biscuit trays

you’re like the thing that makes the universe explode

“Kid, the only people who don’t know that you like Suvi are people who haven’t met you and Suvi.” 

Sara Ryder hasn’t slept in a while. It makes for strange, albeit honest, conversations. ~1200 words, heavily featuring Drack.

“Scott has this theory,” Sara says, “about doorways.”

Drack looks at her sideways, a little like she’s lost her mind. Maybe she has - she’s been awake since yesterday, possibly the day before. She’s forgotten. It all blends together in a haze of code, coffee, and pie anyway.

“Yeah?” he says, poking at the tray of biscuits he’s just pulled out of the oven. Seemingly unsatisfied with the poke, he slides the tray back in, grumbling about shoddy Initiative tech.

Sara brings her legs up onto the bench and crosses her ankles. “You know, between me and Gil, we could fix the temperature control on that.”

“Then I wouldn’t get to complain,” he says, setting the timer for another five minutes.  

She shrugs - she can’t fault him for that logic - and takes a slow sip of her coffee. She’s probably long hit maximum saturation of caffeine in her bloodstream, but decaf tastes funny. “Open offer.”

He turns around and leans back against the counter. “So. Doorways.”

“Doorways,” she says. “Scott has a theory that our brains have evolved to subconsciously associate doorways with change. So if you’re stuck on something, just leave the room. Tech, email, crappy mood, whatever. Your brain automatically switches gears when you leave the room.”

“Huh,” Drack grunts. “That also why you guys walk into places and ask everyone else why you showed up?”

“Probably.” She takes another sip. “Anyway. He read an article when we were kids, and never shut up about it. I’d be banging my head against a problem, and he’d just ‘leave the room, Sara,’” she lilts her voice upward in a mockery of his deep baritone. “Never fucking worked.”

Drack crosses his arms. “And doorways are what’s keeping you up?”

“Oh,” Sara says, “no.” She glances at the door: still shut. “I have a crush on Suvi,” she says, as evenly and plainly as if she were mentioning the rain on Havarl. Because she does. A big one. And that, far more than fixing her twitchy assault turret, is what’s kept her awake since yesterday, possibly the day before.

He snorts. “No kidding.”

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Time for tea.

Author’s Note: Okay, I don’t know how I do this but I always end up having plenty of stories to be written and no time to do it. Anyway, I couldn’t resist to do it because the gif was KILLING ME. Okay. I’m fine. So I hope you all like this Tony Stark x Reader.

(Gif used by @itsallavengers in this post. Sorry for using this! I hope you don’t get angry but I didn’t find it and then I couldn’t post it with the “Posted by…”) 

Warnings: Sex. Unprotected sex (USE A CONDOM!), Language, Spanking, Swearing, Oral sex (Female Receiving), Fingering.

Words: 2,031.

You sighed as you sat inside the bathtub, hot scented water surrounding you. You aching muscles started to relax as time passed. Bach’s Cello Suite N 1 in G was playing through the speakers. You dove and the water covered your face, cleaning all the tiredness and filthiness. You rose and took a deep breath, the drops rolling down your cheeks.

You stretched and went out when you had cleaned yourself. The bath robes were hanging there, prepared. Tony’s was a tone of burgundy while yours was a soft lilac. You loved them. They were fluffy and smooth. You took Tony’s and put it on, leaving the bathroom.

“FRIDAY, where’s Tony?”

“He is in his lab, Miss Y/L/N”

“How long has he been working?” You asked the device as you headed for the kitchen, starting to prepare a tea. Knowing him, probably he hadn’t eaten anything for hours.

“Mr. Stark do not allow me to give you that information, Miss”

“Of course” You muttered rolling your eyes as you placed the tea and some biscuits on a small tray and took it. You walked to the lift and pressed the button. 

You had been dating Tony for a year and a half now. Since Fury recruited you to join the team, he had been teasing and flirting with you. You’d just roll your eyes and laugh. It was months later when you knew the real Tony. The one who cared and worried. 

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Part 1

(Pietro Maximoff x Reader)

A famous avenger that writes fanfiction on tumblr? What could go wrong? 

Words: 1372  Warnings: Fluff, little shit Pietro, couple of swears,

Requests  Masterlist 

An: Writing a lot of angst lately so wanted something fluffy for a change. :p There’s at least four parts if anyone likes it! :)  God I love these gifs, cut offs from my fave gifset, he so knows how hot he is! 

Translations:  Dulceaţă/sweetness, Îmi plac toate frumoasele doamne/I love all you beautiful ladies,  La naiba/f**king hell

Tags: @lexbugz, @goal-mine, @sevenhelens, @iamtheonewhocares

(Let me know if you want to be added/removed to Pietro fics or anything else!)

Requests  Masterlist

You blended in with the multitude of other marvel blogs, you got a few notes and messages but didn’t think much of it, it was just a bit of fun, a way to wind down after long missions. That was until you were attending comic con with Pietro, Clint and Wanda and the interviewer got onto the subject of fans.

The pretty blonde leaned closer with the mic, “Do you have any idea of how big your fan base is?”

“Tony gets truckloads of hate mail, does that count?” Clint smirked and the interviewer giggled.

“Pietro you’re especially popular on tumblr,” the interviewer carried on and Pietro gave her a smug grin and shifted about in his chair to lean closer to her, his chest puffing up a little more.

“Really?” he was obviously trying to sound coy but you and Wanda rolled your eyes at each other.

“There’s quite a lot of fan fiction about you, it can get pretty…graphic…”

“You got me interested now." 

"What is this tumblr?”

Clint groans,“It’s the one Tony has the secret blog on, he’s probably read all that fan fiction.”

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anonymous asked:

The lazy bones, walking into the kitchen in the middle of the night to see their S/O singing along to bubbly music or musicals and baking. When questioned, after a long pause they tell the skelebro they couldn't sleep. How do they react? -K

[ By “the lazy bones”, I’m going to assume you mean UT! Sans, US! Paps, UF! Sans and SF! Paps xD Anddd apparently DT! Sans xD Alrighty then, here we go :3 ] 

UT! Sans: After a while of having your warmth near him as he’s fallen asleep, he’s not that surprised to have woken up at midnight without you by his side, though he definitely wants to go back to sleep - which he would’ve tried to do if it wasn’t for hearing light singing from downstairs. He blinks a few times, before crawling his way out of bed slowly and padding down the stairs, eyes lowered as he’s clearly half asleep, and making his way to the brightly lit up kitchen, squinting from the sudden brightness. “Babe, what are you doing…?” he asks, surprising you halfway through taking out your lemon meringue pie, stopping in your song as you whip around to look at him. “O-Oh, um… I… I couldn’t sleep,” you decide to say, not really feeling up for lying right now as you slide the pie into the bench. “…Would you like some pie?” Sans stares ahead in tired disbelief, before letting out a sigh, smiling sadly. “Well… wouldn’t want to let it go to waste, but… you know if you couldn’t sleep, you could’ve just told me? It’s alright, you know. I get too much sleep for my own good, anyways,” Sans says, sounding a little more awake then before, at least. He makes his way forward and helps you to cut up the pie, and for another twenty minutes or so you stay up lightly chatting and eating. Honestly, he wouldn’t have ever turned up anything you make, and for so early in the morning, it’s pretty good. After you’re done, he forces you back up to bed and does whatever he can to get you to sleep – whether it means humming or stroking your hair and won’t stop until you drift off calmly to sleep. He’ll probably sleep in for a bit longer this morning though, but chances are you’ll probably do the same unless you’re an early riser. He’s most likely going to try and keep you in bed, however.

US! Paps: He’s up the moment you’re awake and crawling out of the bed, and although he’s tired, he waits for a bit to see if maybe you’re just heading to the bathroom, but after it’s been a while he can’t help but pull back the blanket and make his way downstairs to see what’s going on. He’s not that surprised, really – some nights Carrot has trouble getting to sleep too so at least he understands. He doesn’t know why, but as he makes his way up to you, he doesn’t ask. “What’s that you’re making?” he asks, lightly startling you as you turn around, before letting out a breath. “Oh, um… got a little bit restless, so thought I could pass the time with brownies, heh,” you reply, knowing all too well your boyfriend knows what’s up. It’s obvious. You stare ahead in silence for a bit, before turning to him and speaking up. “Sorry if I woke you up…” Carrot blinks, before shaking his head with a smile. “No worries, honey. It’s fine,” he says, “though I think we better work on getting back to bed, eh? If ya still can’t sleep, ya just need to ask, okay? I’m here to help after all.” You lower your eyes, but nod your head slowly. “Yeah, okay…” you reply, before reaching out for one of the brownies and holding it out to Carrot. “But first…” Carrot chuckles, shaking his head a bit, but nonetheless leans forward and takes a bite with his hands still resting comfortably by his side. “Mmm, tastes good honey,” he compliments and you blush a little, before taking the entire plate and holding it out. “Would you… like some more?” Carrot can’t help but laugh, and, well, let’s just say it takes a fair bit longer than he expected to get back to bed

UF! Sans: He was rather worriedly woken from his sleep when he finds out that you’re not next to him, and doesn’t take long to quickly scramble out of bed and race down the stairs, kind of stumbling a bit but none the less, he makes it down safely and- …what? What is all this??? What?? He stares ahead for a bit as you stare back at him somewhat blankly, before he lowers his eyelids disapprovingly. “Alright, what ya up now for?” he asks, placing a hand on his hip. You lower your eyes to the ground as you slide off the oven mitts you’d just used to take out the tray of biscuits. “Just… couldn’t get to sleep, so…” And now Red looks a little bad. He looks a bit relieved for a bit, before letting out a breath and dragging a hand over his skull as if dragging it through the hair he doesn’t have. “Yeah… yeah, I get the feeling,” he says, making his way over and holding you from behind as he looks over at the treats. “Hey, those look pretty good…” he compliments, kind of just staring at him, and you blink and let out a small giggle. “Do you want some?” Red jumps lightly, blushing as he looks up to you. “I didn’t- …I mean, yeah… yeah, sure,” he mumbles slightly, and the two of you make your way over chatting and eating until eventually both of you feel tired and head off to bed at like three in the morning. At least ya had fine. Probably won’t be rising early this morning, though.

SF! Paps: Definitely the most anxious out of all of the skeletons, he’s up and awake the moment he reaches over and can’t feel you in the bed next to him. He quickly pushes off the sheets and races downstairs only to- oh, thank god. He’s relieved at first as you turn to look at him, before coming to the realisation. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I worry you? I’m fine, just… couldn’t really get to sleep.” Oh, well, that was a reason, he supposed… “Hey, it’s okay. I worry a little too much, ain’t you fault…” he says, hands on his hips as he makes his way up behind you. “Oh, well, I know your world used to be… not so good, so I should’ve known… it’s not your fault either,” you say, looking over to the oven as the timer lightly rang off, and with a small smile you bend down to pull out the tray of muffins. “Heh, what a way to pass the time,” Slim says, looking towards the clock. “Think you can get back to sleep now, or-“ Silence fell, except for the sound of your stomach lightly grumbling, and he lets out a chuckle, and you smile nervously. “Heheh, well, probably was a little hungry…” Slim smiles in return, reaching a hand over to the top of your head as he strokes it once. “Alright, muffins at two in the morning it is.” At some point you end up falling asleep on the table from exhaustion and he ends up carrying you back to bed. Neither of you got up very early in the morning that day.

DT! Sans: After being woken half way through a very good dream if you catch his drift, he rolls over to reach out for you, and feeling the bed empty, he’s already wide awake. “Uh… (s/o)?” he questions, crawling out of the bed in an exaggerated movement as he slides off onto the floor, before making his way out and hearing the slight sound of singing from downstairs. He smirks a little and lightly rolls his eyes, and slowly makes his way down, keeping his steps light (which is fairly easy for him being a dancer), before slowly sliding in next to you as you focus on icing the batch of cupcakes, with a grin on his face as you haven’t noticed him yet. “Watcha doing, babe?” he says fairly quickly, and you can’t help but jump, turning to face him and squirting a bunch of icing out of the piping bag straight into his face. DT! Sans blinks, before letting out a laugh and wiping some of the icing off his face. “Mm, chocolate. Tastes good,” he says, before tilting his head a bit to the side. “Seriously though, it’s like, one in the morning. Watcha up to?” As you reach out and hand him a cloth in silence, you turn back to the cupcakes. “Couldn’t get to sleep…” You admit, staring ahead as you continue to focus on icing the goods. “That’s a shame,” DT! Sans says as he leans on the bench. “Sucks, eh?” he adds, and you look at him with a bit of surprise, before slowly nodding your head. “Honestly don’t know why you didn’t just say something, but hey, I get it. Burning the midnight oil is whatever it is they say,” he says, looking to you. “That’s, um, working late in the night… I wouldn’t really call this work, just… I don’t know…” DT! Sans shrugs lightly with a smile. “Well, hey, if you wanna get back ta sleep, ya just say so okay? Though, don’t try and keep yourself up too late if you’ve got anything on tomorrow,” he says, before looking towards the cupcakes. “…You’re perfectly welcome to eat those, however,” he adds with a cheeky grin, and you roll your eyes a little. “Yeah, okay… cupcakes first,” you say, lifting the tray over to the table as he follows behind you. Probably won’t help you get to sleep, but… well, it’s not often you get the chance to have midnight snacks, let alone cupcakes.


Words: 1048

Pairing: Thranduil x Reader

Request:  Not sure if requests are open but could you perhaps do one with thranduil x reader where the reader was trying to surprise thranduil with baking sweets but ultimately failing and he catches her during the time where she had a rage quit and become mortified to see him at her embarrassing state? that would be great :D

Wiping a hand over your forehead, you looked down to the book in front of you, trying to decipher the words of the recipe you were trying to follow. Turning back to the workspace, and the overabundance of flour covering everything, you sighed.

You had only a handful of hours left before Thranduil retired to his chambers for the evening, and you wanted to be able to surprise him with a spread of treats. It was his birthday after all, and he deserved the best you could find, even if it meant baking them yourself.

Although, ‘sweets’ was a farfetched description for the utter mess making up the kitchen. You had managed to create a rather delectable looking tray of biscuits, decorated with the finest chocolate drizzle your kin imported, as well as a plate of herb and fruit tarts, topped with berries from the gardens. You had even managed to make Dorwinion infused breads - a recipe your mother had taught you years prior - and, lastly, you had attempted to make a cake.

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Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Ficlet: Of Biscuits and Snowflakes

1.1k words, G rated

It’s Christmas Eve and the Potter household is in chaos. Harry’s grand plan for dealing with the kids is to hide in the kitchen and make Christmas biscuits. Ginny isn’t best pleased.

Merry Christmas to @abradystrix. Thanks for betaing, and chatting, and generally being awesome over the last month or so. I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you. <3

Beta’d by @autumn-of-ilvermorny.

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*mental image moment*

So this popped into my head while in the shower this morning (what?), and don’t you know it wouldn’t leave me alone? It demanded I write it down on paper, er… tumblr and it ended up becoming a ficlet that consumed pretty much my entire day (good thing I’m a nurse and was off). There is a short second part that will follow, but I wanted to get this posted to share.

A bit nervous about posting this, but I hope you enjoy it. :)

Warning: contains speculation/spoilers for Episode 3 of Series 3

Returning Home, Part 1

Timothy Turner frantically rubbed at his notebook, with a force so strong, the eraser wore a hole into the thin paper. With a sigh of frustration, he threw the pencil down and slumped in his seat, a look of defeat on his face as he glared at his arithmetic exercises. His eyes glanced upward across the table to the vacant chair opposite him, the one usually occupied by Shelagh, who would keep him company while he completed his homework.

Ever since she and his father had wed, upon his arrival home from school each day, Timothy was met with a hug and ruffle of his hair from Shelagh before she would retreat to the kitchen and return with a tray of tea and biscuits for the center of the table. It was their little ritual, a quiet time for just the two of them - to share tea and companionship. Timothy would start on his easiest assignments, so he could tell her about his day before tackling the more challenging subjects, and Shelagh would listen in earnest to his chatter before beginning preparations for dinner.

Timothy’s mouth screwed into a frown as he thought of Shelagh, who was currently resting upstairs. It seemed all she wanted to do now was stay in bed, ever since his father brought her home from the hospital two days ago. His father had provided a vague explanation, something about a baby and an operation (It’s not growing in the right place, he’d said), but had silenced any further questions, instructing Timothy to not bother Shelagh, as it would upset her and she needed rest to heal. Timothy kept silent, but noticed Shelagh growing ever more sullen and withdrawn. Her eyes that usually shined bright with cheer and joy were now streaked red and held blank stares. Her giggles at his silly antics and playful teasing toward his father had vanished, replaced by bouts of crying and silence, as if she was oblivious to their presence at all.

When Shelagh had first married his dad, Timothy felt a lightness in his home for the first time since his mother died; the house was bursting with the laughter and delight, comfort and togetherness, contentment and love that he had ached for the past two years. It was as if Shelagh had packed happiness along with the clothes in her suitcase when she moved into the Turner home. Now, Timothy feared that the joy which had just begun to permeate their home once again had been left back at the hospital, a treasured possession that was never packed for the trip home, forgotten and lost forever at The London.

Timothy let out a sigh and kicked his feet back and forth in the space beneath the table. Suddenly overcome with sense of determination, Timothy planted his feet on the ground, pushed his chair back, and walked to the kitchen to set about filling the kettle.


Shelagh Turner curled onto her left side, pulling her knees closer to her chest and squeezing her eyes tight as she felt a sudden cramp in her lower abdomen. The searing pain she initially felt following the operation had now waned to a dull ache in her belly, with only an occasional sharp twinge here and there. Releasing a shuddered breath, she stared at the blank wall next to her bed and felt wetness prick her eyes. She clenched her jaw tightly as she made a futile attempt to hold back her tears. She could not recall a time in her adult life when she had cried so violently, so often, for such long periods at a time. Even her darkest days of doubt in the Sanatorium paled in comparison to the torturous grief and hopelessness she felt now.

The one consolation, however, was that, while she had felt utterly alone in her suffering those long months at the Sanatorium, she now had her husband by her side to share her current affliction and anguish — her husband who had cried with her, who had kissed her eyelids, catching the tears as they slipped down her cheeks, and who had held her for countless hours in his loving arms after they had learned the news that pierced their hearts. Since returning home from the London two days prior, Patrick had not stopped doting on her, tirelessly fussing over every tiny thing and asking again and again if she needed anything, if she was in pain, if she was alright.

Truthfully, however, after the deluge of tests, procedures, statistics, and discussions with the physician and her husband, Shelagh had begun to feel suffocated. She had actually been grateful earlier that morning, when Patrick asked if she would be alright on her own if he returned to a full day of work. She felt smothered by information, by his attentions, and by her thoughts, and hoped, that if she were left alone, she could find the air to breathe. Her mind was racing with doubts and questions - why had her dreams been so cruelly snatched away from her, was God punishing her choosing a man over Him, how could she have been so foolish, sewing and knitting for a baby before she knew if it even existed? Shelagh knew she had been quietly withdrawing from her family, but the many conversations she and Patrick shared over the last few days had exhausted her, and the only company she desired at the moment was her own solitude. Wiping a stray tear from her cheek, she closed her eyes and tried to quiet her mind.


Timothy arranged the teacups and a small plate of biscuits neatly on the tray and carried it toward the stairs. He glanced upward at the daunting staircase then down at his leg braces with a wry look. He carefully transferred the tray to one arm, and, grasping the railing tightly with his free hand, slowly made his way up the stairs, a mantra of please don’t drop, please don’t drop repeating in his head. Upon successfully reaching the landing, he smiled proudly and made his way down the hall. The door to the bedroom his father and Shelagh shared was left partly opened, and he stopped at the doorway to peer inside. His eyes landed on Shelagh, who was lying in bed, facing the wall with the bedsheets tucked up to her chin and her body curled up tightly - like a little kid, he thought.

He thought he heard a quiet sniffle and twisted his mouth up in hesitation as he recalled his father’s instructions to not disturb Shelagh. When he heard her take a trembling breath, he took a deep breath of his own and quietly padded into the bedroom.

“I brought you some tea.”

Shelagh lifted her head from the pillow at the sound and craned her neck toward the door, where Timothy stood nervously, a tea tray in his hands and uncertain look on his face. Pressing her hands firmly against the mattress, she gingerly moved herself into a slight sitting position and carefully leaned back into the pillows against the headboard. Tucking the sheets close around her middle and swallowing hard against the knot in her throat, she gave the boy a small, sad smile, emptiness still in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispered shakily.

Timothy returned her smile with a bright one of his own and a look of relief, and quickly moved closer to the bed, delicately placing the tray on the bedside table. Timothy remained standing next to the bed, unsure of what he should do or say next.

Casting his eyes down at his feet, he quietly said, “I know you’re sad.” When Shelagh’s tearful gaze remained fixed on the tray, he looked toward her with his heart fluttering nervously in his chest and continued, “I wish I could make you happy again.”

Shelagh looked up at Timothy with absolute wonder in her eyes before her face crumbled and the tears began to fall. Reaching her arms out toward him, she pulled him to sit on the bed and her body frantically wrapped around him, cocooning him in her arms.

“Oh, Timothy… my dearest sweet boy,” she hiccuped through a flood of tears, clutching him with all her might. “You do make me happy, so very happy,” she choked, “Oh, my sweet darling boy.” She moved her right hand to cradle his head tightly to her chest, while the other rubbed gentle circles on his back. She softly leaned her chin down and wept into his hair, squeezing her eyes tight, as she sent up a silent prayer of gratitude for the child she had already been given. After a few moments, when her tears began to subside, she found the words she needed to speak: “I thank God every day that he blessed me with you, Timothy. I love you so very much,” her voice soft and tender and filled with love.

Shelagh slowly pulled back to look at Timothy, still keeping the boy in her warm embrace. When Timothy peered up to meet her gaze, he was met with a smile, a real one this time, one that reached all the way up to her watery eyes with love and pride. He beamed at her with one of his sunny smiles, the kind that always made her heart melt with joy and gratitude, and shyly said, “I love you, too, Shelagh.”

Still smiling, Shelagh gently patted the space next to her. “Come sit with me,” she implored, “and we can have our tea.”

Timothy clumsily clambered onto the bed and settled himself close to her side before carefully accepting the cup of tea she held out for him. Reaching over to retrieve her own cup and saucer, she turned back to him. “Now,” she said brightly, “Tell me about something you learned in school today…”

Drabble: Yuu’s Favorite
Characters: Hinata Shouyou/Nishinoya Yuu (Haikyuu!!)
–> Aprox. 4,000 words (it’s long!)

–> AU: Roaring Twenties (1920s)
   Paperboy Nishinoya hears someone play the piano, a redheaded and lively someone. Every day he sneaks by to catch a glimpse of his dream pianist. One day he’s invited to join.

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Old Friends in Inverness

This ficlet is part of the Jamie Through the Stones AU which starts with Third Time’s the Charm.

This ficlet is a direct continuation from Floral Enigma

My Fanfiction Master List

Available on AO3 as Written in the Stones

This Outlander canon divergence AU ficlet alludes to information/events that appear in Voyager.

Let me know what you think.

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Edmund x Reader: What’s the Occasion?

Edmund entered his private library, closing the door behind him. He saw two cups of hot tea on the table with a few biscuits.

     He couldn’t help himself but smile. After a long day of work and stress, he was able to drink tea and relax. Edmund smiled again once he figured who made this for him. It had to be (Y/n).

     As if on cue, (Y/n) entered the room, sat on the couch, and began to read. Edmund frowned when she didn’t acknowledge him. He found it ridiculous, and slightly irritating, that he always had to compete with books to win her attention. It was always the books that won.

     He sat down next to her, resting his arm on the top of the couch. He leaned towards her and whispered, “Did you make tea for us?”

     She cracked a smile. “Maybe,” came the short reply.

     Edmund nodded and took a sip of his tea. Of course, he thought. Peppermint tea. his favorite.

     He looked sideways at (Y/n). He realized they hadn’t relaxed and spent time alone for a few days. They knew they couldn’t do so everyday, but it was nice to do nothing once in awhile.

     He let out a strangled laugh. (Y/n) lifted her head and looked at him. “What?” She asked.

     "I love you, you know that?“

     (Y/n)’s lips curled into a smile, and her eyebrows were raised. "It’s not our anniversary, nor my birthday…” She chuckled. “What’s the special occasion?”

     Edmund scrunched his nose. “There’s no special occasion, (Y/n).” He moved his arm off the couch, slowly sliding it around her shoulder

     "But you never say that unless it’s important or something,“ she said, perplexed.

     He laughed. "That’s because I prefer my lips on yours…not talking.” He winked, leaning closer. “It means the same thing to me, but feels a bit different.”

     She rolled her eyes and glanced at his lips. “Oh yeah?” She breathed. “Keep talking.”

     Edmund brushed his nose against hers. “I’d rather not. But…” Letting his words trail off, he closed the distance between them, pressing his lips firmly against hers.

     When they pulled away Edmund softly tapped her nose. “You never said that you loved me back.”

       She shrugged. “Who says I do?”

     He frowned deeply. “Did you just miss my whole speech about love and kissing and–”

     "Edmund!“ She scolded through a laugh. "Of course, I love you too.” She pecked his cheek.

     He smiled before snatching a biscuit from the tray and eating it. He had a bite left and held it in front of her face. “Biscuit?”

     She slowly pushed his hand away and shook her head. “No, thanks.”

     "More for me.“ He shrugged. "Could you be a dear and make some more tea?”


     "What? You know how coffee makes me feel. If you would just make some more tea, I could–mphh!” Before he could finish his sentence, (Y/n) stuffed a biscuit in his mouth.

     He chewed quickly then swallowed. “I could have died!”

     She snorted. “Stop being melodramatic, Ed.”

     "You stuffed a whole biscuit in my mouth!“

     She smiled slyly. "And?”

     He grinned boyishly. “And you better start running, or I’ll tickle you to death.”

    “Edmund…Edmund, no! Stop!”

itsrachael  asked:

Hey, I love your when. Can you do a Merhartwin domestic fluff? Who doesn't love that? Thanks!

(Here you go hun!)

Grocery shopping in the Gray-Hart-Unwin household was an event unto its self. They had tried to send one person to collect the groceries, but that never seemed to work. Eggsy always wound up buying far too many vegetables (he claimed that Merlin and Harry needed to start eating healthier and that, no Merlin, crisps don’t count as a vegetable), Merlin tended to only pick up junk food—Eggsy had been quite surprised to learn about Merlin’s atrocious eating habits—and Harry, well the poor sod always forgot something. Sometimes half the grocery list.

So it was decided that all three would go. Eggsy to make sure there was a healthy balance of food. Merlin to make sure they didn’t forget anything. And Harry to make sure Merlin and Eggsy didn’t kill each other fighting over biscuits and kale.

They shopped at a small private grocer a few blocks from their flat. Eggsy loved it for all the fresh vegetables and fruits, Merlin was happy about the imported teas they brought in, and Harry appreciated the fine selection of steaks. It was one of the few things they had agreed on when it came down to groceries.

Eggsy grabbed the green cart when they entered and asked, “Okay, so wots on the list?”

Merlin slipped a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and exasperated, “Really? The first half of this list is nothing but vegetables—if you make me eat anymore kale I’m going to send you to Siberia.”

“Y’ know that threat loses its effect after the tenth time of saying it and y’ doing nufin,” Eggsy pointed out with a sly grin. Merlin raised one brow slowly, the unamused look on his face sending a small spark of fear through Eggsy’s gut. Eggsy whined, “’Arry, tell Merlin he can’t send me to Siberia.”

“Merlin, you can’t send Eggsy to Siberia,” Harry answered dryly, then added, “Unless he buys more kale.”

Eggsy threw his hands in the air with a huff. “Fine, no kale. But don’t come complaining to me when all those treats go straight to yer hearts.”

“Our diets aren’t that bad,” Harry said.

Eggsy started to collect some of the items on the list, bagging carrots, boy choy, spinach, radishes, turnips, and a nice bundle of asparagus he wanted to grill tonight. He placed the bags in the cart and migrated over to the fruits. Harry selected two nicely ripening mangos, while Eggsy and Merlin looked over the bananas, trying to find some that were still green.

Harry vanished to the meat department. Eggsy started to weave down the aisles, Merlin at his heels. The beauty of having Merlin and Harry with him was that he no longer had to stand on the bottom shelf to reach the top. Merlin retrieved the jar of capers and the olive oil, which was tucked slightly back on the highest shelf.

They’d wound their way to the cheese selection and were debating whether or not they were out of goat cheese, when Harry returned with brown wrapped packages of meat. He dropped them all in the cart.

“Did you remember the chicken?” Eggsy asked.

Harry paused, a confused look crossing his face, before his entire expression crumpled in annoyance. “Oh bugger.”

Eggsy laughed and tugged Harry down by the tie for a kiss. “Dope. Remember to get four breasts, mum is coming over tonight.”

Harry returned the kiss. He straightened and returned to the meat counter, where the butcher no doubt was expecting Harry’s arrival. This wasn’t the first time Harry hadn’t gotten everything they need.

Merlin wrapped an arm around Eggsy’s waist and said, “Hard to believe he’s the king sometimes. That man would not only be late, but probably forget, to be at his own funeral.”

Eggsy chuckled, grabbed the goat cheese, and headed for the snack aisle. Merlin insisted they were out of the good biscuits.

“And we can’t serve your mother the other ones, that would be completely dreadful of us,” Merlin stated matter-of-factly, and grabbed the black and gold tin.

“Wotever y’ say love,” Eggsy hummed.

Harry met them at the registers, the paper wrapped chicken breasts in hand. Eggsy and Merlin bagged the food in cloth bags they brought with them, while Harry paid, making light chitchat with the cashier.

Once they were home, unloaded, and dinner was prepped and cooking, all three collapsed onto the couch, Harry in the middle. Eggsy pushed off the couch, earning a curious look from Merlin and Harry. “Dinner shouldn’t be ready yet,” Merlin said.

Eggsy just smiled and went into the kitchen. He crouched down at the counter and opened the door, shifting some dishes around, until he found his secret stash of cookies. If Merlin knew about them, they’d be gone in a day. He put some out on a plate and then put the cookies away. He brought out the plate, earning a laugh from Harry and a wide grin from Merlin.

“Maybe Siberia is a tad too far way,” Merlin confessed, plucking a biscuit from the tray.

“Thought so,” Eggsy sniffed primly, setting the plate down and flopping down beside Harry. They remained there, nibbling on biscuits and enjoying the warmth of each other until Michelle arrived with Daisy.

Tempus Rerum Imperator

Title: Tempus Rerum Imperator
Genre: Pottertalia, drama
Word Count: 7,582
Rating/Warning: T, language and one homophobic slur
Summary: Professor Kirkland hates Alfred F. Jones for reasons only time can explain. 

FFnet link.

‘Time is sovereign over all things’
– Latin Proverb

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(untitled interlude from @copperbadge‘s Foodieverse, where everyone is a chef.  Or just really likes food.  This takes place after the boys get together in The Hot Hipster Chef Documentary, even though I shifted them from Steve’s place, where they were headed in that piece, to Tony’s place.  Sam, the benevolent fellow that he is, let me do it. 8) )

He had no food.

Tony jammed the phone between his cheek and his shoulder. “I have no food,” he said, and it was so much worse when he said it aloud. He kind of wished he’d kept it to himself, but then again, he had no idea how to fix this, so saying it aloud was really his only hope.

He was working with very little sleep here.

There was a long, strained silence. “What?” Bruce finally asked, his voice slurred with sleep.

Tony stared into the empty maw of his fridge. “You know what’s in my fridge?” he asked. “A box of baking soda that’s seen better days, something that might once have been a ginger root, some mostly okay looking carrots and a shriveled head of cabbage, and two open bottles of mustard.” He stared at them, feeling irrationally betrayed. “And it’s not even good mustard, Bruce. It’s two jars of French’s Yellow Mustard.”

Another long pause. “I like yellow mustard,” Bruce said at last. He seemed to be coming up to speed slowly, but that was to be expected given the hour.

“Yeah, so do I, but not enough to have two open bottles! What-” Tony shoved a hand through his hair, glaring at his fridge and wishing the appliance had feelings he could hurt. “What the fuck is this, Bruce? Why is there NO FOOD?”

Bruce sighed. “Because we’ve barely left the restaurant in the last two weeks?” he asked. “That’s, that’d be my guess, Tony. Just call out for pizza, or Chinese, I don’t know, what TIME is it?”

Tony slammed the refrigerator door and stalked across the kitchen. “It’s two am, and I’m hungry, and I’m out of the city, so ordering is not a possibility, and even if I wanted to, that’s lazy, that’s like, a sixth or seventh date thing. That’s a ‘it’s snowing and I don’t want to get out of this bed ever, so let’s just eat lo mein out of the box and pretend to watch Netflix’ thing, I’m not going to be that lazy, at least not this fast, Jesus, I have standards.”

A beat of silence. “No, you don’t,” Bruce said.

“I like to pretend I do!” Bruce made a humming noise, and Tony’s eyes rolled up towards the ceiling. “Okay, so, I have a reputation!”

“Yeah, but it has nothing to do with your food.”

“I’m a fucking chef.”

“Right.  And that has nothing to do with your reputation.”

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Beautiful Art by cycloalkane
Excerpt from my Adlock fic Stay. Read the rest here! :)


                                               Baker Street, London
                                              New Year’s Eve, 23:45

This New Years Eve had begun like every other New Years Eve - like any other day, really… Except that Sherlock Holmes had awaken with a peculiar idea implanted in his brain. Peculiar was putting it lightly, actually… And he fought for most of the morning to ignore it.

As the day wore on, however, ignoring it became increasingly difficult.

It was difficult while he tried to focus on the Underground case that had “come across his desk” the day before… It was difficult when he sat down to examine several slides of blood samples under his microscope. It was especially difficult when the sun went down and the street outside quieted to only a dull rush of cars.

He couldn’t ignore the idea anymore.

Now, Sherlock stood in his kitchen; his hands fidgeting slightly against his sides as he watched the kettle slowly come to a boil. He had heard something once about watching water in a kettle, or a pot, or something… something about it never… doing something. Oh, who cares? What did it matter? If it had been important, he wouldn’t have deleted it to begin with.

And why wouldn’t this water boil already?

Wait a minute. Did he even have any biscuits? Which was to say, had Mrs. Hudson brought any biscuits up recently? He looked around his immediate vicinity with just his eyes for a few seconds before closing them and taking a deep breath.

This was ridiculous. Completely and utterly… and he didn’t know why he was putting himself through it.

Well, yes he did.

Sherlock’s eyes opened almost at the exact moment that the kettle button popped up.


For the next minute or so, Sherlock moved about the small space gathering all the necessary tools one needed for the hour known as tea time. The stately white porcelain teapot came first. Back stamped with the words “Ali Miller London”, and adorned with a map of the UK and some out of scale trade ships, this was the same teapot Sherlock had used when preparing tea for a guest on the only other occasion he had ever done it.

And on that occasion, like this one, he hadn’t been warned of the visit… but he had expected it.

He poured the hot water over the loose tealeaves at the bottom of the pot and watched the liquid go dark for a moment before replacing the lid, and then proceeded to arrange the sugar pot and the milk jug along with two matching teacups on a tray. No biscuits, unfortunately, but then his uninvited guest didn’t quite strike him as the biscuit eating type anyway.

No. She was a different type all together.

Sherlock placed the tea carefully on the side table near his armchair, and turned his attention to his violin. It stood perched against its usual backdrop of books and sheet music in disarray, and it occurred to him just how long it had been since he had properly played the thing. Days if he counted idly picking at its strings while lost in thought… but weeks if he didn’t.

Approaching the instrument and running his fingers along the glossy wood for a moment, he took it in to his hands. He twiddled the bow in the air once, and then positioned the violin under his chin before touching horsehair to string and pulling out one long, sweet note.

He closed his eyes.

In his head and life, Sherlock Holmes was a scientist. There was a certain way to approach everything, a protocol. A procedure. The universe had arranged everything just so, and he had found long ago that he had in himself the singular talent for being able to read the arrangement the way others read words on a page or notes on a staff. He could see the mechanics where others saw only motion, and he could see the solution when others saw only puzzle. The only chaos was in misunderstanding, and he misunderstood very little. That was just how the world presented itself to him Facts and data…

With two notable exceptions, of course, and one of them was the violin.

Just as he could appreciate the beauty in the night sky, he could appreciate the beauty in music and its place in his life; the one place where genius allowed for art, where he could create rather than deconstruct. It was through this instrument that he now played that he found he felt most… human. Where some people were said to have worn their emotions on their sleeves, he played his through his violin. It helped him to think. It helped him to vent. It helped him to grieve.

Now, it helped him to remember.

He had not played this particular piece in years, and as Big Ben chimed in midnight and a new year… He realized it had been nearly 4 years to the day.

Sherlock stilled suddenly, his heart beginning to race.

“Happy New Year.” He said, and his voice was low from not having used it for the majority of the day.

“Lovely tune.” Her voice said casually from behind him.

After a moment he lowered his bow and violin, and opened his eyes on to the view of Baker Street from his window. If he had ever been the type of man who was given over to delusions or flights of fancy, this would certainly have been a moment where he would have wondered if he was dreaming or hallucinating. It didn’t seem real that this should be happening, but it was happening.

“Just in time for tea.” He spoke in a level tone, his voice revealing none of the apprehension he felt, though in truth he was surprised that he was able to speak at all.

“Yes, just in time.” She repeated his words casually. “Were you expecting someone?”

Sherlock took a deep breath, and then swallowed.

“Just you.” He answered as he finally turned around to face the owner of the voice that was both so familiar and so foreign to him.

Irene Adler smiled.

It had been almost 4 years since he had last seen her, and now here she was. Dazzling and brilliant, and somehow so unchanged. Though her hair was straight, framing her face in soft layers, and the makeup on her face was much more muted than in the life he had previously known her… This was still undeniably The Woman.

The only Woman.

He had imagined this moment a thousand times in a thousand different ways, and now that she was standing in front of him, all he could manage to do was keep upright.

After all, she was his other exception.

“Of course you were.” She said with equal parts awe in her tone as there was mocking, and then paused. “Happy New Year, Sherlock.”



-for anonymous-

“Ossy.” (y/n) whispered tugging on his suit. Oswald laid a hand on her knee reassuringly.

“Don’t worry, my love. She’ll love you, i know it.”

(y/n) stiffened as she saw Mrs.Cobblepott return with a tray of biscuits and two periwinkle cups of something hot.

“Here you go my handsome boy.” She handed him a cup and quickly took the only other cup in her hand and took a drink. Already (y/n) knew this visit was going to be awkward. (y/n) had thick skin that was difficult to get under; so she just kept reminding herself of that throughout the tea time with her boyfriend and his mother.

Oswald sent her apologetic glances and kept attempting to bring her into the conversation.


What if the Potters had found themselves on the flip side of the prophecy, and Neville had been The Chosen One? They might have had their chance at happily ever after.

FFN    AO3

Chapter One: Deadly Stairs and Rumors


It’s a crisp, biting cold. They don’t have a proper coat for Harry, so he’s sure to get sick again, but Lily, frankly, doesn’t give a damn about the risk. They can go out in the street and take a walk around the square, so they do. James holds her hand as she pushes the pram-the one they’d been given and have only really used inside. It’s awkward, pushing it one handed, but they manage. She breathes in a deep, intoxicating breath because they are outside and waving to their neighbors, because the air is cool and refreshing in her lungs, because it’s over.

It’s over.

She wakes up to shattering glass and a swearing husband. Heart racing, wand in hand, she runs into the hall, tripping over her baggy flannels, which she still calls his but in reality confiscated from him sometime in seventh year.

Lily surveys James: long limbs sprawled on the stairs, glasses knocked clean off his face, covered in eggs and tea. She’d been up all night with a fussy, feverish toddler and James-her sweet husband-must have been bringing her breakfast in bed.

Had been, he tells her as she straightens his glasses on his face, until he’d noticed the Prophet headline and stumbled on the stairs, dropping the bloody tray.

They stay on the stairs, backs against the knobby spindles, hands intertwined, digesting every word.

The cat is breakfasting on tea and sausage and eggs; they pay him no mind.

Their attention is instead focused on the Prophet’s front page, which boasts, simply, You-Know-Who Is Dead. Really, it’s a full page spread with very little to substantiate such a claim: only spotty details, inconsistent reports, and-what stops their hearts-a line about the Longbottoms.

Such a detail wouldn’t register as the important thing for most people, but for them, the Potters, the other half of the damned prophecy that had halted all their lives, the flip side of the same coin, it means everything.

They don’t dare believe it.

Harry has woken up and is still fussy and clingy, although his fever seems to have broken.

They take turns walking the usual circuit around the house to keep him calm. They are grateful for the distraction, really, but it can only keep the need to know what’s happening at bay for so long.

Have you heard? An owl comes from Emmaline, telling them what she’s heard: that Frank and Alice are dead, that Voldemort is gone, but adding, hastily, that these are just rumours. She wanted them to know, but she hasn’t heard from anyone else-she means Dumbledore, they know-to make sure it’s true.

It’s the limbo, the not bloody knowing that’s eating their stomachs from the inside out.


As she does every morning, Bathilda stops by with biscuits for Harry.

She hasn’t heard from Dumbledore, either.

Lily scrambles to make tea.

Harry sits on Bathilda’s lap, munching happily away at the tray of biscuits left untouched by the adults.


WWN is full of speculation, but it’s chaos; everyone is celebrating but no one knows what’s actually happened.

James wants to leave and find out for himself, but he can’t because it might not be true and what a damn foolish risk to take.

Sirius shows and stems off the impending row. He’s been there, he’s seen it all, and he tells them every horrible detail.

The ruins of the little cabin they’d been hiding away in. Neville, rounder than Harry, bloodied forehead but alive, wrapped in Hagrid’s arms. His grandmum-solid, stately, domineering Augusta Longbottom- broken on the floor, weeping over her dead, heroic children.

Frank and Alice are dead.

The cost is terrible, it’s too high, and Lily reels.

Frank and Alice can’t be gone.

Frank, who stepped on her toes at the wedding and Alice, who twice saved her life.

Three times, Lily corrects herself. Alice has now saved her life three times.

She lets the horror of it wash over her.

She will never smile that sweet smile again, and Frank will never belt out his obnoxious, boisterous laugh again. They are gone, their comrades and their friends, and it rips her apart.

And there’s this: Lily hates herself for being relieved that it isn’t the Potters in the Prophet this morning.

It’s over.


After lunch, a quiet affair in the sitting room, Sirius leaves to go check on Peter, to track down Remus. They’ll be back for supper, he tells them, and she tells him to bring whiskey.

Harry ate a solid lunch and he settles into a deep, contented sleep.

James is holding her hand as they stand against the cot. She’s not sure he’s let go since this morning, actually, but she’s not complaining. They stare at him, this piece of them, their breathing, alive, bundle of energy and love they have been trying so desperately to save.


They haven’t spoken yet, but they don’t need to. Shock is slowly, by degrees, giving way to relief. Their new reality is setting in.

It’s over.


They don’t make it to the bed, taking each other instead hard and fast and glorious against the door. She feels like she’s seventeen again, and he is intoxicating, as always. He tastes like salt and peppermint tea and freedom.

They sink to the floor, finished for now, adrenaline still pumping, and the dam within Lily finally bursts.

Throughout all of this, these last two years-she’s cried only a handful of times, the last of which was when Dumbledore himself came to tell her about Marlene. Now, though, she cannot stop. She doesn’t want to.

He holds her, runs his hand up and down her back. Her shoulder is soon wet with his tears.

It’s unhurried this time, on the floor, tender and sweet. They’re giving, rather than taking, pouring all they’ve got into this moment. Gradually, kiss by kiss, whisper by whisper, everything aching inside Lily unfurls into a peaceful, satiated calm. They drift to sleep where they are, half dressed, a tangle of limbs and tear streaked faces, curled together on their bedroom floor.


She wakes up to the sound of Harry’s happy chatter, which is drifting from his room across the hall. She untangles herself from her sleeping husband, reluctantly lets go of his hand, and goes to Harry.

Harry is safe.

It’s over.

It’s over, but it feels an awfully lot like the flip side to another coin. The end of the war; the new beginning for them that she’d long hoped for but didn’t really believe would come true.

They can move into a bigger house, though she doubts they will because, despite everything, this has become home.

They can travel now that it would be a holiday rather than an escape. She wonders if they could pull Christmas in France.

She’ll surprise James with Cup tickets for next summer. They can go camping-Harry would like that.


James comes into the kitchen, kisses his wife, scoops up Harry from his spot on the floor and blows a raspberry onto his belly.

Lily puts a casserole in the oven and tells him the boys probably won’t be here for an hour or more.

He asks her what she wants to do, and she knows they’ve come to the same conclusion:

It’s over. Our lives are reordered. We are free. We can do whatever we want.

They decide to go for a walk.


Mistletoe was the enemy.

The holiday season meant that the damn plant was everywhere. While Stiles’ permanent single status was reason enough to loathe the plant’s existence, his lycanthropic friends were the main source of his hatred.

Normally, all mistletoe in California, and the whole frickin’ country for that matter, was plastic. Except this year, Martha Stewart decided to promote “the benefits of fresh mistletoe in all of your home decorating.” Which meant real mistletoe in every other store. Real werewolf poison in every store.

Naturally, Erica bought some.

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anonymous asked:

Hello you talented ladies! I am curious if there is more to the petite miracle story. Does Jamie come back to them? What are they going to do now? Thanks!! 💚💚

petit mircale pt. 5

The FINAL installment of the ep 207 rewrite. I hope you all have enjoyed this little adventure with baby Faith and Claire’s shenanigans… let’s go see some tall, scruffy (because that beard was werid…), ginger love meeting his daughter for the first time! -WTT

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Fergus was distant once we were comfortably settled in at the apartment. He would come over and check on Faith, but he would not look me in the eye. He’d glance over at me then quickly look away or leave the room. I don’t know what had happened to him or what caused him to act in such a way, but it worried me.

I placed a sleeping Faith down in the trundle next to the bed and went after Fergus.

I found him curled up on his bed in the servant’s quarters crying.

“Fergus!” I rushed to his side; he cringed and curled up into a tight ball.

“Milady, I wish to be alone,” he cried. I could hear the tears thick in his voice.

I reached out and gently stroked his back. “What’s the matter? Are you ill? Has something happened?”

“I do not wish to speak of it, Milady!” he sobbed, turning his head into his pillow.

“Come now,” I soothed and pulled him to my breast, smoothing his hair while he sobbed. “You know you can tell me anything.”

He violently shook his head. “Non, I cannot do that Milady.  It will distress you so.”

I gently stood up, pulling him with me. “Why don’t we go down to the kitchens, grab a pot of tea and a bite to eat, and you can tell me what is bothering. Nothing you will say can distress me more than seeing you like this.”

“I’m sorry, Milady. I did not wish to cause you distress.”

“I know, sweet boy,” I said and rubbed his arm. “Let’s see what we can do about that tea, hmm?”

He reluctantly nodded and followed me out the door and down to the kitchens. Suzette was kind enough to tell us she would bring a tray of biscuits and pot of tea when they were ready. Her face had softened when she saw the tear tracks down Fergus’s face, and she pulled him into a hug.

Fergus sniffed and thanked her, walking glumly ahead of me to my bed chambers.

Just as we were sitting down, Faith began to fuss. Fergus rushed to the trundle and gently rocked it from side to side, trying to calm her down. When her cries only increased, the sadness in his face did so as well.

“She’s only hungry.  You’ve done nothing wrong Fergus,” I assured him.

“Oh but I have, Milady. Once you have heard it, you will no longer want me to be grand frère to petite Milady,” he said dejectedly, seating himself on the floor.

“Fergus,” I said in a broken whisper, “Please sit on the bed or at the very least, the chaise.”

He shook his head and remained where he sat on the floor by the bed. I sighed and began to loosen the stays of my corset.

“I’m sorry for the lack of modesty, Fergus, but I must feed her.”

“Tis alright, Milady. I can leave and come back after you have finished.” Before I could stop him he walked out the door. I didn’t hear his footsteps go far, so he must have stopped just outside.

Faith was eager to feed and be held. Her happy grunts put a slight smile on my face. I wish I could make Fergus just as happy. What could he have done that is so terrible he believes I would hate him?

When Faith had drained both breasts and began to doze happily after spitting up on my shoulder, I called for Fergus. He solemnly trudged back into the room and sat again, on the floor by my feet.

“Fergus, please sit on the bed.”

He shook his head. “Non, Milady.”

I huffed. “Well alright then, are you going to tell me what happened then if you stay seated on the floor?”

He nodded his head and looked at his hands clasped in his lap.

“Milord was called away to Madame Elise’s. I went along with him. Milord, he told me to stay put, but I couldn’t! I saw a door open and slipped inside. On the table there was the most beautiful bottle with a flower on it. When I smelled it, it smelled so nice I wanted to bring it home for you.” At this statement, Fergus produced the tiny vial in question. “It is lavender, Milady.”

I nodded and took the bottle from his outstretched hand.

Before I had time to thank him, he continued, “This man, an Englishman, came into the room. He—he mistook me for a whore.”

I gasped and covered my mouth to hide the horrified shock I was feeling. “No, Fergus.”

“I should not have made a sound, I should have—”

“Ye did as you should have, lad. Ye called for help when ye were in need. I have no regrets from that day other than not killing that sick bastard.” Jamie’s scratchy, underused voice rang from the doorway.

Both of us turned and stared. He was dirty and tired looking, a week’s worth of beard prickling around his face.

“Claire.” He said brokenly and crossed the room, slumping to his knees on the ground next to Fergus, who discreetly left the room—most likely in search of Suzette and her pastries, or just to get away from having to speak of the events he did not wish to speak further on. “Please, forgive me. I ken I broke my promise, it wasna as if I had a choice. What he did to Fergus… I couldna let that go unpunished.”

“That’s why you broke your promise?” I whispered.

He nodded and searched my face for anger, resentment, and disdain. All things he would have found had he come home a few minutes before.

“You were protecting Fergus?”

“Aye,” he said, tears welling up in his eyes. “I’m sorry, mo nighean donn. I’ve failed you.”

I reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. “No, you haven’t. I have not fully forgiven you yet, but I cannot bear to stay angry at a time like this. You did as you saw fit. I am angrier that you missed the birth of your daughter.”

“A lass?” he asked, a smile creeping onto his face as the tears streamed down.

I nodded. “Yes, she’s still very fragile, but growing stronger each day.”

I pulled her away from my chest and placed her unexpectedly into his arms. His eyes closed and the smile on his face was blinding. Sobs shook his shoulders as her cradled his sleeping daughter closer to his chest.

“A Dhia, Sassenach! She lives as do ye.”

I nodded again, “Just barely. It was apparently touch and go for the two of us. Mother Hildegarde feared she wouldn’t make it and baptized her with the name, Faith.”

“Faith Fraser, well it’s no verra Scottish, but I believe we can fix that with yer second and third names.” He smiled down at his little girl. One of his fingers gently caressed the swell of her cheek, then went down the bridge of her nose in astonishment. When he let his finger trail to her hand, she surprised him with a strong grip that would not let his finger go.

Tiny fingers, with barely there finger nails turned white in the effort to keep his finger in her grasp.

“Tha gaol agam ort, mo nighean ruaidh,” he whispered and kissed the wisps of copper hair atop her head.

“The red may rub off and turn dark, or it will only lighten and stay the same ruddiness of her father’s.” I smiled.

His eyes went wide in alarm. “Her hair will rub off? No, Claire, we canna let that happen! Should I no touch her there?”

He was panicking in the most concerned and adorable way. “No, Jamie, you can still touch her, rub her, and kiss her there. It’s normal for babies to lose the hair they are born with. More will come back, maybe the same color, maybe different. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

The look of relief was evident on his face and he sighed and looked up to the sky.

“Praise be to the Lord, Sassenach. He has delivered both you and our daughter safely to us.”

“Yes, He has.”

Jamie bent over and kissed Faith’s brow again.  He looked down just in time to see the slanted, bleary sleep-filled blue eyes open a fraction before closing again.

“She’s so beautiful, mo nighean donn. I canna look away,” he said, transfixed on her sleeping face.

“We have a lifetime with her, Jamie,” I reassured him.

He stood up, careful not to jar Faith, and sat on the bed next to me. He took one arm and wrapped it around me, then leaned over and kissed my brow.

“Thank ye, Sassenach. Truly. She is the greatest gift I could have asked for.”

“You’re welcome Jamie. She’s our perfect angel.”

“Indeed, she is.” He smiled, looking down at her. He turned to face me once more and dipped his head, kissing me sweetly on the lips.

“Tha gaol agam ort, mo chridhe.”

“I love you too,” I sighed.

He leaned his head against mine and held Faith just far enough away so that we both could look at her.

anonymous asked:

Can u do a headcanon (or fanfic which ever u like) about Eisuke from kbtbb being jealous because MC was making breakfast for all the guys while making his? Or can u make a headcanon about Eisuke becoming a toddler? Thanks <3

Sure thing! I’m kind of bad at writing about children so I’m gonna go with the first one, it’s a cute idea :3

Eisuke yawned while walking down the stairs to the main floor of the suite. Faintly, he smelled bacon and a sweet scent of… oranges? After getting downstairs, revealed in front of him was the bidders gathered around a table. 

Ota was the first to speak up, “Hope your hungry, there’s plenty to eat!”

Beside Ota was Baba, stuffing his face with toast. Baba made a satisfied mumble with his mouth full. Hesitantly, Eisuke made his way over to the table and sat down next to Soryu, who was sipping a glass of orange juice.

“Where did all this come from?” Eisuke asked, a suspicious glare on his face. 

“From the kid, she made it for us. She said it was thanks for letting her off the hook last week.” Mamoru piped up. The looks on all their faces said that the breakfast was very delicious. 

“She did wha-” But Eisuke was cut off by the door to the suite opening and her walking in with a tray of biscuits, 

“Oh hey Eisuke! Would you li-”

“Did you make all of this?” he asks sharply.

“Y-yes… I didn’t want to wake you up so they came to eat when they smelled the food. I made extras for them.” she explained. 

Suddenly, Eisuke’s hands grabbed everyone’s plates and the trays of food on put them on his side of the table, leaving everyone without their food. Eisuke sat back down in his seat, a triumphant smirk plastered on his face.

“Hey, what the hell?” Mamoru asks. 

“What are you doing?!” Baba yells at him, a single piece of toast in hand. 

“You heard the woman, this was made for me. Back off, beggars.” Eisuke retorted sharply. 

“Uh…” Ota says, more confused than ever that suddenly his plate had disappeared.

It was Soryu who stood up from his seat wordlessly, and left the room. But not before grabbing a biscuit off the tray she was holding. 

“Hey you better be willing to compensate for that, whatever she makes is my property!”

The rest of the guys laugh and get up to leave the room. Then all that was left was her, Eisuke, and a small banquets worth of food.