#I have a whole drawer of old ones from work that I got to keep when I quit and moved jobs and stuff lol

[merge-conflict]

Do you remember the first cell phone you had?

Yes, although I can't for the life of me remember the brand or anything. It was a hand-me-down from one of my siblings or maybe my parents, a little gray flip phone that fit perfectly in the palm of my hand. Had a little antenna with some cat chew damage, and the outside also was a little battered from me dropping it. And maybe a few of my teeth marks from that time when I hung up a call and was very very angry (you remember how you used to be able to snap shut a cellphone when you were done with a call and it felt soooo satisfying? (I remember putting the phone in my mouth and biting it but I can't for the life of me remember why. teenage breakup?)). Don't think I ever texted on it, or that I had texting since it was expensive. It was basically just a tool to call my parents to pick me up because they'd taken pay phones out of the school around the time I got it. I remember being exceptionally envious of my friend who had a job and bought an iPhone when they were new.

My next phone after that was another hand-me-down– a Palm Pre which I still miss and was a surprisingly sturdy phone with a flip out keyboard and survived being accidentally dropped in a snowbank and then dried out in rice (a myth which somehow worked? I guess it didn't get that wet) and was found by my coworker who brought it to me the next day when I had just realized it was missing. Ahhh... simpler times when my phone wasn't constantly glued to my side. Then I got a Samsung Galaxy S4, which is one I still actually have and I think is flashed with some weird custom OS with an octopus splash screen.

[eowynstwin]

Price x Reader. Age gap. Divorced Price. Older BF Price. Vaguely smutty. Follow-up to this.

Price realizes you’ve never had a reliable man in your life exactly the second time he discovers you looking up DIY home maintenance for very simple projects.

It missed him the first time because he was deployed. You’d mentioned offhand how you were figuring out how to rebalance a ceiling fan, and he’d just automatically assumed that you were doing it yourself because he wasn’t there, so he simply praised you for your resourcefulness and lived for the next three weeks off of the way you’d absolutely glowed at his words.

But then he gets home, and one evening on the couch he catches you googling “how to fix a leaky sink.”

“What’s that?” he asks you, tamping down on the sudden feeling of masculine inadequacy that reared up almost immediately at the discovery.

“Faucet handle’s leaking all over my counter when I turn it on,” you say, not looking up from your phone. “Landlord’s out of town and can’t fix it.”

“I’m in town, ain’t I?”

You look up at him then, brows raised. You hadn’t even considered asking him, then.

“Oh—I didn’t want to bother you, John, you only just got back, and you’re tired…”

You trail off at the droll expression on his face.

Price has learned a lot of lessons from his previous marriage. The foundational one: just because he hasn’t been asked to help doesn’t mean he is believed to be unreliable. Adding that lesson to his knowledge base about you—young, modern, independent—calculates out an obvious answer that curtails any sour mood that might have sprouted up over the issue.

He puts his hand over your phone screen and lowers it down to your lap. “I’m fixin’ the sink,” he says simply.

He enjoys the way your eyes dilate at the assertion.

The next day, he shows up at your flat wearing old work clothes and carrying his heavy toolbox in his hand.

(You don’t live together yet—something he’s keen to rectify—but he has a toothbrush in your bathroom and permanent space in your bedroom drawers. He can be content for now.)

And you—you answer the door in the filmiest of sundresses, the ribbon tie on one shoulder hanging at a loose angle.

“Heard you need some plumbing done,” he says in the gruffest of voices, already understanding the game.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re here,” you say, barely able to hide your giggle, “I’ve been so worried.”

He steps in close to you, close enough to feel the heat of your body radiating off of your bare skin. He has half a mind to put the charade aside and lift your skirt here and now, but another lesson helpfully springs to mind: anticipation of the act makes the finale all the sweeter.

“I’ll show you to the kitchen,” you murmur, looking up at him with warm, dreamy eyes.

When he gets under the sink, he finds the problem easy enough to fix—the cold water supply line simple isn’t screwed in tight enough, and when he wiggles the whole contraption by the valves he finds that nothing has been tightened up to standard. A couple of years knocking the thing around had probably loosened up the locknut.

He elects to fix the whole problem in one go, while in the meantime you stand off to the side, watching him. He feels your eyes on his legs, trailing up to the hair on his belly exposed by his shirt riding up.

“Sir, I’m sorry, I should’ve said before,” you simper, “but I’m not really sure how I’m gonna pay for this.”

His cock jumps in his jeans, and he feels your gaze move to it as if it’s a physical touch.

He levers himself out a little and meets your eyes, keeping a stern expression on his face.

“I’m sure you’re gonna figure it out,” he says. Looking down at his groin and then back up at your face might be a touch unsubtle, but clear communication had been the most important lesson of all.

He slides himself back under, and pretends he doesn’t feel you approach, or lower to your knees between his spread legs. He ignores your gentle hands falling on the closure of his jeans, the pop of the button coming undone, the parting of the zipper as you pull it down.

“Of course, sir,” you say, “I’m sure I will.”

The softness of your hand meets his growing erection, caressing the head of his cock with your thumb—followed very close behind by the wet, liquid heat of your mouth.

next

[riaki]

OKAY EVERYONE IS SAYING GOJO DOESN'T DESERVE A HAPPY ENDING YES

BuT what if we could make it a little ANGSTY instead?? 👀 He gets his happy ending. His. Happy ending. You? Well.. Old habits die hard. This is what you wanted after all no? So what if he breaks his promises? What if your smile begins to fade? What if

What you said about later on reader and freckles growing apart cause freckles seemed nice it'd be a shame for him to be an ass

But that it's silly cause the irony is what if that freckle boy.. was just like Gojo but in a different light.

Being as it wasn't him who hurt reader, it was easy to overlook the fact of how similar he was to the old Gojo she knew before it became a shit show

Maybe she realizes that

Maybe she starts thinking

Maybe she drifts apart

And maybe Gojo comforts her but he's the last person she wants to see

Because it's these stupid feelings for Gojo that led her to this hell

And Gojo goes again

And he reels her in

And once he has her

Only to see as her smile begins to fade

As all the effort he had put in when he didn't have her start going away once again

And he starts to fall into old habits becoming the same as he was before, but this time, with you at his hand

As he slowly takes away your smiles again.

But it's okay, he'll make it right. Just...later. and later. And later...

You hope.

sorry I'm not good with angst sorry for any cringe 🤣

this is!! such!!! a good!!!! take!!!!!! on hsbully!gojo!!!!!! tbh this ask speaks for itself lol n dw anon! i rlly love the way u brought it :3 this is highschoolbully!gojo part 592727465527 *suggestive!

yeah. freckles boy isn’t that great of a person. maybe he tried but it didn’t work out; u dunno why but u keep seeing gojo in him— hints of satoru in ur life. like that stinky cologne he thinks is kinda cool but rlly doesn’t smell too good on ur bfs drawer, or the way he takes his coffee. honestly, if u squint, it almost seems like freckle boy is tryna copy gojo in a way…? but u don’t like thinkin abt him so u don’t blink an eye.

fast forward u broke up with freckle boy because something or other; the point is, u really didn’t feel anything with him. there might’ve been a spark, but it was really only artificial and had no wind to fan the flames. and since u got together gojo’s been distant; his smile seems dimmer and there’s always this faraway; foggy look that makes the brilliant azure of his eyes seem cloudy gray. but then ur catching up with him again and at some random frat party you get drunk and ur sense is inhibited and— u end up kissing gojo… oops.

so then u kinda enter this fwb state with him. and.. he’s pretty cool, right? he’s kinda evrything u want in a guy— tall, pretty, cool, strong, handsome, charming— it’s a package deal. but there’s also this… rift, between the two of you. see, ever since gojo lost u the first time, he’s always been so scared of pushing u away. so u stay fwb because he doesn’t wanna lose u again in case he’s feelin more than you are. but his heart doesn’t skip a beat when he sleeps with other girls and his chest doesn’t tighten like it does with u when he gets mouthfuls of fruity gloss from kissing other girls. but he forces himself to keep this wall up between the two of u because he just can’t risk losing you a third time.

it sucks for u too, though! gojo’s just a bit too dense to see it. whether it’s in his own nature, or he’s faking it. it’s probably the latter, but that’d mean he’s not being genuine again, n you don’t wanna think about it. but you’re gettin comfy with him and so is he, and you really do whole heartedly believe he’s changed this time, and for good. and it’s true! he has. but not in the way you thought. apparently, he’s exchanged being an ass with an unreachable ego to a pinch more genuine, but still an ass. it’s proved when u get to his apartment one rainy day ready to spend the weekend w/ him for a study date, but there’s clothes on the floor. dresses n stockings and a frilly blouse that you definitely think (or hope) don’t belong to gojo. unfortunately, your suspicions are confirmed when you lay eyes on the tangle of people on his bedroom through the crack in the door— this time, it’s your turn to run in a hurry. turns out, he got comfortable with you— all in the wrong way, thinking it’d be okay to sleep around. except he gives chase— after pulling on a pair of pants, of course.

eventually he catches up to you; you hate those stupidly long legs. catches your wrist and forces you to face him. in front of a chick fil a, nonetheless. he gets an overwhelming sense of deja vu— but he’s forcibly snapped out of it when je realizes you’re crying. and damn, you look gorgeous, and he wishes it would rain because the sunlight falls around you like liquid gold, framing your pretty face and reflecting prisms of rainbow in your tears.

once again, he doesn’t get it. why are you crying? it’s not like you were really serious or labeled, right…? and the entire reason you’d stayed that way was to avoid somethin like this. but gojo slowly comes to the realization that he’s fucked up big time— he has been since day 1. really, he should’ve found somebody cheaper to chase— you stole his heart and his pride, making him awkwardly and stiffly apologize to you in front of a fast food restaurant on some random crossing next to a train station. it’s only tense because he doesn’t really know how to apologize— he doesn’t have much experience with it, and for that he blames his ego.

but even so, he’s not ready for those big, sappy love confessions yet. you always made him feel so weird— correction: you still do. so you walk away somewhere between fwb and strangers. it’s always one step forward and two steps back with gojo. but maybe, just maybe— he can slowly rebuild your trust with some patience, empathy, and a lot of genuine love that he’s yet to realize he’s been nursing in his heart for you since the first time he laid eyes on you.

paaaaaaart one

[katakaluptastrophy]

Can we talk about Magnus in Harrow the Ninth? Because there's a tendency to paint him as this constantly cheerful figure and he's not - he's just very Fifth.

He's the only person who seems even slightly upset about the whole gun-toting horror thing:

“Did the Sleeper get them?”

“Only by assumption,” said Harrowhark, while Abigail’s dolt of a husband said, “I bloody hope so.”

“Magnus,” Abigail said, a touch disapprovingly.

“Well, if the Sleeper didn’t, that’s two maniacs with an ancient weapon and a love of blowing off faces, dear,” said Magnus.

And he's got a very low opinion of Silas:

"She won’t tell me what he said to her, just that he ‘was horrid.’”

“Cheeky little so-and-so,” said Magnus. “If he were my son, I’d give him something to think about. I’m not surprised he’s gone to ground.”

“I would hope your son might be of different character,” said his wife, half-smiling.

“Protesilaus should have biffed him.”

“It’s strange,” said Abigail, ignoring her husband’s exhortations to biffing.

Behind the jolly Jeeves and Wooster-esque talk of biffing people, let's remember that this is Magnus - who from Gideon's POV never saw a teenager he didn't want to adopt - earnestly wishing that a grown man had hit a 16 year old kid.

And when Harrow explains that she thinks she saw him jump to his death, Magnus isn't particularly sympathetic:

“We should have made him a greater priority,” said Lady Pent.

Magnus said, “I’m not certain.”

and

“We didn’t need him,” he said bracingly.

Abigail said, “We need everyone.”

“I never thought he was quite the thing.”

This "never quite the thing" line is the same one Abigail uses when she says Ianthe shouldn't have become a Lyctor and you get the sense it has a quite specific meaning on the Fifth. You get the distinct feeling Magnus is saying "good riddance" in response to a teenager's apparent suicide.

And then of course there's Magnus' conversation with Harrow as the River bubble collapses, as Harrow debates whether she should leave her body to Gideon:

She said: “If I go back, it will finally destroy her soul.”

It was Magnus who stepped forward and looked at Harrow face-to-face. And perhaps she felt that more keenly: that he was the man who had, in Gideon’s own words a lifetime ago, been nice to her cavalier. His mouth was hard now, but his eyes were as kind as they had ever been. And kindness was a knife.

He doesn't pull any punches in laying out his understanding of the situation to Harrow:

“This whole thing happened because you wouldn’t face up to Gideon dying,” he said, which was a stab as precise as any Nonius had managed. “I don’t blame you. But where would you be, right now, if you’d said: She is dead? You’re keeping her things like a lover keeping old notes, but with her death, the stuff that made her Gideon was destroyed. That’s how Lyctorhood works, isn’t it? She died. She can’t come back, even if you keep her stuffed away in a drawer you can’t look at. You’re not waiting for her resurrection; you’ve made yourself her mausoleum.”

His wife looked at Harrow’s face and murmured, “Magnus, you’ve made your point,” but he uncharacteristically ignored her.

He's trying to get through to her in a very fraught situation, but he's certainly not pulling his punches:

“You’re a smart girl, Harrowhark. You might turn some of that brain to the toughest lesson: that of grief.”

Abigail is also trying to talk her out of things, but she's much more discursive and apologetic. Magnus is kind, but it's kindness as a knife, not a cushion.

Magnus is so often written off as just a silly, goofy character, when he's more complicated than that. He's allowed to have a very real frustration with the River bubble and with Harrow, however much he does also care for her and want to help her.

And you know what, he's a CFO stuck in a horrorscape with his delighted ghost nerd wife and a bunch of soldiers. He runs with it - he cracks one of his House ordinal jokes while physically tackling a gun-toting ghost and makes a decent go at it before getting shot. But he's very much out of his comfort zone, angry, and no longer entirely held back by propriety.

[merumis]

kuroo loves thunderstorms.

the first time he tells you this, he's standing just before the threshold of your balcony—the door cracked open but the screen still closed, feeling the wind curl its way around your building.

it's early november and he's wearing a sweater you gifted him last christmas. you bought it two sizes too big and he insisted on wearing it again the moment the weather started to get colder anyway. it's a rich blue and warm and soft enough that you constantly find yourself leaning into him—on the couch, in public, even before your balcony's screen door—sometimes you wonder if he wears it just for that.

between that and the way your cat swirls around his feet, his tail dragging along kuroo's calf, he seems to almost melt into your apartment. your first place post-grad, that weird mix of childhood, college, and new-adult decor muddling the whole of it: a couch that you got at a discount furniture store but fell in love with anyway; stuffed animals your friends send you every birthday; a childhood favorite of a book sitting on an old thrifted coffee table, a dark oak that you wouldn't be able to afford otherwise.

and kuroo. warm, thunderstorm-watching kuroo, whose mug of herbal tea has been long forgotten on one of your homemade coasters.

you're never quite sure what to call him. the man you sleep with some nights; the guy who will always match your halloween costume if you ask; your cat's favorite of your friends; the name your grandmother keeps asking you about every time you call. you know you told you him you loved him once—really loved him—in some drunken college stupor that feels more like watching a movie from across an open-concept's kitchen island than a memory now.

(that's a lie. you know every detail. the rum warm in your throat, being fresh off the high of his birthday. it was the first snow of the season but the rain the next day mingled with it and turned it to muck that ruined your favorite pair of boots. his breath was hot against your cheeks, the stoop of his apartment building a hollowly adored wind tunnel that decorated your instagram—stone chipped away at the corners, moss growing up the sides, a buzzer that only worked if you pressed the button three times. you kissed him like you always have and his nose was cold as it pressed into your cheek. you whispered it to him and he laughed. you didn't text him for three days.)

there's a familiar pull at your tongue now. a burst of lightning briefly illuminates your apartment and is then followed by the crack of thunder.

"you should probably close the door," you say—instead of i love you.

kuroo shrugs, turns back with a lazy smile on his face. "if you say so," he replies, like every word is a game that the two of you play. he swings the door closed and twists the lock shut. he moves in a way you want to describe as "moseying" tonight, like all of his limbs are relaxed four times more than they should be.

"you should stay here tonight," you tell him as he moves to your couch. your cat follows after him, pawing up his leg as he sits down. he jumps up and settles deep into his lap—there's a brief moment where you envy him. "rain and all."

"so you're telling me i brought my umbrella for nothing?" he teases.

you laugh. "you can use it on the balcony."

he has a pair of sweatpants in your top right drawer of your dresser. you reluctantly washed them last week after spilling apricot jam on the third wear. you never choose to dwell on how a pair of sweatpants gets left at your apartment—you can imagine what his answer would be.

kuroo hums, "it's almost like you want me here."

"i don't," you lie, "just figured my apartment had a better storm view with how much you've been lingering." his apartment is about four stories higher, a few blocks down—closer to his work. it has more windows, a larger living room, a leather couch that you can feel sticking to your bare back if you close your eyes.

it's the better view. it gets fog in the early mornings so you can only see the bounce of headlights from the street below. his bedsheets like to twist between your legs at night in a way that pulls them from the mattress, though—so you suppose you always win there.

"it's homey here," he replies, and you feel the smile tugging up at your lips, "smells like spruce." he eyes the candle he bought you on your kitchen counter, lit and melted to the edges. three wicks, because he knows it's your favorite.

the candle, your favorite expensive lamp your professor gifted you last summer, and the range hood are the only lights in your apartment at the moment. kuroo calls them homey, you call them headache-reducing.

he pulls a hand away from your cat to gesture towards you over the back of the couch now. a palm upwards towards the ceiling, fingers outstretched in a subtle beckoning of your own. your tongue curls with that sickly desire as you step towards him, slip your fingers into his as you round the couch, settling into the cushions as his arm slides across your shoulders.

you reach up to play with his fingers—absent-mindedly. you swore you would do better when you graduated, that maybe things would start to fall into place and, for once, you wouldn't find yourself chasing after a man you could have if you would just allow it to happen.

but you don't know how to say i love you on a thursday—because you swear friday will feel right. you don't say it friday because it's too young, a whole weekend ahead of you that you can't mess up. a movie on saturday, brunch on sunday. you don't say it sunday night because you won't see him until wednesday, but then you catch him for happy hour on tuesday. and you don't know how to to say it.

"you know my grandfather loved spruce," kuroo says, and you look over to catch his eye. he's staring out at your coffee table, looking at nothing in particular as he speaks. "he used to whittle—before arthritis and tremors and whatever—but his dad told him that spruce was the hardest to work with. something about how soft it is or the grain or whatever." he shifts with your cat, letting him crawl up his arm onto the back of the couch. his tail falls over kuroo's shoulder, and now you get the curl into him a little more.

he pulls you closer before you really get the chance to move.

"but he always loved spruce. the smell, the needles, the look, all of it, you know? it was just one of those things, so he learned to whittle with it.

"and when he met my grandmother, he started whittling her all these little things. a duck for their first date, a wooden box for her jewelry, eventually toy blocks, when she was pregnant with my dad." kuroo pauses, and for a while, you think you have something stuck in your chest. you thumb traces up his forefinger and he catches your hand, finally moving to look you in the eyes.

"it's nice to come here and remember him sometimes."

there's another burst of lightning and it crackles across the whole sky behind him, dodging in and out of buildings and making the texture of the clouds pop out against the whole open expanse of it all.

his breath is hot against your skin, his ears are tinged with a bit of red and for a moment you consider running to your thermostat to turn it down a few degrees, but then his lips find yours like they always do.

and in the muddle of lips, you don't even think before you whisper an i love you, murmured into his mouth as his nose traces frigid shapes against your own.

you don't have to listen to know he says it back—though you do, listening for the timbre of his voice and feeling the vibrato of it against your throat—but you can smell it, you can hear it, some days, you can taste it.

spruce-scented candles, thunderstorms that make the whole city colder, the burning of rum against the back of your throat.

you think you can feel it: leather that sticks to your skin, hands that only whittled while his grandfather was alive, but are calloused anyway, a sweater that you'd buy him in the right size if he asked.

you tell someone you love them without ever saying the words. you know he drinks three drinks at happy hour and you only have one—he insists on walking you home anyway and he always stays the night.

and you know he never brought an umbrella, that he works from home tomorrow and his laptop is sitting in his backpack next to your door.

you know that he's warm, that he's kissing you, and that he told you he loves you on the thursday evening as a thunderstorm turned into rain and fog.

[cozage]

Zoro, Luffy, Sanji, Law, and Ace with a fem slave S/O with lots of scars, injuries, and more. She’s so sweet and quiet and great at cleaning and cooking and sewing and practically their future housewife on deck!

A/N: Thank you Anon :) You gave me something I didn’t know I needed. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Characters: F! reader x Zoro, Luffy, Sanji, Law, Ace

Cw: lots of PTSD, trauma response, angst, scars, injuries, etc. 

Total word count: 1.5k

A New Home

Zoro

He always announces his presence when he enters a room. There was one time he didn’t announce it when he came into a room and it scared you so bad you started crying. Never again.

He likes to just sit in the silence with you while you work. Sometimes he watches you, but most of the time he naps. He loves that you don’t mind the quiet space, that he can come to you for a moment of solitude. 

He never asks you to fix his torn shirts. He doesn’t feel right asking you to, but when he finds them sewn back together perfectly and folded neatly in his drawer, he gives you a soft kiss as a silent “thank you”.

He is FIERCELY protective over you both in social settings and in battle. He is always yelling at Luffy for being too loud or scaring you, he pulls out a sword against anyone who tries to make advances on you in public, and god forgive anyone who even thinks about hurting you in battle. 

He gives the best massages. He has perfect control on pressure and knows exactly where to press to comfort your aching muscles. He loves to massage your shoulders, your hands, your feet. Afterwards he’ll lazily trace his fingers across your skin, sometimes tracing over scars, but he never asks about them. He knows you’ll tell him when you’re ready. 

Luffy

He works so so hard to get you out of your shell. He just wants you to try new things and have new experiences!! He wants you to live life to the fullest!! 

New adventure? New food? New friend?? He’s introducing you to it all. It’s a bit overwhelming at times, but you know he means well, so you try your best to embrace it. 

He used to ask you about your injuries and scars whenever he saw a new one, but he’s learned to stop for a multitude of reasons. Sometimes the memories are so bad you cry, and he holds you and rocks you to sleep. Sometimes you tell him the truth, and he gets so angry he needs to go punch something and scream at the sky. Sometimes you’re not sure how you got it, and you get lost in thought for hours trying to remember what memory you’ve forgotten. 

You are always cleaning up Luffy’s messes, helping Franky repair the worn sails, stitching up torn clothing from everyone. You have a way with fabric, and can make an old shirt brand new again. Luffy deems you the “Clothing Captain”, since you can get rid of any stain, mend any cloth, and create the best outfits from scratch.  

He watches you really closely to make sure you aren’t working too hard. Sometimes you just get so caught up in getting as many tasks done as efficiently as possible that the whole day passes and you haven’t sat down once. Luffy keeps an eye on you and makes sure you are still having fun. The life on the Sunny isn’t supposed to be hard work, it’s supposed to be a fun family where everyone chips in with what they’re best at and what they enjoy. He knows you’re still working to understand that fully, and he works to support you the best way he can. 

Sanji

The first time you ate his food, you cried. You had never had anything better in your life, and you praised his cooking ability for days. It was the most you had spoken since joining the crew, and it was all for him. Sanji instantly fell for you, of course. 

He cooks constantly for you. He’ll spend hours over the stove trying to get the recipe just right. You never citicize his cooking (because it’s always the best thing you’ve ever had), so he learns your body language instead. He learns your favorite ingredients, and watches your reactions to his cooking closely to figure out how to perfect it just for you.

He talks your ear off, which you love. He knows you're not much of a talker, and he makes up for the empty space. Neither of you ever mind, you love hearing about his life, about their time on the sea. You asked him once where he first fell in love with cooking, and he got quiet for a long time. “My mother.” He finally said, and you knew that was all he would say on the matter. You realized that he had a past he didn’t like to talk about as well, and you didn’t push him to say anymore. 

He's extremely defensive of you, and keeps you away from prying eyes and questions. Luffy asks something insensitive? “Mind your own business, Luffy!” Zoro says something boneheaded? “I’ll kill you for that Mosshead!” Anytime you’re feeling awkward or uncomfortable, Sanji is there to step in and tell people to back off. 

He picks up on your PTSD warning signs super fast. He watches for the nervous flicks of your eyes, trembling fingers, twitching hands. As soon as he sees a sign, he’s there in an instant. He asks you what you need, refocuses you in the moment, makes sure you know you’re safe. He holds you and lets you cry and scream into his shirt. No matter what you do or what you need, he’s there for you. 

Law

The first time he sees all of your scars, he’s enraged. He clenches his fists and grits his teeth and does the best he can to help you with your current ailment without showing outward anger, but you can feel his rage. It scares you, and when he realizes his emotions are upsetting you, he works to keep them in check in the future. 

He studies up on all the medicinal herbs to heal aches and pains, and tries to find ways he might be able to help heal any injuries or long-lasting pain with his Ope-Ope fruit. 

He watches closely to see how you navigate being on a ship with new people. Some big milestones he notices:

The first time you speak without being asked a direct question

The first time you offer to mend Bepo’s outfit that’s been torn

The first time you fall asleep without crying

The first time someone touches you and you don’t flinch

The first time you laugh

The first time you initiate a kiss with him

There’s many more, but those are his favorites 

He gives you weekly checkups to make sure you’re not overworking yourself and ensure your health isn’t deteriorating 

He loves to kiss each one of your scars, starting at your fingers, moving up your arms and then down your back. He knows he can’t take away the pain, but he can try to mix in a few good memories with them as well. 

Ace

He knows that you question your worth a lot, so he gives you constant reassurance. “You’re doing amazing” and “I’m so proud of you” are some of his favorite things to say to you. They’re your favorite things to hear, too.  

At first, he wants to include you in everything. He wants to show you off. He wants the entire crew to get to know you and realize how great you are. But the big party scenes are overwhelming, and you get a panic attack at one. He quickly realizes that while his intentions were good, he misread the situation, and he apologizes profusely. After that instance, he prefers watching the stars with you in the crows nest as opposed to the party scene below. 

Occasionally he’ll still join the party and ask if you want to join, but he never pressures you to go. Every now and then you’ll go with him, and he keeps you close to him the whole night. When you’re ready to go, he always leaves with you, and makes sure you have time to process the event and decompress before you go to sleep so you don’t wake up anxious the next day. 

He gives you the equivalent of a hot stone massage with his devil fruit powers most nights, trying to coax your muscles into relaxing before bed. He tries his best to ignore your scars and your tattoo as he massages your back. He brings up the idea of you getting the sun pirate tattoo, but at the thought of the pain you begin to shake, and he doesn’t bring it up again. He talks to Marco secretly about the extent of the phoenix fruit abilities, but unfortunately the doctor can’t be of much help in healing the old wounds or the mental ones. 

You love Ace’s friends quietly. You make them snacks, and bring them drinks on hot days. You mend their clothes after battle, and help tend to their wounds when Marco is busy. You don’t always speak, but when you do, Ace’s friends brag about it for days. It’s an honor to be spoken to by you, and Ace loves that his friends love you too. 

[theoutcastrogue]

[From a 2014 article by John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats. He's talking about how a random spam email ended up inspiring a part of his book Wolf in White Van. Later, in 2020, the album Getting Into Knives came out, and I think it inspired its artwork too.]

"It took years for me to be able to just reflexively delete spam, or filter it so that I never see it at all. I blame the spammers for this; the quality of their work took a sharp nosedive at some point. But during whatever period of the internet’s growth you’d call the early 2000s, it seemed like you’d still get some winners: things that had been typed up by a person, sent out to a bunch of email addresses they’d bought or rented for 5 or 10 bucks from the only guy who was ever going to make any money in this particular exchange. Most of them went directly, if manually, into the trash; but once in a while, there’d be one that seemed to earn, at the very least, the minute it’d take me to read it.

The one I’m remembering here was subject-lined SUPPLY OF KNIVES. [...] The subject line opened on an all-caps email that boasted, in ornate, antiquated English appealing to the reader’s more refined sensibilities, about the high quality of the knives on offer at an external website. You shouldn’t click on links in spam email. I live my life on the razor’s edge! I clicked the link.

I want to tell you about these knives: They were beautiful. They were weird. They had elaborate designs in the handles, moons or stars of wolf heads, and special grips, and a variety of points. They were made from metals whose pedigrees were described lovingly, and had been struck — smithed? wrought? — via processes I knew absolutely nothing about, but that sounded fantastic, difficult, arcane. It’s the joy of specialized language: When you’re an outsider to it, it can’t help but sound cool.

Of course this is the whole idea of any operation like this. SUPPLY OF KNIVES could well have been, and probably was, a company in Ohio who’d stumbled across an old warehouse full of knives, and knew enough about sales to describe these things in the most exotic terms they could find. I’m pretty immune to pitches: Who likes to feel like he’s being pitched? But somebody involved with SUPPLY OF KNIVES had had just enough authorial flair — that, or true faith — to caption each knife’s mysterious, blurry accompanying JPEG with a description whose constant recourse to specialized vocabularies seemed to say, “You’re not even reading this unless you already know about this sort of thing. Let us therefore speak like the fellow travelers we are.”

It was like a trade catalog for roadside bandits in need of knives.

I can’t speak for everybody, but I know that when I was a child the life of the roadside bandit seemed like a pretty romantic way to go. I looked at all these knives and read the descriptions and was just generally delighted about the whole thing, so I saved the email in a “memorable spam” folder I used to keep that had maybe two other emails in it. A few years later, Apple came out with this robotic-arm-screen iMac you never see any more, and we were long overdue for a new computer so we got that; and then, after a while, I got myself a laptop, because I was traveling all the time, and eventually both the old iMacs ended up in the basement, and they were both asleep but alive until fairly recently, as far as I knew.

But when I went to check for the email, it was gone. The old blue iMac is dead, bricked, lifeless. Searches on the term “supply of knives” on this laptop and on good old robot-arm-screen find nothing. The backup CD for the blue iMac drive is probably in a drawer around here somewhere, but that’s like saying, “The coin I had in my swim trunks’ pocket is probably somewhere in the ocean.” There is no SUPPLY OF KNIVES. There’s only the memory."

[source]

And this is the wonderful cover art of Getting Into Knives. Back cover and promo material below. Note that "Knives International" and "Knives Wordwide" are not real companies, they appear to be a callback to that elusive spam email.

[todostiddies]

Eren Boyfriend Headcanons pt 3

Modern Eren headcanons for GNreader, a continuation of pt 1, pt 2

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

watched youtube and tik tok tutorials on how to take better pictures because he wants to impress you

but also thinks you're worthy of only an actual photographer you're so beautiful to him and so he want to fill his camera roll (and his insta!) with you and make it look worthy

this also shows because he lowkey becomes like the photographer in the group that sometimes when he's feeling sentimental and/or drunk he'll heckle the group on nights out for pictures and pull the whole "we're gonna grow old one day and need these to look back on" line

he also begins to take really artful photos sometimes?? and people get a little shook cause he'll have a great perspective and shot and then other times he holds his finger up to the camera to make it look like a butt in front of every other picture lmao

if he gives you a bite of something hot he'll blow on it for you first <33 and then he'll bring it to your mouth and feed you and sometimes make you blush just from his insane unblinking stare as he gauges your reaction lol

but if people are eating with you guys and conversation is flowing don't be surprised if Eren eats the bite he just prepared for you because he got too distracted

then he'll look to you all shocked like it wasn't his own hand lmao and he'll give you a cheeky smile or a pout before making another bite for you or he'll pull the iconic cheesy line "just checking for poison babe" with an embarrassed blush

judges horror movies like it's his full-time job

literally will ruin some movies or moments for you by commenting or joking about the characters and set up too much (he does it because he's secretly afraid and has to diffuse his own tension and keep a brave face for you)

has a drawer of letter's he's written to you as a suggestion from his therapist, so sometimes after fights or feelings of pent up love or other feelings he doesn't know how to verbalize he'll write them all down and it's helped with your guys' communication a lot since it gives him time to process and figure out how to say things

he plans on giving you the letters on a big anniversary or the night before your wedding

if he's in a good mood he will dramatically swing your arm while holding hands

sometimes he wordlessly plops his headphones on your head at random times and plays a song for you to hear then looks at you for your reactions and finally for your spoken opinion when he takes them off your head with a raised brow

he hates doing his homework but likes to help you with yours, and if you're burnt out or fall asleep working he'll often times do some of the work for you or help speed the assignment along (with your consent and he's learned all your writing and work styles so he can mimic you pretty well but I don't condone academic dishonesty obvi but lets be real we've all been there)

whiner

whines when he wants your attention

and whines when he gets it (if you know what I mean wink wink)

back to the photos, he has SO many photos of you and of you guys together. But he doesn't just take them and keep them, he'll shove the photo in your face and make you give yourself at least four compliments and then at least one about his photography skills lol

will randomly make eye-contact with you and plaster on the biggest smirk before lifting up his shirt to flash you his abs and v-line when he's in a good mood (and horny)

sometimes when you guys study together and he gets bored he'll take one of your open notebooks or planner and scribble in the margins and fill it with little compliments and song recs for you to find later

if he is shit talking someone this man simply does not care who hears it

he'll be so loud and bold about it too

"Eren, they're right behind you?"

"So?"

whenever you put on chapstick or anything on your lips he says "gimme a taste" and then kisses you

he'll always give a review too. like about the flavor to texture and mostly it's raving but there has been some snubs

a fry stealer to the very worst degree

always wants a sip of whatever you're drinking and if he likes it then that's your and his drink now

big fan of Zelda and always tells you that he'd be your Link if any dark calamity took you

also gets super giddy when you play Zelda in Mario Kart or Super Smash cause then he gets to pick Link even if Link isn't always the best to play with (which is an actual Nintendo crime but maybe I just suck at playing Link lol)

gets so fucking mean when playing Mario Kart as in he will throw every obstacle your way and does NOT let you win and is not above resorting to straight up distracting you or messing you up while playing

will sometimes steal Zeke's bike and take you on rides on it

he'll go fast with just himself but always keeps it under 60mph with you if even that

hums to himself while cooking <33

he can cook but he can't bake because he likes to play around with recipes a lot (by play around I mean he won't have ingredients and is too lazy to go to the store to get them so he wings it)

likes you to taste test his food

and there's always one candle half melted in his kitchen from yalls dinner dates <33

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed!

[yougavemeyourheartyouknow]

THEME PARK HEADCANNONS WITH MIGUEL 💕 💕💕

—

Based off this post lol

Being completely self indulgent with this one lol. I also think it would be funny if they went to a 6 flags park cuz it’s DC property, lol anyway. Not proofread, no smut but slightly suggestive in one part.

Word count: 800

Masterlist

—

✭He remembered how once you made an off handed comment about loving roller coasters and flat rides when you two had first begun dating, and since summer was just around the corner he wanted to surprise you with two tickets to the nearest Six Flags in a state over, wanting to make a whole day out of it, because he’s just a sweet boyfriend like that.

✭He himself hadn’t gone to one since he was in high school before he had his late growth spurt, so he didn’t realize until it was already too late that he was too big for 99% of the rides.

✭It hadn’t occurred to you both right away, you were both waiting in line for a coaster, Batman the ride to be more specific. You both finally got to the front of line after about 40 minutes of waiting, Miguel hugging you from behind as you waited like a stereotypical couple. (When you were single, you despised those couples but here you are now) he wasn't even able to take two steps from the gate until an employee came up to you both. Saying that Miguel was too tall to sit comfortably in the seats and even if he was a few inches shorter, the over-the-shoulders restraints wouldn’t click because of how built his shoulders and chest were.

✭He was a bit upset, the day had barely started and he was already being turned away because of something he had technically no control over. But he didn’t want it to affect the date. So he just walked through the loading station and just waited there. You had initially told him that you weren’t going to get on it if he couldn’t, but he said that you should just ride without him.

✭“You had already waited the 40 minutes muñeca, just go, It’s fine.” He had told you, but he started to regret his words just a tad bit when the ride attendant had sat a group of three college guys next to you. He had to watch silently as the one next to you tried to make conversation. You were always too nice to not engage, and weren’t very good at reading signs when someone was flirting with you.

✭When you finally finish the ride, your face is all flushed , and you're all giggly from the adrenaline pumping in your veins. Miguel made sure that the guy next to you knew you were off limits, pulling you close by your waist and capturing your lips into a wet kiss as you giggled into it. Not noticing the way your boyfriend was glaring daggers at the guy who sat next to you.

✭You were a lot more optimistic than Mig was about being able to get to ride at least one thing with him. But the more times he got denied the more bitter he became, you had to take a break from the rides after one of the works we’re getting “too handsy” with you (he was checking your lap restraint) so as to make sure he didn’t throw it down with a 16 year old worker (it was almost funny how jealous he got at times).

✭If there was anything Miguel could do though, was to win you something at the games. Specifically , one of those gigantic teddy bears you have to hold with both arms.

✭You’ve never wanted to jump his bones more than when he was playing one of those water shooting games with a little boy, and had “accidentally “ missed during the first few seconds so the kid could win the last pikachu stuffy. Admitting to him when you both shared a funnel cake later that you’ve never wanted to make him a dad more than in that moment.

✭And he swears to himself that he’ll keep those words in mind next time you try to reach for the condoms in his dresser drawer.

✭Miguel was sure he wouldn’t be allowed on 99% of the rides, but there was, thankfully, a ride he could go on. The Farris wheel.

✭You both were able to get on just after the sky turned dark, and all the fun neon lights from some of the other rides lit up with perfect lighting as you boarded.

✭You were in awe at all the lights and the sights from atop of the wheel, taking a picture to post on your insta story with 3005 from childish Gambino later. Not even noticing Miguel’s starry-eyed look at you, matching the one you had.

✭Once you two stopped at the top, Miguel couldn’t help but seize the opportunity to be cheesy, and leaned in until his lips connected with yours.

—

Taglist: @famouscattale @strawberryjuice9 @loser-alert @maomaimao @franceseca-the-1st

@mcmiracles @mangoslushcrush @queerponcho @yournextbimbogf @tinybirdhideout

@reader-1290 @laysmt @migueloharasoulmate @fruityfucker @pigeonmama

@scaryplanetdestroyer @migueloharastruelove @genny1019 @maiyart @stressed-cherry

@haveclayeveryday @krentkova19

[sixlane]

so sweet

Bartylily microfic | 1.4k words | NSFW

for india @certifiedl0verboy because they said the world needed barty and lily getting high and sharing a costco cheesecake, and also han @honeybcj because the image of barty and lily shotgunning hasn't left my head in days <33

Lily opens her fridge and stares. The cool air and soft light leaks out into the empty kitchen as she contemplates how she became this person. The type who, completely unprompted and for no good reason, buys a whole Costco cheesecake for herself. 

The soft, round monstrosity sits on the bottom shelf of her fridge, taking up so much space she was forced to shove her yogurt into the vegetable drawer. The thing stares back at her, mocking, taunting, begging to be left to mold when she inevitably fails to eat it all. 

The sound of a key in the door snaps her out of the silent stand off.

Fuck, Barty’s home.

She can already imagine his confused smile and snarky comments when he opens the fridge for his nightly Red Bull just to come face to face with Lily’s unexplainable decision. It’s not like they’ve been roommates for long, or friends for that matter. They keep it cordial, stay out of each other's way, smoke the occasional bowl and watch old seasons of America’s Next Top Model, but this seems a little too close to soul-baring for comfort. 

Lily sits down at the table with a glass of water, tries to act casual, tries not to look at the fridge. 

“Hey,” Barty says, dropping his keys on the counter.

Lily nods her head, taking a sip from her glass. For a minute she thinks she’s in the clear because he’s already started to leave the room, but he doubles back at the last minute, realizing he’s forgotten something. 

He pulls the fridge open, reaches down, and stops, just for a second, before grabbing his energy drink and letting the door fall shut. 

Lily pretends she hasn’t been watching him this whole time.

He pops the top on his can, takes a sip and gives Lily a once over. “You having a party or something?”

“Will you leave me alone if I say yes?” Lily deadpans, though she can feel her face heating up. 

“Nope. Then I’d probably have to ask why I wasn’t invited.” He walks over to lean against the island, just a few feet between them, and looks down at her. He takes another sip.

“Ok look I needed more laundry detergent so I went to Costco and obviously I had to look in the bakery section and it was just sitting there. So. I bought it.” Barty’s smile widens as she explains until he’s just grinning at her. “What?” she asks, defensive.

“So you just bought the whole thing for yourself?” He says it curiously. He’s not judging, but she can hear the ulterior motive in his tone. 

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Spit it out.”

Barty huffs a laugh. “One second.” He sets his drink down and heads toward his room, leaving Lily to wonder what his plans are. She can never quite read him. He likes to play up this persona of his, effortlessly carefree and nonchalant, but she has always sensed something just below the surface. She notices it in the way he remembers her work schedule, the way he seems to have eyes in the back of his head. 

When Barty comes back, he’s got a bag of weed in one hand and his grinder and bowl in the other. He holds them up, mouth quirked in a dangerous way, waiting for her response.

Lily reflects the smile back at him. “I like the way you think, Crouch.”

So, Lily grabs the cheesecake, two forks, and some napkins, while Barty packs the first bowl of the night. They light up next to an open window in the living room, inhaling as the warm breeze kisses their cheeks and slides through their hair.

They wait until they’re properly high before digging in, and as Lily brings that first bite to her lips, allows it to settle on her tongue, she swears it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted. 

“Fuuuuuck,” she moans. “This was the best decision I’ve ever made.” She licks the back of the fork, wanting to savor the tangy goodness, and she doesn’t miss how Barty watches before he huffs a laugh and shifts his focus to take a bite of his own.

“God,” he says around a mouthful. “What does Costco put in this shit?” 

“It’s fucking amazing right?” 

It’s at that point that she notices a bit of cake smeared across Barty’s lower lip, so she leans over and wipes her thumb across it. It happens before she can even register she’s done it, but she fully commits, sticking her thumb in her mouth after, tasting sweet and something else.

“You use Aquaphor?” She asks.

Barty stares at her. Red eyes slightly widened. “You can identify Aquaphor by taste?”

Lily smiles with all her teeth and reaches into her back pocket to produce the tube she takes with her everywhere. 

“Put some on,” he says before picking up the bowl for another hit.

She looks at him suspiciously. “Why?”

“Just do it.” He sparks the lighter and breathes in deeply. 

She brings the tube to her lips and smears some on, watching his chest expand behind his t-shirt.

He holds the smoke in his lungs but motions for her to come closer and oh. She sees where this is going. 

The realization doesn’t stop her from leaning in anyway.

Barty’s lips ghost over hers and he breathes the smoke into her open mouth. She inhales in turn, taking the air from his lungs into her own. 

It’s intimate, she thinks, in a way that not many things are. To hold a vital piece of someone else inside yourself. To pass it back and forth with such care, not letting anything slip through the cracks. 

And that thought is what causes Lily to close the barely-there distance. To allow their lips to push together. To allow herself to fully taste the leftover sweetness and Aquaphor and Red Bull on Barty’s tongue, which he doesn’t waste a minute before sliding into her mouth.

It’s sloppy and uncoordinated where they lean over the half-eaten cheesecake between them, and Lily pulls back before her arms give out underneath her. 

They stare at each other for a moment, both smiling and laughing like idiots. 

It’s so easy between them, always has been.

“One more?” Barty asks.

“One more what?” Lily volleys back, eyebrow raised.

“Bite,” He says motioning toward the cake, sly smile across his face.

She rolls her eyes affectionately but nods, leans forward as he scoops another piece, sure to get some of the buttery crust on his fork. He holds it out for her to take but before she can, the pile of cake and graham cracker falls right onto her left tit.

Lily stares down at it, mouth agape for a second before she starts giggling again. Because it’s funny. Everything is so funny she can’t help herself.

That is until Barty’s tongue is dragging itself along the skin there, collecting the cake and making way for his teeth, which bite hard enough to leave a mark. 

He stares up at her as he does it, gauging her reaction. He gets the all clear when Lily fails to stop the needy whine that leaves her throat.

Barty trails his mouth upward, leaving open-mouth kisses along her neck until he reaches her ear.

“You taste so good,” he whispers. Voicing out loud the thoughts she’s been having all night.

Lily lets the corner of her mouth tug up. “You have no idea.”

“Fuck.” He reattaches to her neck and his hands find the button of her pants, dexterous as they undo it and work the zipper down. He reaches beneath her underwear, letting his long fingers slide through her wetness, collecting some before he brings them to his mouth, sucks sinfully and stares her down the whole time.

The haze around Lily’s thoughts sharpens to want, and Barty must see the change in her eyes because he smiles devilishly around the digits before replacing them where she needs them most. 

“So fuckin’ sweet,” he says, circling her clit lazily, not enough pressure to really get her there.

“Please…” she begs, arching into him, trying to push harder against his fingers. She’s too far gone not to act as desperate for it as she is. She wants his fingers inside of her, wants him to lick every inch of her, put his mouth in places it probably doesn’t belong.

“Shhh princess,” he coos. “Just enjoy the ride.”

Once they finish, Lily twice and Barty all over her stomach before licking her clean, Lily will realize they left the cheesecake in the living room under the open window.

Oh well, she was never really going to finish it anyway.

[bigtreefest]

Chapter 10: We Should Get Married

From: Bigger Houses Series

Pairing: Mountain Ranger! Ari x Reader

Summary: Ari’s got a special date planned for you in a special location the two of you hold near and dear

Word Count: 3,229

Content/Warnings: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI, smut, outdoor sex, protected sex (woo hoo! He comes in the condom), cockwarming, nudity, kissing, mentions of alcohol consumption (champagne), happy tears, loooooove or whatever, nervous and organized Ari, semi-unsuspecting Duchess, good friends, discussions of marriage, I think an engagement ring should be a warning

A/N: It’s been too long! I’m so happy to finally release another chapter of our majestic mountain man.

PLEASE screech with me in asks, comments, and reblogs!! Much love!

Dividers by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

Below is the song which inspired this chapter.

< Prev | Series Masterlist | Next >

Ari had run his hands through his hair in nervousness so many times today that he was afraid he was about to go bald. His hiking boots paced on the floor of the ranger station as he bit his nails, a nasty old habit, and went through the plan with his coworkers and friends once again.

“Max, you’re sure you can do that?”

Max rolled his eyes, albeit with a smile, and nodded once again.

“Yes, Ari. It’ll be good training for my next lumberjack competition, anyway. You know nothing is gonna keep me from climbing up a tree for a good shot.”

Ari nodded and blew out a breath, hands on his hips.

“Okay, okay, good. And Rachel, appointment all booked?”

She smiled. “Yep! Today after work, so she’ll be all ready for tomorrow. Oh! And before I forget, here is your special package. I know you said you were going to pick it up from the jeweler, but I knew I’d be seeing you today, so one less thing to worry about going into town for.”

Ari reached for the bag Rachel held out for him, feeling the small box was there. He gingerly nestled his fingers in the cinched opening and pulled to get to the contents, taking out and rolling the velvet box between his fingers. He carefully opened it up to check the contents, the sparkle in his eye matching that of the item in front of him. A rare grin grew on the mountain ranger’s face for how anxious he had been, planning for tomorrow this whole week.

“Thank you for this. It’s perfect, just like her.”

You were running around the house like crazy trying to tidy up as dinner was cooking on the stove. After a couple weeks of insane work, Ari had convinced you to take two days off to relax and treat yourself. It wasn’t without your resistance, but finally you gave in since it would be a good opportunity to finally get to some things done around the house you’d been putting off. It was a chance to deep clean, but unfortunately, rush it a little since you wanted your day tomorrow to be all relaxation.

So far, you had reorganized the entire kitchen and spice cabinets, swept and mopped the whole house, tidied the bathroom, and washed all your bedding and laundry. All that was left was a little light dusting that was sort of high up, so you’d figured you’d wait for the next time Ari came over for him to get those high places, or at least make sure you didn’t fall when trying to reach the top of your cabinets.

You were sprawled on your floor between semi-folded piles of laundry, dresser drawers pulled open and emptied in an attempt to reorganize when you heard a knock on the door. You pushed yourself up with a groan and shuffled over the hardwood floors in your socks, pushing up your old, oversized sweatshirt sleeves, and readjusting your sweatpants before reaching for the door handle. When you turned it, you were surprised to be met by Rachel’s smiling face. And then it hit you and you facepalmed.

“Rach! Hi, oh my gosh, it totally slipped my mind. We have that nail appointment, don’t we?”

She laughed as you gestured for her to come through the door. “Yeah, I figured you either forgot or were busy when I called twice and you didn’t pick up. No worries, though. It’s not for another half hour.”

You blew some hair out of your face and checked your watch as you closed the door.

“Okay. That’s good, then. I’m going to go change. You can help yourself to dinner if you haven’t eaten yet and then we can go?”

“Sounds good.” She nodded as she already went to open your cabinets to grab a plate.

Taking a rare chance to pamper yourself was a treat. You laid in bed late Friday morning, sighing as you looked out the window, sipping a coffee that was lukewarm at this point, but you didn’t mind. It was made with love. Ari had stopped by just an hour ago before his Ranger shift and made it for you, pleasantly surprised to find you still tangled in the sheets. It was rare for you to sleep in this late, but he was glad you’d taken his advice on giving yourself a break, a chance to relax for once. You deserved it with how hard you worked.

You watched him intently that morning, the then-steaming mug of coffee snug in your hands, as he strode over to your closet. He slid the hangers from one side to the other, searching for something specific until he found it. “Ah! Here it is.”

He turned and set it on your dresser: a sundress. The one you had worn on your first date in the mountains where Ari had shown you his favorite overlook of town.

“This one’s my favorite. Wear it tonight? I’ll take you out.”

Your face morphed into a sleepy smile, voice still a little raspy.

“Okay. Then you and me can come back here afterwards? We’ve both got the weekend off.”

He grinned, moving across the room in only a few steps, leaning over and reaching for his hands to frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as his fingertips barely tangled in your hair. Ari nodded, his golden brown locks swaying beautifully as he did, as he leaned in, placing a kiss on your forehead, then your nose, and finally deeply and lovingly on your lips.

“Perfect, Duchess. I love you.”

And with that, he was out the door.

Ari showed up at your house that evening when the sun was low in the sky, but there was still a little time before it set below the horizon. You walked down the steps out to his truck, surprised to see him dressed up more than usual. He wore a flannel shirt, but you could tell it was a new, fresh one. Crisp. The colors were complimentary to those of your dress. Where was he taking you? Somewhere fancy? You trotted out to see him and leaned into him as he squeezed you tight.

When you pulled away, you ran your hands up and down his chest on the soft fabric while his hands rested on your waist.

“So what’s the special occasion, Bear?”

He smiled and shrugged, grabbing your hand and leading you to the truck. “Just another day in paradise. There have to be a special occasion for me to treat my girl?”

Ari was playing it cool on the outside, but underneath the surface, he was a nervous wreck. He had wiped his hands several times on his good jeans so you wouldn’t be able to feel how clammy they were. His heart was beating a mile a minute, but he did his best to keep his breathing even. This was meant to be a happy occasion, and deep down, he knew what your answer would be. He had known for months, really when he looked back at the signs, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still nervous.

You giggled as you hopped up on the seat. “Of course not. I’ve just never seen you this dressed up. You look spiffy. I like it.”

Ari huffed out a laugh as he climbed up in the truck behind you and closed the door. “More than the ranger shorts? More than that old ballcap I always see your drooling over?”

You turned your torso towards him, holding your hands up to stop that thought. “Woah, woah. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. I will say it’s a top contender, though. Me and my sweet babe who looks absolutely dapper. But I’d happily spend everyday forever with you, in any clothes you want.”

Ari smirked as he turned the keys in the ignition. “Even no clothes?”

You poked a finger into his chest. “Now that, sir, might be my favorite outfit of yours.”

You knew exactly what was happening when Ari pulled onto the rocky road between the evergreens and past the creek bed. Well, at least you thought you did. The same magic was in the air as a year ago when he had brought you out here the first time, except now, there was somehow even more. More electricity, more love, more beauty in it all. After all that time, nothing had faded. It had grown brighter.

More than just metaphorically. Physically, too. As Ari pulled the truck towards the familiar Rocky cliff, small twinkling lights came into your vision. You looked over at him and tilted your head to the side as he put the truck in park.

“Ari, what’s going on? You did this?”

He turned towards you and smiled, gathering your hands in his and placing a kiss to your knuckles.

“Of course I did. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen out here, but I figured some extra ambiance would be nice. I’ve got picnic supplies in the back, why don’t we hop on out and I’ll grab them, meet you over at the blanket that’s set out. Sound good?”

You nodded and gave him a final kiss as he helped you down out of the cab. While Ari hung back, you made your way out near the cliff edge to the blanket where fairy lights were strewn across a small wooden arch, along with ivy and some buds of your favorite flowers. You leaned over to sniff one, the floral scent mixing with the surrounding pine in the refreshing mist that covered the mountains. As you looked out over the town in the valley, you could see the peachy sun just starting to dip below the horizon. This was your favorite time of day next to the sunrise, as the golden hour light bathed the scenery.

You stood back up and took a deep breath in, relaxing your shoulders as your heard Ari’s steps coming up behind you.

“You know, I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of this view.”

“Neither will I.” Ari’s voice came from right behind you, but not as high up as you would’ve expected. And he sounded like he had stopped moving. Usually, he would’ve come up and hugged you from behind to share the view, but something must’ve stopped him. You turned around to investigate.

When you did so, your gaze was drawn downward, finding Ari’s face lower than yours. He was on a knee, sharing the blanket you were standing on. Your breathing started picking up and you covered your mouth in a gasp as you saw what was in his hands: a small wooden box that housed a ring. A beautiful emerald, framed by twisting vines of gold. It was so unique. The deep green matched the wooded mountains around you, and somehow seemed mimetic to the love you and Ari shared. A comforting, natural, golden tie between hearts. The ring was perfect, and so you.

Before Ari could even say a word, tears were flooding your eyes.

“Yes! Oh my gosh. Yes, Ari, Yes!!”

He laughed and smiled as he gently took your hand that you had frantically shoved out in front of you and slid the ring on your finger. In a second, you were falling into him, throwing your arms around his neck in the tightest hug, turning your head to kiss his bearded cheek over and over again.

“I love you. I love you so much.”

Ari stood up, your feet no longer on the ground from his squeeze around your torso, spinning you around in celebration. When he finally set you down, he pulled back and held your hands in his, kissing the new ring that fit perfectly onto your finger, looking deeply into your eyes and giggling with elation.

“I love you, too, Duchess. Baby, I had a whole speech planned and I didn’t even get to say it!”

You shook your head and sniffled, smiling profusely. “Okay, okay, sorry. Go ahead, say it now.”

Ari took a quick breath and rubbed his thumbs over your knuckles as he began.

“When I brought you here a year ago, I told you that this was my favorite spot on earth. But I want you to know, you’re my favorite spot on earth. I’d be so happy anywhere with you. You saved me, and you’ve given me endless grace, and I’m so honored that you’re willing to let me be your husband.”

Ari’s eyes were watering now with emotion as you moved your hands to his cheeks, pulling him down for another kiss. Afterwards, he turned his head and kissed the inside of your left hand, right at the underside of your newly adorned engagement band. He was already obsessed with seeing you in it. Feral, even, and you could tell by the way his gaze darkened, exactly what he was feeling. A smirk grew on your face.

“Right here or truck bed?”

Ari’s grin matched your own. “Truck bed. You go ahead and get over there. I’ve gotta make a call first.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, so you slowly started walking as Ari pulled out his phone from his back pocket.

“Max, hope you got some good photos, but I’m gonna need you to climb down real quick from that tree and get outta here.”

Ari looked at you with a dopey smile. “My fiancée and I are about to do something I don’t want you to see, especially with a telescopic lens.”

Ari shoved his phone back in his pocket and jogged after you.

“Yes! Oh my gosh. Yes, Ari, Yes!!”

Your hands clawed into his chest as you ground your body against his harder, faster. Ari’s flannel shirt had been hastily unbuttoned and opened, his tan chest on display and pants tossed off to the side as you straddled his waist, sundress long gone. It was a wild act of love in the middle of the wilderness. Ari’s feet were planted on the blanket he had laid out in the truck bed as he thrusted upwards to meet you. His blunt fingertips dug slightly into your hips, guiding your movements. The sun had fallen in the sky, the last drops of light remaining, just enough to cause the new gemstone you wore to sparkle almost as much as the eyes of your new fiancé.

Ari grunted and groaned as he continued to look up at you, his muscles growing sore and faltering with exhaustion of chasing your mutual, pleasureful release. You could see the pleading in his eyes as you clenched, the both of you nearing your peak.

The sensation of the hair at Ari’s base tickling your clit had been stimulating you slowly in a gradual climb, but not enough to tip you over the edge, the two of you prolonging this aspect of your celebration of a life tied together.

Ari took one of his large hands and snaked it towards your belly, fingers putting pressure just above your mound and thumb making small circles on your slick clit. The begging that you had only read on his face became verbal as you clenched harder at the stimulation.

“Please, Angel. I’m so close. Come for me. Come with me, baby. I-I-“

Ari let out a loud groan that morphed into almost a whimper as he threw his head into your chest while he spilled into the condom. His breaths were heaving with satisfaction. Your arms cradled his head against you and your body shook with your orgasm, triggered by seeing him like that. You rode out your high with a few slow grinds of your hips before collapsing on top of Ari. He leaned back against the rear window of his truck, looking up at you, the happiest he had ever been. Ari had never been this at peace, this satisfied with his life, but right now, it was better than anything he could’ve ever imagined.

You looked down at him, having moved your hands to the sides of his neck as he had pulled away, your thumbs brushing the sensitive skin of his jugular.

Ari was positively enamored. He had been this whole time, but now he knew for sure, he belonged to you. You belonged to each other.

“Let’s get married right now.”

Your eyes went wide and you laughed. “Sex was that good, huh?”

The smile had no prospect of being wiped off Ari’s face. “I mean, it’s always good. But that was better somehow. I can’t wait to see what it’s like when we’re husband and wife.”

One of your hands moved over his heart. “Bear, I guarantee you it’ll be much better, considering I’ll be the one going feral over you wearing a wedding band.”

He shrugged. “So then why not right now? Drive out to a little chapel in Vegas, hire an Elvis, ride away into the sunset in one of those ridiculous pink limousines with the longhorns on the hood. We can find you a little white dress, I’ll rent a cheap suit. Ya know, feed each other wedding cake, the whole shebang.”

You just giggled and shook your head. “No. I’ve gotta tell my mom. I want our family and friends there.”

Ari sighed, but acquiesced. “I know, I know. It was worth a shot, though. Ain’t no point in waiting when you know, though…. ya know?”

You nodded. “I know, hun. And trust me, I’d get married to you in a heartbeat, but look how much work you put into this engagement. I want that in the wedding. Sure, it’s our special day, but we’re sharing it with family. And I want it to be as beautiful as the love we share.”

Ari’s eyebrows raised as he blew out a breath. “If you want what I did for this engagement on a wedding scale, I’m not sure we’re gonna have money for a honeymoon. We can go to Paris, but it’ll just have to be the one in Tennessee.”

You grimaced thinking about how much Ari must’ve spent. Flowers were expensive! And honestly, probably so was the ring. But you knew that the amount of money spent wasn’t what it was about. It was about showing how much you loved each other through your gestures.

“No need to go bankrupt. We’ll keep it small and thrifty. All I care about is people seeing how devoted I am to you.”

Ari smiled, the small stress that had painted his brow melting away from your reassurance. Just as he was sitting up to give you a kiss, his stomach grumbled, causing you both to laugh.

“Oh yeah, this was supposed to be a picnic. Okay, babe, pull out the food and let’s get at it.”

Ari stole a kiss and leaned over, opening the picnic basket as you let out a whine at the feeling of him inside you. That reminded you that you were both sitting here naked, too. From on top of the food, Ari pulled out a warm blanket, heated by the steamy container lids. He draped it over the two of you, the skin of your chests comfortably pressed together.

The rest of the night was filled with more than enough warmth, love, laughter, and champagne sipping for the two of you.

Next >

Bonus A/N: hngggg squeeeee!!😍🫣 that is all.

Taglist: @patzammit @hawkeyes-queen @identity2212 @jamneuromain @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @ronearoundblindly @mrsevans90 @steviebbboi @mercurial-chuckles

[livwritesstuff]

‘tis my birthday today (it’s gotta be one of the worst birthdays to have, we don’t need to talk about it) anyways that’s where this is coming from

(also i’m not trying to imply that jan 1 is eddie’s bday. i wouldn’t wish that on anybody. besides, he is def a weirdo february aquarius)

The second half of the calendar year is nothing short of pandemonium for Eddie and Steve and their three daughters.

Moe’s birthday in late July kicks it off, almost immediately followed by Steve’s birthday in early August, then Hazel’s in September. Robbie’s birthday comes mere days after Halloween, and from there they dive headfirst into the bedlam of the holiday season.

Much to Eddie's relief, they all made it to yet another New Year's Day, and while the girls are definitely feeling the end-of-winter-break blues, Eddie welcomes the reprieve in festivities, brief as it may be.

His own birthday is up next – though not for another month.

He’s really not a birthday kind of guy. Never had been.

He loves making birthdays exciting for Steve and their daughters (they have a whole slew of traditions and everything – there’s names spelled out in pancakes involved; it's a very big deal), but his own…not so much.

It managed to fly under the radar for the past few years, but since this year is the big Five-Oh, he knows Steve won’t let him get away with that again.

Eddie has a complicated relationship with his birthday. When he was younger and the weight of Birthday Importance was at its peak, he never really celebrated the way other kids got to, and now, as an adult, he doesn’t know how to feel the things you’re supposed to feel about your birthday. 

Steve does a good job, despite Eddie’s weirdness. 

His favorite, Eddie thinks, was the year Moe was born, when Steve had managed to catch him off guard by renting a tiny cottage up in Maine for a few days.

“Moe or no Moe,” Steve had asked, “I’ve got Rob and Nance on standby.”

(They’d taken Moe. She saw snow for the first time. It was amazing, and people who don't want to involve their kids in stuff are a bunch of fucking weirdos).

Steve gives him a letter every year – handwritten on notebook paper and folded into whatever cheesy card he picks out.

Eddie keeps most of the letters in a fireproof lockbox along with all their passports and social security cards and birth certificates (look – Eddie doesn’t fuck around with priceless shit), but he keeps the most recent one – the one Steve gave him for his forty-ninth birthday nearly a year ago – in the top drawer of his bedside table.

He has it pretty much memorized at this point.

It says:

Ed! (with an exclamation point and everything – god, does Eddie love him)

49.

Holy shit we’re getting old.

Writing this is making me think about all the ones from the beginning, when I’d write about our future together even though we didn’t have a damn clue what we were working towards for a while.

I think we’re in it, man. Crazy, right?

(The ink color suddenly switches from blue to purple)

Sorry for the color change. Hazy decided she needed a blue pen immediately. Hope your vision hasn’t gone totally to shit and you can still read the purple.

Anyways, since I have you hostage reading this, I’m gonna take the opportunity to discuss you, because you don’t let me in real life most of the time.

You are gorgeous. Best looking face I’ve ever seen. I wonder how much time I’ve lost off my day just staring at you (actually, not a loss. I take that back)

You suck at puzzles – I know that sounds bad, but it’s great for me. I need that to rub off on Moe because she’s getting pretty good and that’s gonna be a problem for me.

You make me laugh so fucking hard every day. I’m praying the girls get your sense of “elevated” humor or whatever you like to call it

You’re so fucking smart, Eddie. I count myself lucky for it endlessly

You are completely 100% you all the time. I’m still working on that I think but I’m getting there because of you. I’m glad all that shit we went through didn’t take that away from you.

the BEST dad. Can’t believe I didn’t say that sooner. Not to brag but our kids are turning out pretty awesome (can’t go around saying that too much though it’ll go right to their heads and then any power we have left goes out the window)

You’re probably the best person I’ve ever known. Don’t think I’ll be forgetting what a catch you are any time soon, because I won't.

Thank you for loving me even all these years later. My life is better every day that I’m with you.

We’ll keep things quiet this year. Don’t get used to it though. Next year’s gonna be a rager.

Love you always!

- Steve :) ♡ ☆

[bullet-prooflove]

I've just found your work and I'm obsessed 😭 I never usually ask for things - too scared lol but feeling brave. For Dr Archer Chicago med and the three things prompts please can I request: cat + whiskey + socks 😂

Tagging: @kmc1989 @mandy426 @mysticcandymiracle @sweetdaytimedreams @cosmic-psychickitty

Dean does not want a cat, he has never wanted a cat but apparently he now has a cat, one that likes to nap in his sock drawer and yowl him awake when he sleeps past seven am.

“That’s because he likes you.” You tell him when he complains to you about it. You have  the whisky coloured kitten snuggled up close to your chest and you’re depositing tiny kisses on the top of its head. “He knows who his Papa is.”

“Isobel.” He says firmly. “I don’t want to be it’s Papa, we need to rehome it.”

The look on your face, it makes Dean feel like a monster.

You don’t speak to him after that. You spend the evening playing with the kitten on the floor until it curls up on your lap and falls asleep and he just watches the Cubs game, pretending that there isn’t an icy cold chill between the two of you.

This whole thing started when you were cutting through the park on your way home a couple of days ago. You’d heard a persistent meowing coming from one of the trashcans you walked past and when you’d looked inside, you’d found a tiny bedraggled kitten, thrown away as if it were trash. You’d bundled the thing up in your coat, brought it home and it’s been living here ever since much to Dean’s discontentment.

When he wakes up the next morning, you’re already gone from the apartment but the cat it’s still there. He observes the note on the coffeemaker telling him it’s been fed asit lingers by it’s bowl looking hopeful.

“It’s nothing personal.” He tells it as he takes a couple of the cat treats you bought out of the pouch and places them in the bowl. “I just like my space.”

The cat brushes up against his hand, rubbing it’s cheek across his knuckles. Dean scratches it behind the ears and it begins to purr under the attention, stretching out as his palm lightly caresses over its back.

“Maybe we can come to arrangement.” Dean tells the kitten, scooping it up and escorting it to the fluffy grey cat igloo that now resides next to the sideboard in the living room. He sets the kitten down in front of it and it brushes it’s face against the fabric. “You stop finding your way into my sock drawer and actually go to sleep in the cat igloo she got you then maybe you can stay.”

The cat delves inside, padding it’s paws on the pillowing and Dean takes that to mean they’ve come to an accord.

It’s late when you get in that night, it’s been a bear of a shift. There’d been a pile up and you’ve spent the past few hours trying to find space for your additional guests and work their autopsies into your already busy schedule. You still haven’t had a chance to find a new home for the cat, part of you is hoping Dean will change his mind but you know the likelihood of that.

When you step into the living room, Dean’s sitting on the couch watching an old war movie, the kitten is resting on a cushion in his lap, his palm lightly stroking over him as they both stare at the screen.

“Are we keeping him?” You ask, trying as hard as you can to keep the excitement out of your voice and Dean sighs as he looks down at the kitten.

“I guess we are.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[compacflt]

Rumors from Pearl Harbor.

When Admiral Kazansky first comes to Pearl, he brings with him about half of his previous staff, all exceptionally-hardworking people hand-picked over years—advisors, flag aides, secretaries, ranks all over the board. But his new hires, upon getting acquainted with the old guard, are shocked to discover that his previous staff still hardly knows him at all.

“He keeps to himself, mostly,” Lieutenant Commander Hartford explains over a pint. “I made the mistake of asking him once what he did for fun. You know, like, hobbies and stuff. He blinked at me for a second, and then said, ‘I read.’ That’s it! I read! My advice to you newcomers would be, don’t ask him questions about his personal life, because it tends to be pretty boring.”

“It sounds to me like he’s a walking, talking Wikipedia page,” says Captain Calvert, who worked for the previous two Pacific Fleet Commanders and thinks she knows how to deal with them by now. “We owe it to ourselves to figure him out. It’ll make our lives easier, anyway. So, let’s put our heads together: what do we know about him?”

What they know are his habits, which they’ll come to learn intimately over the next few years, and which are admittedly pretty boring. Admiral Kazansky is one of the first to show up to work in the morning and one of the last to leave in the evening. He often answers e-mails past 2300 hours, but never later than midnight. Jokes never catch him off-guard; he rarely smiles, and when he does, it has an ulterior motive. When he’s not working, he’s scheming and making plans to go back home to San Diego, and his requests for leave are always granted, because he works like a pack mule from home anyway. He signs off every e-mail with “Sincerely,”…

“Is he sincere, though?” asks Chief Warrant Officer Kent halfway through Admiral Kazansky’s first year. (Admiral Kazansky is surely unaware that his staff now spends the second Friday of every month chit-chatting about him over drinks in downtown Honolulu.) “I can’t ever tell. And he lives in Hawaii. San Diego’s nice, I know, but what’s so different about the beaches there that he can’t get here?”

“I genuinely don’t think he’s human,” confesses Commander Stoddard. “People warned me about that when I came here, and I laughed it off, but… he keeps his desk biologically sterile. Not one fingerprint, but I’ve never seen anyone wipe it down. I’ve looked through his drawers. Don’t judge me, I got curious. Everything squared away, like he’s goddamn Einstein or something. Have any of you ever seen him in his civvies?” No one has. “God damn it, where does he shop for groceries? No one’s seen him at a grocery store? Does he even own a pair of jeans? Does he wear his uniform to bed, too?”

“He probably goes grocery shopping on the whole other side of the island to avoid all the enlisted kids,” laughs Captain Calvert. “Come to think of it…you know how he always eats lunch in the office? It’s always a salad. And always the same kind of salad. This guy survives on one cup of coffee and one spinach salad a day. Maybe he really isn’t human.”

They build out their wealth of knowledge and come to learn that Admiral Kazansky is defined by his extremes, by what he always does and what he never does. Admiral Kazansky gets his uniforms dry-cleaned every week, though he never spills anything on them. No one has ever seen Admiral Kazansky stumble over his words while giving a speech, or trip over a sidewalk curb, or push a “pull” door. He is always polite and never friendly. Sometimes he is cold, and sometimes he is cruel in his patience with you when you’ve fucked up, like a cat toying with a hemorrhaging mouse. But he never raises his voice. He is always immaculately put-together, well-groomed, constructed every day like a product on an assembly line. Nothing is ever out of place. Allegedly his umbrella once turned inside-out during a rainstorm; he disdainfully shook it once, as a hunter might pump a loaded shotgun, and it flipped itself right-side-in again. The laws of physics do not seem to apply to him. Nor do the natural embarrassments that come with being human. Admiral Kazansky is never flustered, never harried, and never falls apart.

“I found this old picture of him shaking hands with another pilot on the Internet,” says Chief Warrant Officer Kent in Admiral Kazansky’s second year. “Smiling like the Cheshire Cat. Never seen him smile like that in all my years working with him. And he had frosted tips, too. Like Guy Fieri on a diet and steroids. It was the eighties, sure, but it’s like he knew how to have fun, once upon a time. Wonder what happened to him.”

“I feel lonely for him sometimes,” says Commander Stoddard. “Strict guy like that, no family, no friends, no wife, nothing to live for but the Navy? He’s like a workhorse with blinders on. Nowhere to go but forward. That’s a lonely existence.”

“Not if you’re a robot,” says Lieutenant Commander Hartford. “I swear, sometimes he breathes and it makes me jump, ‘cause I forgot he was alive!” —What else doesn’t Admiral Kazansky do?

That’s when they realize that none of them, not the old guard nor the new, has ever, not once, ever seen or heard Admiral Kazansky sneeze.

And they all finally give up the game and quit arguing and agree that, no, he really isn’t human after all. He must be some cyborg from the future sent to whip the Pacific Fleet into shape, and you can’t ask for too much humanity from someone who’s doing a pretty damn good job of it.

The rumors start soon after that. Jokes that could get them all tossed out of the Navy, but probably won’t. Jokes that accidentally spread like wildfire.

Yes, Admiral Kazansky could be a cyborg, but he also could be a Mormon fundamentalist, or a Scientologist, or a really weird Catholic. Maybe he goes home to San Diego so often because in his spare time he’s really a mule ferrying cocaine across the Mexi-Cali border. That’s what he does for fun. He eats spinach salads because he’s a reincarnation of Popeye the Sailor Man, and he needs all the super-strength he can get to deal with the Navy’s modern-day bullshit.

“I don’t know if that story makes sense,” laughs Captain Calvert on the phone with her husband in Washington, “but it makes more sense than the real Admiral Kazansky does!”

So the rumors get spread around.

“I don’t know if you know this,” Maverick comments, watching Ice make their bed from the relative comfort of the bedroom doorway, “or if I should tell you this, because you might crack down on it, which would be a shame, ‘cause it’s funny. But every time you send a mass e-mail to the Pacific Fleet commissioned officer corps, you become the main topic of conversation between all of us officers for a solid day and a half.”

“Oh?” says Ice with a smile, struggling to fit the last corner of the fitted sheet to the mattress. He sighs, tugs on the strings of his old ratty-ass hooded sweatshirt, and looks at Maverick balefully through his glasses. “Help me out over here, would you? —What are people saying? All good things, I hope.”

“Not really,” Maverick says, stuffing a pillow into a pillowcase as he stares out the window into the San Diego sunshine. “Some pretty crazy shit, actually. Hard as hell for me to keep a straight face. I heard this one—you know, people are saying you eat nothing but salads?”

“Oh,” laughs Ice, hospital-cornering the free sheet. “Yeah, that one’s kind of true. I bring salads in to the office sometimes.”

“You hate salads.”

“I know, it’s torture! Move over.” He bumps Maverick out of the way to tuck in the last corner. “But, I figure, if a man torments himself with spinach-and-arugula salads three times a week, you ought to respect his commitment. It’s all an act. You get to a certain Defense Department paygrade, it all starts being storytelling and stagecraft.”

“Or trickery and deception, depending on how you look at it.”

“Sure. But you could say that about everything. —Besides, I’d rather the Navy discuss my salads than discuss… well, this.” He gestures to Maverick, then down to the bed. They start tugging the comforter over it together. “How much slack you got over there?”

“‘Bout a foot.”

Ice pulls his side down a couple more inches to match, then flips the top up. “Is that it? That’s all people are saying about me?”

Maverick grins and bends down to pick up a pillow. “They’re also saying that you’re the reincarnation of Popeye the Sailor Man. I yam what I yam and that’s all what I yam, and all that. Think fast.”

Ice doesn’t think fast, and the pillow hits him square in the face, and he laughs again as he catches it in his arms. “Shit, that’s good,” he says; “I was just about to call Slider, think I’ll tell him that one. That’ll make him laugh. Popeye Iceman.” He tosses the pillow onto the made-up bed and pulls out his cell phone, but—then he frowns, grimaces, mutters “Ah, no,” and turns away to sneeze.

[wickedwitchofthesouth]

Keith can play the electric guitar, and shiro can play the drums, and Adam was an exceptional vocalist. Before everything went to shit shiro and Keith used to joke about how they would form a family band if the whole space thing didn't work out.

When shiro left, Adam encouraged Keith to keep playing as a hobby. When shiro went missing, Keiths passion for it staggered, but he continued playing because he wanted to show shiro how much better he'd gotten when he would come back- because shiro was going to come back. He had too

When Adam passed away, Keith gave up entirely. Maybe it was out of spite. Maybe he didn't see any point in practising anymore. Maybe the memory of better days was just too painful to revisit. Keith couldn't give you a reason. He'd really given up on all his hobbies and interests. Anything that wasn't directly needed to help him find shiro wasn't worth the effort.

He knew shiro would hate that. But shiro was the one who left. So did he really have any say in how Keith chose to ruin his nights finding him? Keith didn't think he did.

But its years later now and theyve all found their way back to earth, ready for one last mission before the end of the line comes into sight. Keith walks into his room for the first time in years to find shiro already sitting on his bed.

Hands cradling the dust covered guitar. The strings were britle from years of sitting in a corner and its once pristine glossy red finish had been replaced by the dulling of sun damage.

If the instrument could speak, it would curse him to the ends of the earth for abandoning it the same way he was abandoned - and Keith would let it.

Still, shiro smiles at him, handing over the guitar to his brother. "You still play?" He asks as if he doesn't already know the answer.

Keith feels like he's a kid again. He doesn't want to disappoint but he doesn't want to lie either. "Not really"

Shiro gets up to uncover all the old equipment from under the sheets. Keith can see the dust partials flying in the sunbeam that's shining through the blinds. He watches shrio plug everything in, the lights on the tuner take a while to flicker on but they get their eventually.

Keith remembered how he'd kept shiros drumsticks even though Adam had thrown out his drum set one night in a fit or rage. He'd cried all night after that, Keith remembered trying to comfort him to no avail. Little hands trying to wipe away the endless pools of tears that streamed down Adams face. He doesn't like thinking about it.

He walks over to his bedside drawer. It takes a bit of strength to wriggle the old thing open, but when he does, he's pleased to see they're still there. Shiros favourite pair of purple drumsticks. Adams favourite colour. Keith remembered, and he knows shiro can't forget.

"Aha!" Shrio cheers, and Keith is pulled back into the present. When he turns around, he finds shiro standing over the equipment. Overly satisfied with himself for still remembering how to set it up. "Still got it," he says, brushing his shoulder. Keith can't help but chuckle.

Keith holds up the drumsticks and he loves the way shiros face lights up ."Oh my god! you kept them?!" He cheers.

"Theyre all I could manage to hide from adam" Keith replies as shiro takes them out of his hand. He did not mean for it to sound as miserable as it came out.

Shrio smiles ever so softly as he turns them over in his hands. "It's okay," he says. Keith knows exactly what he's thinking about. it's an odd feeling to be able to know someone this well.

Shiro takes in a sharp breath before looking back up at keith. That excited spark finds its way back into his eyes as he pushes the guitar into Keith's chest. "Your turn." he smirks, patting him on the shoulder. "Show me what you've got"

Keith stands there for a moment like a deer in headlights. It's been years since he's even held the guitar in his hands. He's not sure if he's "got" anything left.

"Shiro I don't-"

"Oh come on!! I'm sure you've still got it just give it a try"

It's an even worse feeling being known this well. Keith doesn't know what to do with it.

He carefully slings the strap over his head. He's sure the dust will leave a mark on his jacket.

"Okay, but don't laugh if I suck." he points his pick at shiro, who holds up a finger to his lips in response, but Keith can already see the laugh creeping up on his face

Keith readjusts the guitar to try and get a better grip. Something doesn't feel right. He fiddles around with it a little longer. He holds up the pick and strums a few chords, but they don't sound right. He tries to tune them, strums the chords again, readjust the strap again-

"You need to try Keith," shiro finally says. "You won't know if you can play if you don't even try"

Keith looks back at his brother. It's been nearly a decade since he last heard shiro say that. He prays to any higher power that will listen to not let his eyes give away how those words make him feel now. He doesn't think anyone is listening.

Keith takes in the deepest breath before holding the guitar again. He tries to smile. "Okay, any requests?"

Shrio taps his chin in thought, "How about Bowie?" He recommends "life on Mars? Or maybe rebel rebel? You used to love those songs"

"I might remember rebel rebel," he says mostly to himself. He strums a few chords trying to remember the riff of the songs. It takes a few attempts, but he gets it eventually.

Keith hums the lyrics he doesn't remember and the ones he does he attempts to sing

Rebel rebel, you've torn your dress

Rebel rebel, your face is a mess

Shiro joins in the chours. Well- he certainly makes an attempt

Rebel rebel, how could they know?

Hot tramp! I love you so!

Somewhere between the awful singing and questionable guitar playing, keith finds himself lost in the music. His head rocks back and forth, and he's sure his hair is a mess but he feels like he's floating. He feels like he's 14 again. He feels like they're back in shiros garage on a hot summer day and the sound of drumsticks beating on his desk turns into drums actually being played, and Adams is about to walk through the door any moment now and grab the mic.

When the song finally ends, keith finds himself laughing in excitement. When he opens his eyes again, the drums have turned back into a desk, and the mic is nowhere to be found, but Keith is still smiling. He's got it.

He's still got it

"See" Shrio cheers, pulling Keith out of his head the for second time that afternoon "I told you"

"That was awesome," Keith says, pushing his hair out of his face as he pulls the guitar off. He wants to hug it and tell it he's sorry for leaving. Shiro will think he's lost his mind, but it's totally worth it.

When he looks back at shiro, he's giving him the fondest smile. Keith suddenly feels a knot forming his stomach, he's only seen shiro make that face twice his whole life. Once when Keith got his fighter pilot rank at the garrison and second when he was selected for the kerberos mission.

He opens his mouth as if to say something but closes it again and suddenly slings his arm around Keith's neck, pulling him down to ruffle his hair even further. Keith tries to protest, but every word just comes out as a laugh. "Look at you," shrio says amidst their play fight. "When did you get this cool, huh?"

Keith finally manages to pull away, stumbling a little before finding his balance again. "I've always been this cool," he retorts, trying to card his fingers through his hair. "You just refused to notice it before"

"Nope no I'm pretty sure this is a recent development" shiro mocks,

Keith rolls his eyes but the smile his still apparent on his lips "whatever" he says, crossing his arms over his chest

He's thrown slightly off balance again when shiro throws his arm around his shoulders. But this time, he only gently pulls him into a side hug as they walk out of the room. "Well, at least we still know one thing for sure"

"And whats that" Keith asks walking in tow

Shiro shrugs, one hand around his brother the other in his pocket "if this space thing doesn't work out, we've still got the band" he winks

Keith shakes his head laughing "and are we taking audtions for a new vocalist?"

"No need to, I've already got someone in mind" shiro replies "have you heard lance sing?"

"Lance can sing???"

"Oh that boy was built for a stage"

[fireinmoonshot]

Rooster and wearing the others’ clothes so that it can at least feel like they’re hugging them, even for just a moment

“Angel, you home?”

Bradley’s voice is so loud from the front door that there’s no way you can miss it, or the sound of him kicking off his shoes and shoving them into the shoe rack. You turn the television volume down a little bit and call out to him, letting him know you’re home.

He wanders into the living room a second later, running a hand over his hair.

The sight of him immediately brings a smile to your face.

“Hey, handsome,” you smile up at him. “Welcome home.”

Bradley sinks down on the couch beside you and wraps his arms around you, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “What are you watching? Anything I’d like?”

“Course not,” you grin. “Couldn’t start a show you’d like without you, could I?”

It’s only then that Bradley notices what you’re wearing. He recognises the shirt, can even smell his own cologne on it. He hasn’t seen the shirt in weeks – just two days ago he’d been confused over its disappearance, wondering how he could lose a whole shirt.

“Where did you find this?” He asks, tugging gently on the fabric.

You look between him and the shirt and then smile sheepishly and start to pull the blanket that was on your lap up over the shirt, as if you’re trying to hide it. “It was just in the washing.”

Bradley shakes his head. “No, angel, it wasn’t.” An idea pops into his mind. “Have you had this all along? It’s been missing for a few weeks now.”

It’s then that you realise you have no choice but to come clean to him. He’s seen it now and there’s no hiding it anymore – you hadn’t expected him home for another hour or two and had planned to take it off and hide it away again before he arrived.

“Okay, don’t hate me…”

“I could never.”

“Remember a few weeks ago? We went out for dinner at that new pub?” You begin and Bradley nods in understanding. “And then we came home and…” You trail off.

Bradley smiles to himself. “And then we came home and threw all our clothes on the floor and I made love to you?”

“Yeah, that,” you chuckle. “Well, when you got up the next morning and left for work, I was the one who ended up picking up our clothes, and I noticed that this shirt just… well, it smelt like you, and it made me feel like you were here with me, so I kind of… shoved it in my bottom drawer and have been wearing it whenever I miss you. It makes it feel like I’m getting a Bradley hug when you’re not here.”

He looks at you for a few moments. That was the last thing Bradley had expected you to say. He’d had no idea where the story was going, but it was certainly not this. His heart feels warmer, though, upon hearing your words, and his love for you is stronger than ever.

“Why didn’t you just tell me, angel?” He tugs you into his chest, one of his hands starting to draw patterns on your back instinctively. “Would’ve saved me looking for it for so long.”

“I don’t know,” you say, wrapping your arms around him to keep him close. You can smell the cologne on the shirt he’s wearing, and it’s much, much better than smelling him through a few weeks old t-shirt. “I was worried you thought it’d be strange.”

Bradley shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s strange at all. It’s pretty damn cute, actually.”

“You think so?” You look up at him.

“I do,” he nods, and then leans down to peck your lips. “You wear it better than me anyway. But…”

You furrow your eyebrows. “But what?”

Bradley leans down so his lips are by your ear. “Now that I’m here, you don’t need an old t-shirt to remind you of me, so how about we… remove it?” His fingers start to play with the hem of your shirt and he moves back to see the look in your eyes.

“Deal,” you smirk, “but only if yours comes off too…”