blade vs. a used blade under a microscope:

Not only are tiny, tiny little bits of metal missing from the right image (taken after the blade was used for a while), but you may also notice that there's a slant to the blade's edge in the right side picture vs. the left, too. It's kinda like a punk's mohawk after a humid day at Pride; looking a little droopy, and not cutting quite the same edge as earlier.

This is where the difference between honing and sharpening comes in. When you're dealing with a blade that's mostly just misaligned, which happens from everyday use from contact with a cutting board, a round in the dishwasher (which is why you should NEVER put expensive knives in the dishwasher! Your dishwasher gets too hot and softens the metal of your $150 dinner knives until their edges wear off!) to contact with an enemy in battle. Most metals, once they're ground down thin enough, become softer and more malleable the sharper their edges get, which is why you see chefs and warriors alike constantly tending to their equipment on a near-daily basis with whetstones or honing steels. Even shifts in temperature and humidity can cause the edge of a working blade to gradually misalign and lose cutting power!

The difference lies within whether you're removing metal from the blade, or just adjusting the existing metal back into shape. Your kitchen sharpening stone (which most chefs refer to as a "honing iron" or "honing steel") is great for keeping your knives aligned so they stay working for you longer. However, when you start to notice that the edges of a knife or sword are looking a bit tatty and less razor-like, then it's time to sharpen, which is to remove small amounts of metal from an edged tool in order to restore it to as sharp and even an edge as possible.

Sharpening is actually very tricky, and still one of the niche professions out there that's still needed today with modern equipment and tools, and an expert to do the work. A professional blacksmith or knife maker is trained in the exact degrees at which a blade needs to be held while a spinning grinder shaves down the ratty, poorly-performing metal to the right sharpness and degree so it cuts when and how you'd expect it to. Even a mid-quality wood ax for chopping firewood, pedestrian and cheap as they are, needs to be sharpened by an experienced hand on occasion in order to work well.

So, to better remember: Honing = brooding badass by the campfire slowly pleasuring a sword with a rock or something

Sharpening = relatively boring routine upkeep done by a skilled craftsperson shaving off the crappy edge of a knife or weapon using something like a grinding stone to create an entirely new edge by removing thin layers of old metal.

With honing, you don't usually see many, if any, sparks come off the blade, and warriors and chefs will both agree that an edged tool or weapon should be honed every time before it's used.

With sharpening, you see a genital-unsettling amount of sparks spitting off the edge of a blade and a spinning grind wheel, usually right in the direction of the sharpener's groin (which is why most blacksmiths still wear heavy-duty leather aprons and elbow-length fireproof gloves). Sharpening is usually needed less frequently than honing, and usually called upon if regular honing is no longer getting a knife or weapon to cut properly, so the frequency of sharpening is more determined by the frequency the object is used and how well it's cared for between sharpenings.

Adulting protip: If you decide to invest in expensive knives, you're probably going to find yourself seeking out a professional to sharpen them for you, too. It's not just Medieval knights that needed to keep their swords honed and cared-for to avoid frequent trips to the blacksmith! Hand-wash expensive knifeware only, always hone the edges before you use them, and it should be a long time before your whetstone stops being enough to maintain your knives.