800 thread count

There’s a beautiful man reading a book in the field behind Zhenya’s backyard. The field is technically Zhenya’s property, but he never bothered to do anything with it. At first he thinks he’s dreaming. Then, after studying the guy’s clothing, looking as if he stole from the set of Little House on the Prairie, he thinks he’s seeing ghosts.

“Are you ghost?” Zhenya asks, reeling Jeffrey in, who is suddenly very interested in bounding over to the man and—sniffing him or mauling him, Zhenya isn’t too sure. “Please say no.”

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Well hello @mizjoely!😉 I love this, thanks! And I even did a bit of research. (Sherlock would be proud lol) And just FYI this is setup as non-established sherlolly. 


“But I always try to get the 800 thread count,” Molly argued weakly. “Doesn’t that mean it’s good?”

“Oh, Molly,” Sherlock drawled with a low chuckle. “Come with me.”

He spoke authoritatively as they walked down his hallway. “Thread count alone is hardly an indicator of quality. The fiber content, weave, and even where it’s made are just as important, if not more so. Personally, I only buy 800 thread count, sateen weave, organic pima cotton sheets from Italy. That is quality.” He stopped at his bed and gestured to it. “Go on, try it.”

“What…now?” She frowned, looking back and forth between him and the bed.

“You won’t regret it,” he stated confidently.

Hesitantly at first, Molly climbed under the blankets and lay back against the pillow which, not surprisingly to him, produced a sigh from her lips.

“My God,” she breathed and looked at him wide eyed. “Is this made of pima cotton or melted butter?!”

Sherlock stood by and grinned as she continued to make herself comfortable. Oh yes, he thought to himself, bringing up the subject of how to choose quality bedding was definitely a good idea. 

@veryverygoodatherjob💗

hi!  carey nuzzles killian’s nose, blinking her yellow eyes fondly. my stomach’s telling me it’s dinner time, sooo…  the rogue fairly effortlessly swings herself around to killian’s back-side and scrambles her way up until she’s sitting on the orc’s shoulders, perched like a technicolor vulture with a huge, toothy grin.

to the mess hall! mush! before magnus eats all the good stuff!  she points one hand forward, while the other rests on killian’s head and her tail curls around to help her keep her balance.

letsallbecalmchaps  asked:

relationship headcanons for lust fresh and error sans plus cuddle headcanons for them and horror sans please?

Sans (Underlust)
-He gives no fucks about PDA, he will kiss you everywhere. He will kiss you whenever and wherever he wants to, and ain’t nobody gonna stop him. 

-He will buy you cute, lacy underwear, and then beg you to wear it for him. He will give you chocolate and then insist he lick it off your lips. He makes everything into sex.

-Cuddles are almost always spooning. Its also almost always sexual. He grabs your chest and smushes his face into your shoulder. 


Sans (Underfresh)

-He will make you wear his jacket, he will make you wear his clothes all the time. He think you look goddamn adorable in them. You’re also the only person who gets to see his eyes without his shades.

-He has no concept of privacy, he will just randomly teleport in on you wherever you happen to be. If he teleports in on you in the shower, he will sit and talk to you even if he walks in on you literally fucking yourself.

-Cuddles are aggressive and squirmy. He tries his best to get both of you in the most comfortable position possible. He nuzzles you and kisses your face. He’s happy, he loves you.


Sans (Errortale)

-Hes nice to you. He stops yelling for once, and just mumbles to you. He apologizes to you, he apologizes to everyone, but he only says it to you. He tells you everything, and he trusts you. Its amazing.

-He makes stuff out of the anti void and gives it to you. Since the anti void is like raw matter, he can make whatever he wants. You want pizza? O̘n᷆ iͥt͡.̳ You want some blankets made of 800 thread count angora wool? E͢a᷃s̙i̙l̇yͪ d̢ȏn͘e͉.̉

-Cuddles are weird. He doesn’t like touching people, so he kind of wraps you up in his stings and cuddles your soul. It feels like real cuddling, but you can feel what he’s thinking too. He’s sad, but he’s happy you’re here. He’s angry with himself. He loves you. 


Sans (Horrortale)

-Cuddles are clingy and cute. He grips you tight and probably lies on top of you. Its possessive and protective. He stares at your soul and runs his claws over your face. He constantly tries to kiss you and bring you closer. How cute.

How Sweet It Is

————-

The Berkshires are truly magical in December.

This rural and mountainous region in western Massachusetts was blessed with an early winter storm two days earlier, draping the area with its first measurable snowfall of the year. The red and orange and yellow leaves that symbolize autumn in New England have long since fallen to the ground and turned into a dark brown mush, and so this first showering of snow is a fresh start, a clean slate, a sign that winter has arrived. The only hint of green left in the region are the infrequent evergreen pine and spruce trees that dot the landscape.

Fluffy white powder coats the barren trees – a mixture of maple and poplar and ash and sycamore - as if it is a scene stolen from a Christmas card, seemingly almost too perfect to be real. Delicate frosty snowflakes cling to each naked branch, forming soft clusters of snow that glimmer in the daylight, perched precariously on the exposed sticks, ready to float to the ground at the hint of a light breeze. The fields and meadows are like giant sheets of wedding cake, elegantly covered with a twinkly vanilla frosting, stretching in every direction as far as the eye can see.

While the rest of the country is preparing to go to work on this Tuesday morning, Taylor and Tom are tucked away at Stonover Farm, a lavish bed and breakfast of sorts, located just outside of Lenox, Massachusetts, in the heart of the Berkshires.

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of course rapha.el is mag.nus’ son pffffft … like ….idk …. who  …..else  ….. do  u  think …. taught  him …. what  style™️  is … /:  all  those  powerpoint  presentations  y’all ,  how  &  why  else … was  rapha.el  sporting …. that  800 thread  count  egyptian  cotton  robe   ….  fam  @welldriven  too  bad  despite  all  those  talks  about  saying  pls  &  thank  you ,  all  those  manners ….  raph.ael  still  has  time  to  roast  ma.gnus  like  ….  no  recovery  from  that  salty ,  bratty  little  monster  santiago …. /: 

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       keyleth sits cross-legged and hunched over in front of the sun tree, her tongue poking out between her lips in concentration. for once, she isn’t just TALKING to the sun tree; instead, she’s very carefully DRAWING it. him. him? him. she’s drawing him. mainly because percy is so super good at drawing trees ( well, everything ) and she really thinks that drawing trees is something she should be good at? so next to the sun tree leaf she has pressed in her book of plants, she is trying very hard to capture the figure of the sun tree with paper and ink. … if you squint, it does sort of look like the sun tree, she thinks.

This is a three-pronged attack concocted by @stilinski-loves-lydia and myself:

1. Listen to “The Fire” by Former Vandal.

2. LOOK AT THIS ART. LOOKATIT. AND CRY.

3. And there’s this poorly written, overwrought, over-italicized little drabble thing. (I apologize in advance. Shrug. I BLAME ALL THE COLD MEDICINE.)


She doesn’t let go of him, after, needing the warmth of his skin, or the worn-in softness of his shirt against her fingers at all times. Scott, still wiping tears from his eyes, had hugged his best friend one last fierce time, stepping back, wanting to give the Sheriff and Stiles some time, some space.

Lydia, however, cannot bear the idea of him leaving her sight. Instead, she climbs wearily into the backseat of the sheriff’s SUV, to no one’s apparent surprise, keeping her eyes locked on the blinking, disoriented boy in the passenger’s seat, terrified he’ll disappear again if she so much as glances away.

They step, hand in hand, through the threshold to Stiles’ room, now supernaturally returned to its usual state. Her chest tightens uncomfortably, recalling just days ago, when this very room was a dusty, cordoned-off shell of a space, not brimming with the debris of teenaged boy. Her breath hitches as she takes in the All Time Low poster on the wall, the muddy lacrosse cleats kicked into the corner, the hoodie thrown haphazardly over the computer chair - all the minutiae of Stiles, of Stiles being a part of this world. Of her world.

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2moms-0fucks  asked:

Okay beautiful. You asked for a prompt. Here you go: Bleach, cotton, squeegee

For @leiascully‘s Oktoberficfest challenge, and a huge thanks to @2momsmakearight for the prompt.  


By the end of their second year as partners, they had been finding small but overt ways to endear themselves to one another.  Little overtures that spoke volumes, and somehow in those minuscule acts of tenderness, they began to discreetly and quietly shut the rest of the world out, constructing their own impermeable, indecipherable universe of two.  Lovers buy one another flowers, lingerie, and timepieces. They bought each other sunflower seeds, iced tea, and keychains.

On their myriad roadtrips through flyover states, crisscrossing along deserted two-lane highways, their overly attentive and somewhat maudlin gestures began to blossom into a curious pattern of courtship ritual that neither of them was prepared to admit constituted anything romantic.  

The dance would go something like this:  Inevitably, on one of their journeys into the heartland of Arizona or Tennessee, Scully would mutter something under her breath about craving a diet soda or needing to relieve her bladder, and though he pretended not to hear, Mulder would find the very next truckstop and pull off the road, ostensibly to stretch his legs or fill up the rental car’s gas tank (which was still half-full).  When he had finished gassing up, had thoroughly squeegeed the windshield because he knew she hated any bug splatter marring her field of vision when she drove, he would walk around the rental car to the passenger side so that Scully could drive the next leg of their journey, fold himself into the car, and find an iced tea in his cupholder and a bag of sunflower seeds resting on his seat.  Neither would say anything about it, but he would open the bag and pour a few small, salty kernels into his palm and pretend to ignore the Cheshire smile that, coupled with the red-gold country sunset reflecting off of the rearview mirror, would light up her features like a page from an illuminated manuscript as she merged back onto the interstate, sipping her Diet Coke.  And gradually another small part of him would fall quietly, madly in love with her.

Scully, for her part, was taking a bit longer to reveal herself to him.  But Mulder’s irrepressible charm and incredible gifts as a skilled interrogator left her virtually defenseless.  She was gradually opening up to him, sharing bits and pieces of herself that didn’t necessarily seem all that revelatory on their own but, when taken in toto, left Mulder finding himself thoroughly smitten with the woman that was slowly but surely exposing herself, one mysterious puzzle piece at a time.

She refused to let him control the radio when she was driving, and would smack his hand away if he tried to change the station.  But she would allow him to open doors and pull out chairs for her.  

She would indulge in a greasy diner burger and fries with him while on the road for a case, but early the next morning he would hear her sneak out of her motel room to sweat it off with a 45-minute run, and then she would order salads or skip her next few meals.  

She hummed to herself during autopsies.  

She indulged in ridiculously over-priced satin pajamas and 800-thread count Egyptian cotton linens when at home, but slid into the stiff, bleach-soaked sheets of their many motel rooms in nothing but flannel pajama bottoms and an over-sized shirt.  

She was a crack shot at the firing range but couldn’t sink a wadded-up piece of paper in the waste basket to save her life.

In other words, while she may not have been perfect, Dana Scully was perfect for him.     

Once, about four months after Melissa had died, they were driving through Arkansas as an orange-tinged violet dusk tucked itself in over an endless horizon of cornfields.  In the middle of her scan through the local radio stations to find something they both could agree on, Scully paused on a classical station, catching the last few mournful strains of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 14. Mulder was about to tell her to keep going when her voice emanated softly and without preamble from the passenger seat, steady but quiet.  “She played, you know.”  

“Who?” Mulder asked.  Intuitively, he knew that he was about to learn something. Something important.  

“Melissa.  She rebelled against almost everything my parents made her do. Girl Scouts, softball, Catechism.  She refused to go along with anything they wanted her to do,” she said, an indulgent smile coloring her tone.  He felt her shake her head as she exhaled through her nose.  “Except for piano.  It was the one thing that stuck.  She played beautifully.”

Mulder remained silent and continued driving as the highway’s endless purple-gray ribbon disappeared into the fading light.  Samantha’s face flashed through his mind, and he silently mourned for her, for his father and hers, for Melissa. They both had lost a sister and a father.  They were truly kindred spirits now, he and Scully.  

Something like fate settled over him in the car that night as he snuck glances at her profile, wrapping itself around his heart and securing it tightly before silently, clandestinely, handing the key over to her.  Unknowingly, as she characteristically went quiet again and toed her heels off, curling in on herself in the passenger seat of their rented Ford Taurus, from that moment on, he belonged to her and no other.    

That small revelation passed over both of them like a tide.  When Mulder didn’t say anything, allowed the topic of Melissa to dwindle while she eventually tuned to the next radio station, Scully nearly forgot the conversation had ever taken place.  But months later, when the anniversary of her sister’s death approached, Scully walked into the basement office one morning to find a small blue envelope on the table next to her laptop.  Setting her bag down, she picked up the unmarked letter and slid her finger under the envelope’s flap, pulling out two tickets for that night’s performance of the National Symphony Orchestra.   

Her eyes misted when she noted that the special guest for that night’s showing was a concert pianist who would be performing a selection of Beethoven’s sonatas.

She turned as Mulder walked into the office and, sniffling, she held the tickets up wordlessly. Mulder colored, shuffling his feet adorably.  

“I figured you could take your mom, if she’s not busy.  Might be a nice way to remember…” he trailed off, then glanced up to meet her eyes and lifted his shoulders helplessly.

Scully looked down again at the tickets in her hand.  “My mother’s actually out of town, visiting Charlie in North Carolina.”

Mulder swallowed.  “Well, I’m sure you can find someone to go with. Maybe Ellen, or-”

Scully chuckled and shook her head.  “Sorry, Mulder.  My social life has taken a nosedive since I’ve started working with you.  I haven’t talked to Ellen in months.  And, honestly…” she blushed, clearing her throat, unable to meet his eyes.  “I’d really like to go with you, Mulder.  You’re, uh…you’re probably the best friend I have these days.”  She chanced a glance up at him to see that a gentle smile had lighted on his face.  

“Scully, I have to remind you that this goes directly against the Bureau’s policy of male and female agents fraterniz-”

“Pick me up at 6, Mulder,” she cut him off.  “We’ll grab dinner first.”

His smile widened while his eyes softened.  “You got it.”

She didn’t ever say, “Thank you.”  But then, he never said, “I love you,” either.

They didn’t have to.  It went without saying.

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       sometimes ( usually when grog is around, but not today ) keyleth likes to hang out in minxie form, just because. so HOPEFULLY it doesn’t give percy a heart-attack when he finds a white tiger chilling in the library, mauling a particularly scrumptious pillow. she doesn’t mean any harm by this– destroying a pillow, that is –it’s just that sometimes it’s easier to deal with life when all you have to worry about is the downy white feathers that are getting all over your paws and your fur and the floor. minxie doesn’t have to think about the pressure of the life of a leader, or how much she misses everyone travelling together, or how it’s weird to be a Thing with a moody rogue, or how no one has seen scanlan in months. minxie just does what she do. minxie don’t give a shit about anything. it’s…. n i c e .

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       although percy may not quite believe in  f a t e , She most certainly believes in HIM. Her hand gently guides his gun as he shoots, his head as he thinks, his words as he speaks. She knows that Her champion cannot act, cannot survive alone, and so She surrounds him with allies who will sacrifice everything for his sake ( and, by extension, H e r s ) . PERCIVAL, however, is a funny one. this young man, this boy, needs all of the guidance he can find, all the while refusing to see himself as anyone’s pawn. She has watched him for so long, before he could even acknowledge Her existence. She wonders, sometimes, if he notices how She interacts with the world now that he knows She is around. She wonders if he will ever be able to speak to him, really. She wonders the limits of Her own power, if things could have been different, or if this is the path that Always Was, Always Is, and Always Would Be. in another world, perhaps another soul would have pledged itself to Her to save the ranger girl.

       ( She may wonder, but She doubts this is the case. fate is as absolute as it is enigmatic, even for Her. )

       today, a raven has managed to perch on a cabinet in percival’s whitestone workshop, blinking at him with perplexed interest. it opens its beak to caw quietly, fluffing its wings. however it got in, it’s a bit too nervous to try getting out now. it hops ever-so-slightly closer to the mechanic, looking him up and down.

can i just say i rly love thinking about bernie and serena sleeping together and staying at each other’s homes because they’d deffo spend their time at serena’s at first and like serena is the type of person to have 800 thread count sheets that match and throw pillows and a neatly arranged bedside table and then one night bernie’s like ‘ya i should go home and get some clothes’ and serena manages to talk bernie into both of them spending the night at bernie’s and they get there and bernie’s mattress is just laying on the floor surrounded by dirty dishes and garbage and laundry and she has an ancient comforter and one pillow and serena’s like ‘babe u were in the army wtf???’ and then never lets bernie go home again

Bad Habits

A little drabble about how habits change when you let people into your life.

It had always been her place. Her inner sanctum, if you will.

800 thread count sheets, freshly pressed; duck down filled pillows and comforter - double thickness in the winter (for extra toastiness.)

She had a side (her side) - the one where the nightstand was topped with a copy of her novel of the moment - that she clung to every night out of habit or fear or- (well, she didn’t really know why).

But every morning, most of all, she loved to stretch out; to slide down in the bed and lay out her limbs and prove to herself that she could barely meet the edges of the mattress.

Mine, she would sigh, all mine.

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x-files fic: fine

Title: Fine
Author: dashakay (or Dasha K. if you’re old school like that)
Pairing: Mulder/Scully
Rating: Teen/PG-13
Word Count: 1,800
Summary: How are you doing today, Dana?
Note: A companion piece to Fifty-Four. leiascully wrote Mulder at the therapist, I’m writing Scully at the therapist. We’re both cool with that and the two worlds are not connected, except we’re both feeling angsty.

“How are you doing today, Dana?”

Scully looks her therapist straight in the eye and smiles. “I’m fine,” she says, folding her hands together in her lap. She loves these noon sessions with Kathryn. It’s so calming to sit in in this pastel office, breathing in the scent of aromatherapy candles and listening to her therapist’s soft Virginia accent.

She is fine. Everyone keeps asking her how she’s doing—her mother, her brothers, her fellow doctors, even a few acquaintances at church. Her answer is always “I’m fine,” because she is. She’s just fine, thank you.

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