#fluffery

[beaconfeels]

FYI, for people interested, this is also available on my AO3 here (along with some longer Steter fics, among other things)

“All my heart is yours, sir: it belongs to you; and with you it would remain, were fate to exile the rest of me from your presence forever.” —Jane Eyre

**

Stiles has a buzzcut, ten bucks to his name, and a ten year plan to woo Lydia Martin when he meets Derek’s uncle.

“You must be Stiles,” Peter Hale says, stretching out a hand.

Neck, Stiles’s brain unhelpfully supplies. Thankfully his body reacts on autopilot and he shakes Peter’s hand. It’s warm and strong. It makes Stiles’s mouth dry.

Fully out of his control, Stiles’s eyes trace the line of muscle down the side of Peter’s neck to the hint of collarbone visible through the v in the neck of Peter’s white button-down shirt.

The sleeves of the shirt are rolled up, revealing strong forearms with a dusting of hair.

Hnnng, Stiles’s brain says.

“Stiles. Yes. That’s me,” Stiles blurts out. It’s loud. It would be loud in a room full of humans, and this is not that. This is a room full of werewolves.

Stiles wipes his sweaty hands on his pants.

Peter smiles. His teeth are pointed.

All the better to eat you with, my dear, Stiles’s brain quotes. This should frighten him.

It doesn’t.

**

It has been one year, two months, and eleven days since Stiles met Peter Hale.

It has been ten seconds since an angry werewolf took a swipe at Stiles, and found himself on the ground, with an angry Peter on top of him.

“Peter, stand down,” Talia says calmly. “He wasn’t going to actually hurt him, were you Felix?”

”No,” Felix says, “Get this psychopath off me. Unless you want to destroy the accord our packs have shared for generations.”

Talia raises an eyebrow, like she might be considering it. “No, but your mother will be hearing about this,” she says.

Felix groans, and Peter gets off him, dusting the dirt off his pants and smoothing his hair back into place.

He tilts his head, his eyes roving over Stiles for a moment before he strides off toward the house.

Stiles shivers in delight.

**

Stiles’s hair is long enough to curl down around his neck, he has a new tattoo on his shoulder, and sparks coming from the tips of his fingers.

“Focus,” Peter says. His arms circle around Stiles’s waist, pulling him in against the warm wall of his body.

Stiles breathes deep and thinks about his love for Peter, how it pulls at him pleasantly, tethering him to the here and now. He thinks about Peter’s blue, blue eyes, and the way that even though he can’t see them, he knows they’re focused on him, that he has Peter’s full and undivided attention.

“Good,” Peter says, and Stiles comes back to earth, to the flattened trees and the dead bodies.

His knees shake.

“You did good,” Peter says. His lips brush against the back of Stiles’s neck. “You protected your pack. We are grateful. Come back to us now.”

Stiles turns around shakily in Peter’s arms, and holds on tight, his face pressed into Peter’s neck.

There’s still a supernova building inside him, but this time the light is warm and golden. He lets it engulf him.

**

The moon shines through the tall window in the Hale family library. Her face looks benevolently down on Stiles as he kneels at Peter’s feet, his head resting on Peter’s thigh.

There are fingers running soothingly through his hair, and the voice he loves so much is reading:

Once upon a time there was a very brave boy…

Stiles drifts.

The moon smiles.

**

“Mine,” Peter says.

“Yours,” Stiles agrees.

His mate pulls him into a passionate kiss, his warm hands hold Stiles’s face, stroke down his neck, pull him in ever closer.

Husband, Stiles’s brain croons.

The gold band on Stiles’s finger glows and warms.

“Again with the rings?” Peter asks, but he’s smiling too.

[layton-heritage-posts]

i came here from the BDSM fluffery and stayed to find out there's an expansive lore. What do you mean there's a yuri fanfic about you and another heritage blog?? you have an evil clone??? Fascinating fascinating I am intrigued to learn more! And also more about this lovely game franchise you seem so fond of, I am only familiar with ace attorney so this is!!! Wonderful news to a curious lot such as myself that there are MORE.

-sincerely, an experiment

1. The fanfiction author has their own blog where all the lore about heritage yuri is compiled, @lhpxaahpya

2. My evil clone exists purely to mock my very existence. They are also a relatively new addition to the layton Heritage posts cinematic universe

3. If you are an ace attorney fan you're gonna feel right at home with Layton games. The trifecta of Ace Attorney, Professor Layton and Ghost Trick has been unofficially titled as "superwholock for people who like ds visual novels".

4. You don't even know half of my lore yet. The Heritagesona. The triple Baka Video. The underground archive where I live. The fact that you have to kill me to become the new LHP. The-

5. If you're looking for a place to get started, I recommend either:

- Professor Layton vs Phoenix Wright

A crossover game between ace attorney and professor layton, in case the title wasn't obvious enough. Perfect game for people who only know ace attorney ans wanna dip their toes into layton games. Also the Perfect game for people who only know professor layton and wanna try out ace attorney. Both the Puzzles and Court Cases are easier than in the other games and the story. Let's just say the story is a handful but it's still a really good game.

- Professor Layton and the Curious Village

The first ever Layton game, recently remastered for mobile phones and such its the most easily available game on the list (aside from piracy or a hacked 3ds obviously). It's certainly shows it's age and a case of "first-game-in-the-series-itis", but that luckily doesn't hurt the game that badly and is still a good time.

- Professor Layton and the Specter's Call

You know how with star wars there is the original trilogy and the prequel trilogy? It's the same with Layton.

Curious village is the first game in the og trilogy, and Specters Call is the first game in the prequels. Personally, this is the game I usually recommend to start with because I think it perfectly encapsulates that Layton feel, but this is just my opinion. It's fun, it's mystery element is great, I love the aesthetic, banger game.

[ronearoundblindly]

Threadbare (2)

Steve Rogers x Fashion Designer!Reader

Part Two: Strain Curve (see previous or series)

IMPORTANT: I forgot to mention and link that this started with an anon ask, so I should give them credit for the idea. Here's where this all started! Additionally, Richard Fisk is an actual Marvel character and the son of Kingpin. All that is straight out of the comics (and animated shows), down to the horrible color choices.

Summary: Steve shelters you from Fisk while attempting to hide the truth from Tony. He's not a great liar...but how much of this is really fake?

Warnings for fluffy fluff of the 21st-fluffery with a teeny bit of angst, 100% idiots in love! Also a quick disclaimer about me knowing exactly diddlysquat about fashion design. I binged 'Next In Fashion' and so this is the best I got lol... WC 4066

You watch Steve blush at your attempted smile. He paws at the back of his head before gathering another confession.

“Actually, I do have—I mean, yes, I wanted to see you, but uh—“ he rushes over to fetch a paper bag he must have stashed as he snuck in behind the cops “—I did have a reason to come.”

In the bag, you find three shirts, and your smile turns more genuine.

“Of course, you did. How romantic.”

You’re still awash with adrenaline; there’s no filter to keep your teasing at bay. You can barely pick up that you said anything anyway.

Steve shrugs, looking down to take back the shirts as Abby returns with a glass of water for you. “Not my best move.”

You chug the water, loudly, unable to regulate how desperately you need it. Abby gently pries Steve’s shirts from his tense arms.

“Right.” Steve rolls his shoulders out, straightening and clearly falling into Captain mode. “We need to get you somewhere safe. I just have to make a few calls and—“

“Don’t tell Stark,” you blurt, hand instinctively grabbing the wrist that holds his phone ready. “I’m sorry. That sounded like an order, just…please don’t tell Mr. Stark.” Tony can’t know that Fisk has been using you as a tailor as well. He can’t. 

Alarm and curiosity flicker behind Steve’s blue eyes, but he hides it well immediately. “Ok. I’ll—” he makes no move to take his arm back “—think of something.”

“And I have three clients left…for the day.”

Abby tsks you from behind though it’s the truth. The empty glass rattles on the tabletop with your faint tremor.

Steve thinks for a prolonged, squinting moment. “After work then. I’ll pick you up.”

You run off adrenaline and butterflies the rest of the day, and yes, whatever liquids or snacks Abby and Dominica (when she returns from her errand) put into your hand along the way, but mostly it’s the fluttering anticipation of Steve that floats you through.

And then he’s back and it’s already dark outside.

“Oh shit,” you burst, politely showing Mr. Chen out while Steve waits his turn to get in the door. He says nothing, but Captain America lowers his head in disapproval at your curse. “I’m sorry. I lost track of time. Let me grab some things.”

You race up the stairs to the apartment over the shop. Your clientele and brand used to be small enough that you could keep those two sides of life separate, but slowly, your work has crept into your living space. Now you survive from a dresser, a hanging rack, and a Murphy bed that doubles as a small desk when it’s upright against the wall.

Not much of an existence, but it’s very practical.

You’re shuffling around with an overnight bag and a dump tote to grab mostly work things and two changes of clothes. One of your assistants can bring you more stuff if/when necessary, but it feels presumptive to think you’ll live out of a safe house for long.

“So…working to live or living to work?”

You jump at Steve’s deep voice from the open doorway. He looks around at the hodgepodge of work benches and mannequins lining the walls.

“It’s a fluid and evolving situation,” you admit, sweeping several binders of fabric swatches and sketch pads into the tote. You eye a work-in-progress on one of the dummies and decide against trying to take it. Too bulky.

In order not to keep Steve waiting, you hand over the tote and head to the car, texting Abby and Dominica instructions the whole drive. Steve assures you that you’ll still have wifi and freedom to communicate, so you don’t have to clear fittings and consults off the books. It simply won’t be wise to invite welcome clients into where you’re staying.

Admittedly, that’s very generous considering you could have been looking at a blackout, witness-protection level of hiding.

You’re still on your phone when Steve opens your car door, and you shuffle with your duffel, his feet at the edge of your periphery to follow. It doesn’t register that you walk down a long hall. It doesn’t register that there’s an elevator ride and another voice. It doesn’t register that you’re looking at a kind of hostel-esque apartment inside another building until you ask if there’s a space you’ll be able to spread out for work.

Steve glows with pride that he thought of that and walks you to a conference room…surrounded by glass…overlooking a 30-story high view of the city.

You’re in the Avengers Tower, formerly Stark Tower.

“Wait, he’s not supposed to know.”

Steve gets your confusion right away. “Tony doesn’t, but without filing paperwork stating the reason you need a safe house, this was the best—“

“Sheers!” the booming voice of one Tony Stark reverberates across 360 degrees of windows. “I thought it might be you.”

“Might be me for what?” you ask as innocently as possible.

“As Capsicles’ first, of course.”

Steve hangs his head while his pal claps him on the back.

“First use of his guest pass that is. Granted, I’ve been saying for years we need an in-house tailor, but no takers…” Stark fake-punches Steve’s shoulder. “Way to break the ice, buddy. I’m proud of you. What happened? You noticed you’re both workaholics and needed your girl…closer to get closer, did you? Good call.”

Steve shoots wary eyes your way, silently praying you ignore that remark or maybe checking you’re okay with the implication. The way Stark says ‘your girl’ as if he’s heard it several times before though…

“Something like that,” you shrug. 

“At least he finally asked you. I kept telling him to shit or get off the pot.”

“Language,” you hiss quietly.

The men look a little shocked for a split second before slowly turning to each other, a silent conversation passed in the empty space over your head. Whatever just happened seems to have really convinced Tony because a wry smile flickers beneath his sinking, pale sunglasses. Yes, of course, Tony Stark is wearing sunglasses at night, just as, of course, Captain America is willingly deceiving Stark to be your fake boyfriend. 

“Romeo,” the building’s namesake coos. “Training them young, I see.”

Steve’s jaw and neck tighten, a raging flush creeping up his pale skin, but he doesn’t argue. Stark buys the ploy, which is great, but in reality, Steve doesn’t even have your personal number.

Tony lifts his hands in surrender and starts retreating to the door. “Look, I hate to take credit—“

“No, you don’t.”

Incredulous, sagging eyebrows dip below his frames. “—but I am very, very good.” He points a finger back and forth between you and Steve. “You’re welcome.”

He tries to peek under a pile of sketches atop your work tote, and you rush to slap your hand down. Stark might see the other designs you’re working on, and just like he can’t know about Fisk, he can’t know about those.

“Fine.” Tony puts his hands up again. “I’m going.”

Steve steps to your side, apology loud in his eyes, and asks if he can make you tea or something stronger, ya know, because Tony has that effect on people.

“Yeah—“ you stare off toward the elevators where Stark remains lurking “—he’s still there,” you whisper.

Steve huffs a laugh and shifts to bridge the mere inches left between you, his hand gently landing on your upper arm and planting a kiss on your forehead like a breeze.

“Better make it look good then.”

Turns out you need tea and food.

You’d been so reliant on your assistants for nourishment that you forgot dinner. Steve sees; he has it covered. Instead of winding down after a trying day, however, you get a rush of energy, and you can’t squander the chance to make crucial adjustments. Every minute counts in the lead-up to Fashion Week.

“May I join you?” Steve asks, ready to walk away with his meal in hand should you prefer. “I won’t take up much space.” He looks down at his shoes and up the two inches above his head to the top of the doorframe. “Ok, much more space,” he corrects.

“You wanted to leave me alone?”

He bites back a smile and shakes his head, settling into the least cluttered corner.

He chats excitedly as you both eat, but after failing to pry some answers about Fisk from you,—‘are you often threatened by clients?’ and ‘can you steer him in another designer’s direction?’—Steve slips away to grab his own art supplies.

You’ve barely looked up until you get a surge of inspiration and search for your colored pencils under the pile of templates. How did they get all the way over there? Since when are red and grey so worn down? Weren’t you needing to replace both blues soon?

“Those in your way? I can move them?”

Steve stops sketching, holding a yellow pencil, the only color missing from the tin. That’s when you realize. He uses the same brand of pencils you do—tools made of quality materials but nothing overly fancy.

“No need,” you marvel. “I just mistook them for my own.”

Steve sweeps a large hand out in offering. “Mistake away.”

You can’t help it. You chew your lip to calm your grin. He’s simply a very giving man who enjoys simple things. It’s refreshing.

“Or we could trade? We seem to use the opposite colors the most.”

“Right,” Steve laughs, “I went on a tear trying for Sam’s suit in-flight. Never turned out.” Shaking his head dislodges a lock of hair, so he runs his fingers through the strategic coif.

“Hmm,” you hum absently, engrossed by his picturesque appearance, “my drawings are more like guidelines for my imagination. No need to be precise.”

“A sentiment I’ve heard many times before.” He slides the tin closer to the midway point between you. “I just want to do beauty justice, which sounds pretentious but…

“Point is—“ Steve lifts his gaze to you with a soft shrug “—use whatever you like.”

You thought your work habits were grueling, but poor Steve flits around at all hours of the day and night with workouts, training, meetings, and missions. He mostly gets to do drive-by waves of ‘hello’ as he travels the building past your glass bubble, always with a smile, always with a tinge of something else. He’s an easy man to read: you can tell when he’s fatigued (in spirit though, not body), you can tell when he’s irritated from stress, and you can tell when he wants to linger but has to go.

It’s incredibly cute. Steve Rogers is just so damn cute.

You continue with business as usual as best you can, video calling during consults and the most critical fittings. Clients aren’t exactly happy with your absence, but they don’t dare complain when the alternative is waiting another month for you to schedule in person. Besides, there are oftentimes you step away from routine appointments to focus on creating new lines.

Dominica is allowed to walk right in with any of your requested supplies since she’s delivered to Stark several times before. She stays for a few hours to touch base. She assures you that Tarik is no longer unnerved by the police car that sits at the curb outside the atélier’s front door. Apparently, Abby takes the cops coffee a couple times a day.

All in all, it’s going well.

One day, you think Steve is showing up for one of your ‘sketch sessions’—where he sits in his own chair somewhere around the huge oval table and quietly works alongside you—but not today.

“They…it’s…” Steve plants his feet on the carpet across from you and looks behind him nervously. Anytime other people are near the room, he walks right over to you to kiss your cheek, a show to keep up the appearance of actually being a couple, but it’s late enough that no one is around. “We do movie night—we’re doing movie ni—we’re watching a movie if you’d like to join?”

You’re tempted to tease him, ask ‘where’s my kiss’ or something that makes that fiery blush creep up Steve’s face, but you grin back. “Sure. I could use the break.”

Honestly, no, you should be hammering out some details for the lapels of this blazer, but ehh, you’re also tired of staring at the same damn jacket.

Of course, this means the lot of them save you and Steve seats beside each other on a couch. You two have only ever sat in chairs in front of or separated by a table, so figuring out how to curl up next to the man you are not dating is an adventure in micro-expressions. You share a look that lasts about two seconds but contains a forty-five-minute discussion of how far is okay to take this and agree that you want to keep up the charade.

Thus, Steve lifts his arm to drape across your shoulders, and you lean into his chest.

It’s a good fit, good enough that you wake up two hours later not knowing what the movie was about and starting to sweat from being so close to his very warm body.

Maybe it’s the eye convo or maybe napping directly on him tells Steve how comfortable you are with him, but either way, he changes to giving a kiss on the cheek or forehead every instance he sees you, no exceptions.

After a week of remaining on the same floor of the same skyscraper and doing nothing but working, sleeping, and movie-sleeping, you’re at your wit’s end, longingly staring out the window at the city below.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Steve asks as he enters the conference room. Forehead kiss this time. His lips feel soft and warm as they ghost over your skin.

“Stuck,” you mutter.

His hand smooths across your back. “Well, how do you normally get unstuck?”

“I go for a walk through the park.” You know you can’t go outside, but it’s difficult to wrangle every bit of bitterness at your captivity. You appreciate all Steve is doing to make it so Fisk can’t get to you, but you need fresh air.

Steve sighs like he’s mad at himself before spinning around the room. “Right.” He grabs your hand. “Come with me.”

In the elevator, Steve explains that in keeping with the eco-friendly intent of the new clean energy tower, Tony made half of the rooftop a greenhouse and the other half a garden. The walking paths are all moss-covered, but there are no benches. Just outside the elevator doors are folding chairs, and Steve grabs two.

On separate chairs with no table in sight, you two watch the sunset on the other side of the building from your work room. You take in a big breath of the chilly air and shiver, completely content to experience freedom away from climate control, but Steve rushes back into the greenhouse to retrieve a blanket from the stack beside the chairs.

“Here ya go,” he stumbles, leaning to tuck the fabric around you. “I should have brought us tea or something,” but when he makes to leave this time, you take his hand.

“You’ll miss it.” He’s probably seen the view from here a million times before, but you don’t want him to go. “Stay,” you say in a whisper.

Steve visibly softens, shoulders dropping, eyes alight. “Yeah?” He sits again and looks at the nearly cloudless sky. “Yeah.” He slouches to get comfy in the small and unsupportive chair, but he looks so at home bathed in the warm pink light. “Each time’s a bit different but—“ he turns to you, smiling “—this one’s better.”

Since the sunset sit-down, Steve makes a point to pry you away from the work area when he has time to hang out with you. The couch isn’t actually far away from the conference room, but it does mean you get to sit together, your feet in his lap while he reads a book, listening to his commentary on the author’s points or sketching aimlessly for fun.

The whole thing feels like a bizarre vacation, some alternate reality where your home life intersects with superheroes. Tony Stark may have been a sometimes-client, but he never let you attempt anything more custom than a three-piece suit. 

You’re not complaining; it’s just weird that Captain America is so average when his uniform comes off. He sinks his face into his palm when he’s sleepy. His yawn is outrageously adorable for how big the man is. He absently holds your ankles steady in his lap when he shifts on the cushions. His eyelids droop, and he repeats paragraphs when he can no longer keep his place on the page.

Steve Rogers could not be more normal, and for this reason, you find him extraordinary.

He gets dressed every morning while you’re there, no sweatpants, no workout wear—or, what did Sam call it? Athleisure? That’s not a word, right?—except for when Steve is actively working out. He thinks it’s too on-the-nose to wear your designs in front of you for days on end, but that limits his options significantly, considering how much of his wardrobe sports a Tovarich label. Good jeans and a black sweater will have to do because today he’s playing model.

It seems the mannequin Dominica hauled in for you isn’t close to the right proportions for your client so Steve volunteered, rewarded immediately with a gorgeous, toothy smile that made his heart thump against his ribcage.

Steve’s chatty but can’t help it.

There was one conversation a few days ago that unlocked so many memories he thought he’d lost.

While he peeked at a few of your sketches, you asked him about clothing in the 40s, and he took your notepad to doodle a bit. Steve drew a common dress from memory to show you girls he grew up with, the pleats and cinches in their exact spots because—now that he has your full and rapt attention—he thinks it’s important.

He’s had to recall maps, battle maneuvers, building layouts, and evil plans more times than he can count; no one’s ever asked him how his mother styled her hair or which shoes she wore to work at the hospital.

They’re just shoes, but Steve sat misty-eyed describing how Ma tied her laces a very specific way, the way she taught him to, the way he still ties them to this very day. He hadn’t thought of why in so long, and ever since, little details keep flooding back.

“Buck used to never tuck in his shirts,” Steve laughs as you nudge his arms higher to check his range of motion in the shoulders. “He’d fix the front half and leave a tail out in the back.”

You chuckle at that. “Unacceptable for proper ol’ Stevie,” you muse.

“No, it was not—“ he drops his head in shame “—and I’d remind him every time.” Steve spins, prompted by the pull of your hands at his waist. His face is on fire, but he promised to help you. He just has to ’suffer’ through your touch, he supposes.

How horrible…

“Sharp dresser, were you? Not a hair out of place?”

“Yes, ma’am, or…at least for my size I was.”

You’re deep in thought, pulling the bottom hem to check how it lays at his hips, checking the lining before buttoning him up. “These might be too flashy,” you mumble. “Gosh, I hope he likes this color.”

“Why not? It’s stunning,” Steve jumps too eagerly at the chance to praise the barely purple fabric. It’s that kind of illusion hue that might look black, navy, or its true shade in different lights.

“And the buttons?” you prod.

He tilts one of the stamped, dark nickel rounds to see the embellishment. “I’d consider that a signature touch of the Tovarich brand,” he beams.

Your elation is contagious until an ear-splitting alarm sounds overhead. You’re so startled you spring backward into a rolling chair and topple to the floor.

Steve scrambles to help you right yourself while the wailing screech continues, but he knows that noise.

Emergency.

He has to go.

You’re holding your elbow, flashing him a thumbs up, and Steve feels terrible yelling to ensure you’re okay.

Agents race past the glass walls, and he really has to run so off he goes, jacket still on.

An incredibly long seventeen hours later, Steve is returning to his room only to notice you’ve fallen asleep at the conference table. He’s pleased there is no bandage on your elbow, so the fall was no worse than bruising, but he refuses to leave you there.

Slowly peeling your face and hands from your drafting paper, Steve wrestles your flopping arms and limp legs into a solid hold to carry you to your own room.

You don’t wake up, not fully, only enough to grip the shoulder strap of his shield harness as he gently lowers you onto the unmade bed. Luckily, your MO is to kick off your shoes when concentrating on work, so once you release the leather attached to him, he pulls the covers over you.

He kisses your temple. “Night, Button,” he whispers like a secret, and for now, it is.

You simply sigh and turn deeper into the pillow.

Steve purposefully finds you at breakfast to ask if you’d want to get lunch with him. Yes, it would just be in the cafeteria on the lower levels, and yes, you two have already shared many meals, but in his mind, this is the actual ask, the question of ‘will you go out with me’ instead of just ‘are you hungry at this reasonable time and may I be hungry in your vicinity.’

It’s stupid, he knows. He’s anxious for your answer anyway.

Steve has a very love/hate relationship with having you essentially trapped in the Tower. On the one hand, you’re starved for interaction and the choice of your surroundings. On the other hand, he gets you all to himself. He’s ashamed of how much he enjoys that perk. Somewhere deep inside, he hopes whatever Fisk is after is never resolved, but that’s wishful—and terribly selfish—thinking.

Just in case going on a deliberate date with him isn’t offer enough, Steve can return your client’s jacket. He hung it in his locker when changing into the tactical suit. It’s safe, but he’ll get it after his debrief. That’s a good excuse. That’ll work.

You’re happy and excited, only making him more nervous, but it’s progress. He’s done ‘round noon after the long meeting scheduled to start in, yikes, fifteen minutes, and you quickly agree. Steve floats on cloud nine, bouncing his foot until dismissed so he can rush back up to you.

He isn’t expecting to see Tony in your bubble.

“You don’t know me, Stark. How dare you!” Your face twists in fury. “Screw this,” you shout, frantic in grabbing your essentials from the table. “I don’t answer to you. I don't need this. Someone else will get my things.”

Steve doesn’t understand why you won’t meet his eye or speak to him as you barrel past. He’s too stunned to follow you to the elevator, it feels imposing to race down and corner you in the lobby, but he marches up to Tony with wide eyes.

“What the hell happened?”

Tony waves him off, cagy and dismissive, rushing off upstairs to his lab, and Steve almost asks if this is about Fisk. If it’s not and he blabs, then you’ll definitely be angry at him. If he grills Tony too much, there might be something that gives away that Steve lied about having a significant other as his guest for two weeks. If Steve admits that he doesn’t even have your number, the jig is 100% up.

But he knows you have his number, he knows he still has a jacket you’ll want back, and he knows one thing he’s incredibly good at.

So Steve waits, ready to apologize, ready to grovel, ready to yell at Tony for whatever. He is just ready and waiting.

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @shelbygeek @rogersideup @eyebagsanonymous @darsynia

[Next Part]

[Light Masterlist; Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[di-42]

Good Omens is just I show I watch. No obsession here. Nope.

Edit: August 2024. I still love Good Omens, I do. I have come to think of the fandom as a virtual home. I cherish the other fans and I can't imagine my life now without the richness and the joy that fanart, fanfiction and fanwork bring to it.

But let me be clear: I believe the victims. I condemn, with no question whatsoever, the horrible actions of one of the co-author of the book and lead writer of the series.

My fictions:

And I Did. Rated E but plot driven.

They haven't talked for almost 2 years. The end of the world is approaching. They are on opposite sides. And they both know neither of them was ever going to make a different choice to the one they made.

This is a story about faith. This is a story about love. This is a story about loss. This is a story about being apart and about being reunited. This is a story about fighting. This is a story about choices.

Where do we choose to place our faith? Will a god we have faith in come and save us? Will a friend? A loved one?

When do we start doubting our faith? How long before we snap, before we raise our head? How far can we go before we crumble under the weight of our own misplaced faith? Under the weight of our choices?

What does it take to make us feel betrayed, abandoned, left behind? What does it take for us to turn our back on what in which we had faith?

Who are we loyal to, and who is loyal to us? Who do we trust, and who trusts us?

What are we ready to risk in the name of faith? What are we ready to lose in the name of loyalty?

When are we going to take our lives into our own hands? What are we going to fight for?

This is a story about unbreakable faith. This is, after all, a work of fiction.

OR:

Yet another Good Omens post season 2 fiction.

Second Chances And Second Choices

The second coming has failed and Aziraphale is hoping this is the beginning of his life with Crowley. But Crowley seems to be of a different opinion. That is, until old enemies turn up at Aziraphale's door.

Once the world is safe again, what happens next? Can Crowley and Aziraphale reconnect?

Rated teen and up.

I Prefer The Fluffy Ones Series:

In Vino Ludus

It's the year 2030. Crowley comes to the bookshop drunk, and Aziraphale can finally put all those years of eye-rolling practice to good use.

An as of yet canon divergent fluffy night in the life of an angel and a demon.

One shot, rated E.

Angel! Angel! They're At It Again!

It's the year 2030. The world never ended. Aziraphale and Crowley are living happily and safely together as a married couple. Everything would be well, if it wasn't that lately Aziraphale has been a bit busy. A bit distracted. Now, Crowley can't have that, can he? He seeks the advice of his girlfriends, who unwittingly give him an idea on how to liven up his marriage.

A fluffy and hopefully funny way to the South Downs cottage.

One shot, rated M.

An Angel And A Demon Go To A Halloween Party

And they are horny!

A silly, smutty little piece set in our favourite Ineffables' fluffy future.

One shot, rated E.

My poems:

Ineffable Chords

My recs Fictions I've read and what I like about them:

February's Fabulous Fictions

March's Marvelous Fictions

April's Amazing Fictions

May's Magnificent Fictions

June's Joyful Fictions

August's Awesome Fictions

September's Scrumptious Fictions

October's Oh, wow! Fictions

November's Notable Fictions

My metas:

Justice for Aziraphale

On Season 3 and the Apology Dance

Aziraphale is in

Fluffery and Fuckery:

Aziraphale is the villain in Good Omens

You Said Trust Me

Sweet Crowley

Face Value

It's unthinkable

[resplendentoutfit]

James Tissot ( French) • Still on Top • 1874

Stripes were very popular in 1800s fashion. Tissot was not shy about showcasing the latest fashions in his paintings. He repeated the black and white striped dress with its many ruffles, folds, and pleats, in several of his paintings. I especially like the dress in Still on Top because of how cleverly Tissot captured the movement of both the woman and her dress.

That famous dress has been recreated by at least a couple of contemporary blogging seamstresses to very good effect.

Credit: My's Kind

Diesel Steam Gypsy

Boarding The Yacht • 1873

Here's that dress again! This time worn with a little black cape, similar to this one:

About the dress on the right – I'm not sure what all that off-white fluffery is supposed to be, exactly...a shawl, a bustle, a cape? All of the above?

Lastly, a hat to complete the Boarding the Yacht striped dress ensemble:

Which one?

[thosegayoldmen]

For the WIP game: Only One Bed (love love love this trope) or Snowy Holidays ❄️❄️❄️

I already spoke breifly about Snowy Holidays here and don't wanna share too much more just yet, so I'll give you the other instead 😁 Ah, only one bed trope my beloved. This is another nearly completed WIP (or so they say) for a 'bedtime hug' prompt. After a a frankly disastorus mission, Loki and Mobius end up stranded on a timeline for the night. And wouldn't you know it, the only motel around only has one room left... Pre-relationship fluffery, lots of flustered Mobius, another one I'm challenging myself to do NO smut on (it's hard for me okay? 😅) I have several snippets already shared for this idea too! 😁 1, 2, 3, 4,

[anonymoushouseplantfan]

Submitted:

Camilla Long in today’s Times, “The biggest threat to Harry and Meghan isn’t paparazzi on bicycles. It’s their own paranoia”

https://archive.is/N1OMS

Awhile from now, when it is all over, I think we may view the Royal Car Chase not as a silly bit of tabloid fluffery but as a turning point. You may feel differently; you may think there were other, bigger moments when you knew it had gone terribly wrong for Harry and Meghan. Oprah, or “recollections may vary”, or Netflix, or the tights catfight. The Fijian market freakout, the MBS diamond earrings, the suicidal thoughts at Cirque du Soleil, or the penis-heavy contents of Spare.

But never before have I actually thought: well, that’s it — it’s over; they’ve gone the full Imelda Marcos now. They’re literally crazed, on a one-way flight out of God knows where, stuffing diamonds into nappies as they flee the presidential palace, children howling, soldiers falling off collapsing walls, choppers, gunfire, pearls scattering, everyone watching agog as these glittering creatures, once on top of the world, now look washed up and hopeless, like bedraggled fallen despots.

also

the couple hysterically used three separate cars. They left the ceremony in a 4x4 with a police escort, circling for 75 minutes to give the paps the slip, before fleeing to a nearby police station when they didn’t. At the station they hid for 15 minutes in a garage until someone called a taxi. When the taxi got stuck behind a rubbish lorry, they went back to the same police station, where they got into a final vehicle, which took them on to where they were staying … just two blocks away.

As I said: mad.

All these places were within walking distance; nothing could have been easier. But still, we’re meant to believe it’s the paps who were behaving like demented animals, driving on pavements, endangering pedestrians, causing “multiple near collisions” as they pursued them with “cars, scooters and bicycles”, bringing the duke “the closest I have ever felt” to understanding how his mother died.

and

The truth is, that taxi chase is Harry and Meghan. It is their mindset, their paranoia, their chaos, their attempt to label themselves as victims again. If you watch their Netflix series you can see how they egg each other on to the point they forget how to behave normally. During one short car journey Meghan tells Harry where each paparazzo is, effectively notifying him when to be scared, while he nervously whispers, “We’ll be with friends in less than ten minutes.” I blame him as much as her.

They’re now in a lunatic downward spiral of fiction and fantasy. Ironically, you just think: “Are you OK?” Why, for example, did they feel threatened when they had a police escort the entire time? Should Harry’s obsession with photographers be the police’s problem? If Meghan is truly a “woman of vision”, why couldn’t she envision a simple, problem-free trip to the Upper East Side, where they were staying with a secret “friend”?

Finally,

When Meghan arrived on the scene, we all thought the same thing. Finally, an intelligent, worldly, sophisticated woman who was in love with Harry. And if she was the activist she said she was, so much the better. She could quietly show up the royal family for what it was: snobby, backwards, uncool, mediocre, unfair. And then, who knows what? She could have been a truly subversive figure and cratered it from the inside (my dream). But none of that has happened.

What’s happened is the royal family has, conversely, shown Meghan and Harry up for what they are: a pair of wayward hangers-on with unhealthy egos. The more the family trundles on, the more enraged the couple seem. For three weeks we had been waiting: how would Meghan punish Charles for daring to have the coronation? And here’s the answer. What must the royals think when they see the grotty pictures of the Sussexes in a grim taxi on their mercy flight out of Manila — sorry, midtown?

[jscalzi]

Some Number Crunching on Career Sales, 2024

Tucked into yesterday’s announcement about the new 10-book contract with Tor is this notation: John Scalzi has become one of the most popular science fiction authors of his generation with 4.5 million books in print in the United States.  Let’s discard the “one of the most popular science fiction authors of his generation” bit as PR fluffery — which is easy for me to do since I wrote that bit —…

[houseofbrat]

Here's the other part I know from a while ago. More than once, Meghan has wanted to set up interviews to "get the truth out there" when, ironically she thinks the press has caused everyone to misunderstand her. She wanted it after the docu-shitshow, after "Waaaaugghh!", after many of her podcast episodes, etc. She was unable to find a television journalist willing to interview her, including Gayle and Oprah and she went to them first. She settled for some magazine fluffery, but I'm homding firm that UNLESS she agrees to give an interviewer full editorial control (she won't because then they can ask her about her lies), they won't interview her.

Oprah has been made a fool out of once with the Million Little Pieces author and she only would interview him again if he would allow her to hold his feet to the fire. Meghan will never allow that. Oprah and Gayle are done with the Sussexes, but Oprah authorizes Gayle to throw out a mild supportive comment about them every now and then just in case the Sussexes rise again and Oprah can profit later.  But I feel pretty certain there will be no Gayle interview nor will there be an Oprah one.  We'll have to see of course, but I've been debunking rumored Gayle interviews since the Oprah interview and my track record has been pretty good. We'll see if I still have my ear to the right streets or not.

And she'll never go to the Met Gala. Nor the Oscars.  Ten years from now she still will not be invited to either of those events. And it kiiiiiillllllssss her. The reason she mailed her ring back to Trevor all those years ago was because he took soneone else to the Oscars when he first got invited. She had been workong in Toronto and declined to come home, which she would have to do to attend the awards, but Trevity Trev Trev wasn't supposed to go either it would seem, or go and not invite one of his best guy friends since his wife wasn't willing to make the trek... but he did... and within a day Fed Ex was at his door.

[justallihere]

Did Xaden and Garrick go meet up with Cam before they met up with Violet??

Also, Violet thought about which shop Xaden would like and took him there????? I can’t get over the image of them sharing chocolates. I don’t know… I somehow think that’s more intimate than the cuddling?

I guess I should enjoy this fluffery as much as I can for now…. 😂

They were checking on the weapons progress! Liam was like “let me just usher her away in case she sees the other riders showing up to collect these and starts asking questions….”

We talk a lot about how well Xaden knows Violet but she knows a lot about him too and I wanted to highlight that! Let’s all just bask in the fluff for a minute or two, we’re gonna need it 💀

[whateveradjunct]

Some Number Crunching on Career Sales, 2024

Tucked into yesterday’s announcement about the new 10-book contract with Tor is this notation: John Scalzi has become one of the most popular science fiction authors of his generation with 4.5 million books in print in the United States.  Let’s discard the “one of the most popular science fiction authors of his generation” bit as PR fluffery — which is easy for me to do since I wrote that bit —…

[thegildedbee]

fluffbruary days 27 & 28: from the mixed-up files of mrs. h [complete]

[Chapter 15: The Secret About Secrets] and [Chapter 16: Inhabiting the Palace of Memory] :: From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Francis E. Hudson

Here are the final chapters :-) The fic is now complete! Thank you to Fluffbruary's lovely readers and thank you to the @fluffbruary deities for another fun ride via their much-appreciated work on behalf of fandomhood :-) Sherlock and John manage to liberate the correct file about Angel, and as a result Mrs. Hudson strikes an extraordinary bargain with the two runaways in exchange for the details of their escapade. Plus: it turns out there's still a bit more to learn about secrets beyond Angel's creation -- from Mrs. Hudson to John and Sherlock about the essence of secrets, from Sherlock and John (as overheard by Mrs. Hudson's driver), and from Mrs. Hudson, in her last letter to Mr. Thatcher.

A continuation of my contribution to @fluffbruary 2023, through the sherlockization of E.L. Konigsburg's children's literature classic, From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler.

Fluffbruary Prompts: Day 27 --market; friend; photograph || Day 28: bonus prompt: birthday [prompt list] Fluffbruary may have ended on the 28th, but the fluffbruarians invited the fluffery to continue throughout the year with the 14th of each month as a focal point. With this "the-fic-is-finally-complete-post" arriving on May 14th, I'm dedicating the last two chapters as contributions to the "fluffbruary: the expanded addition" prompts. For May: I've used pillow and silk.

@totallysilvergirl @mydogwatson @calaisreno @elwinglyre @keirgreeneyes @momma2boys @helloliriels @blogstandbygo @fluffbruary [and, no worries, let me know if you'd prefer not to have me contribute to your inbox clutter!]

[deathproofpony]

Big Dick’s Fluffery Part 1

[eurovision-revisited]

Eurovision 2005 - Number 53 - Санкт-Петербург - "Матрешки"

Confusingly there were two bands in Russia in 2005 called Sankt Peterburg/Saint Petersburg. The first being one of the original Soviet rock bands, with a lineage going back to 1969, and with a storied tale of artistic resistance and criticism in the heart of the Soviet Union.

This is not that band. This Sankt Peterburg (Sankt Peterburg II) formed in 1988 who were also a rock band formed in the city then known as Leningrad. They were the brainchild of producer Vladimir Kiselev who thought that a glam rock band was exactly the right thing for the times. He wasn't exactly wrong. By 2005, the band have had a long career and undergone an metamorphosis.

Their high point was in the early 1990s. Their popularity in the newly non-Soviet Russia was sizeable. There were albums, performances and tours. As their star began to fade through the decade, their bigger hits began to appear on compilations and they even become reasonably popular in Japan for a short time. There's something of the Spinal Tap about this story. The band folded but the lead singer and main composer hadn't had enough.

Lead singer Vladimir Trushin recast himself as the new producer and formed yet another band with the same name, but with a completely different line-up. The lead was Roman Vasiliev and he learned everything he knew from Trushin. This then is the Sankt Peterburg on stage in the resurrected Evrovidenie in 2005.

Матрешки (Matreshki/Matryoshka Dolls) is not a song that I have lyrics for, but its sound and look are straight from the 1970s heyday of glam rock. Poodle hair, expansive collars, cuffs and where the trousers aren't leather, there are bell-bottoms. A driving melodic rock sound with some guitar fluffery and an insane chorus hook that is instantly memorable to all, whether you understand Russian or not.

It's a well-timed entry. Melodic rock and metal has been a rising undercurrent in the national finals for a couple of year. In a Eurovision final this might have been the right song at the right-time. Unfortunately it was placed eighth of the nine songs competing in semi-final three. It garnered only 1.8% of the public vote when it was up against all manner of more contemporary sounding pop. The audience in the hall seem a little nonplussed and refuse to get involved no matter how hard the band go for it. The view might have been what are these long-haired rock dinosaurs doing on this stage?

Too bad - we all missed out on something

The band split up not long after this rejection at the hands of the Russian public leaving only the original Sankt Peterburg to continue rocking the country.

[cinemagooey]

Festival de Cannes

Celebrities, controversy, red carpet fluffery and compelling film entries haven't disappointed so far in this 77th year of the famed Cote D'Azur ceremony.

This year's festivities are sizzling with controversy as France's film industry faces its own #metoo movement, and labor unrest disturbs the status quo. But those contentious topics didn't stop the grandstanding on the red carpet as celebrities vied for paparazzi flashes.

Meryl Streep was awarded Cannes highest honor on opening night: an honorary Palme d'or

Greta Gerwig, 2024 Cannes Jury President

Highlighted films at the awards ceremony include...

Horizon: An American Saga, Kevin Costner's nod to the old west.

Kinds of Kindness by Yorgos Lanthimos (fresh off of his mutli-award winning Poor Things).

Megalopolis, a sci-fi fantasy that Coppola self-funded by selling a portion of his wine empire.

Furiosa, the latest installment of the Mad Max franchise and prequel to Fury Road.

The comedy Le Deuxième Acte (The Second Act) opened the festival, a meta film with themes of romance, filmmaking and artificial intelligence.

AI is already changing the artistry and business landscape of movie making. How will future Cannes celebrations morph as a result?

[radioiaci]

"When you say religious, all I can hear is the old broadcasts of the evangelicals which vehemently swore that the medium was the newest way to proselytize when they could not convince the old biddies to actually get out of bed to attend church on rainy Sunday mornings." The memory was a slightly comical one, having never fallen victim to the easy and pervasive message of the church. His father had - hook, line, and sinker. And yet he was the farthest thing from the ideal Christian.

Ah, but thinking too hard on that would sour him to the conversation. He did not want that. Beyond that, he was doing his utmost to not be distracted by how Michael was touching the wound in that way. It still felt too personal. But he chose to not focus on that either, instead, taking at least some marginal stock in Michael's compliment. It was hard not to want to - the radio demon still had an ego that yearned to be fed and fed well.

"Mm, I suppose it is better to be agitated than to be bored, sometimes," came the slightly backhanded acceptance of the praise. It was the best Michael would get. Alastor was used to fluffery - but hardly anything truly genuine. Even when Charlie, good-hearted as she was, tried to prop him up as some sort of benevolent figure of the hotel, he knew it to be something that even she did not believe. "But I will take that for what it is worth."

Which was more than he wanted to admit.

A clearing of the throat turned his focus back towards the wound and Michael's attempt at healing. It did not seem that the other was very keen to actually steal a glimpse of the scarring along the plane of his back, even exposed as it currently was. And for that, Alastor was... thankful? Or something akin to it. Anyone who was more familiar with him, he assumed, would have gleefully jumped at the opportunity to see the real thing that plagued the radio demon above all else. But here Michael was, speaking of it so... casually.

' Whoever did that to you. '

If only he could say. But even the thought of revealing that information made the pentagram prickle and begin to burn in warning. Do not dare, it said. Not even he can save you.

And what a fool he would be to even begin to believe anything of the sort.

"I have nothing planned, as it were."

It was the only thing he decided to respond to, unable to fill in the gaps or the history behind the vicious mark scored into his flesh. And true enough, he was also quite invested in learning what he could about Michael in turn. It was mutually beneficial, he supposed, to carry on. But first - if he stood any chance at sleeping later, he would need to have another drink. In hand, he manifested a bottle, oddly shaped and clearly containing some sort of liquor. Though the inside glittered with a vague sheen, its contents a stark orange color that did not look at all natural. And technically, it was not.

It was a liquor of his own conjuring. Always twisted, strange, and unique. And certainly much stronger than most. He would not be getting drunk in Michael's presence, but a small sip or two, at least, would settle any lingering anxiety before he could carry on.

"Your turn then. Truth or dare?"

   Alastor was quite passionate about the radio, wasn't he? It was nice, to be passionate about something, to enjoy what you did to the point you could ramble about it. Which was, exactly, what he was doing. Rambling in great detail to explain his answer to Michael. This could have been much shorter, could have been a quick answer if he really wasn’t interested in playing this game. But he’d taken the question that Michael asked and more or less ran with it. The information he was giving him was, truthfully, quite interesting. 

   He can’t hold the healing for much longer though, especially after what he went through yesterday with whatever was on that demon’s back. While listening to the other take he cut the magic off and then as he did before turned it around, pushing it into the wound and closing it just a little bit more. By the end of the week he was quite certain he’d have all of this healed, but it was still going to take more time. That also depended, give or take, on the wound on the back. If he needed to treat that.

   That wasn’t something he’d try right now though, not when he was still recovering from the last time. So as he cut his magic off, the wound looking a bit better than before, Michael lightly dragged the fingers of his right hand across the demon’s abdomen, tracing the outline of the wound itself. 

   It was still incredible to him that he took that hit from Adam’s guitar and got back up.  

   “Heaven has radio, though not quite perhaps what you’re imagining. It’s always more, um, religious than anything else you’ve listed. Though that isn’t necessarily a bad thing? It’s just not interesting to really listen to. I’ll tune in sometimes, just to see what they’re talking about, but overall I tend to just play music in my office. Classicals, instrumental, the Seraphims have joked you can tell my mood by what's playing and how loud it is.” He huffs out a breath at that and a small smile pulls onto his lips, his hands falling away from the other’s waist and into his own lap.  

   “I haven’t heard your Radio Show since I’ve been here, but I’m sure you’re doing well. You have a good voice for it, which I’m certain you know. One could perhaps listen to you talk and talk without growing bored. Which is not a compliment many get from me, by the way.” Sliding himself back on the bed a bit he gave Alastor a bit of space, so that he didn’t feel so crowded, and could inspect the small repair to the wound on his own. 

   “If you give me until tomorrow, I can try healing your back again. Unfortunately, I’ll need to recover a bit of my own energy before that. Whoever did that to you, clearly didn’t want it undone if the seal is strong enough to bite me back.” A rather irritating thing, if he’s being honest. Michael detests having to fight back against people who think they’re better than him. That might actually be a bit of pride, but even the Virtue of Humility isn’t above that.

   Tilting his head to the side he glanced back over at Alastor and gave him another smile, waving his hand between the two of them. “Let’s keep playing though, unless you have better things to do after being healed. Overlord meetings to attend or people to torment. I’m enjoying the experience of getting to know you better.” Was that weird? He finds Alastor fascinating though. Not really something to study, but just more something to understand better. There seemed to be many layers to him.