cupboard handles

It’s been a while! I’m so sorry that I’ve been gone for so long - I know that there are plenty of peoples waiting for requests. Unfortunately, I’ve been totally stressed out with university work at the moment. I can’t guarantee that this is me coming back for good but I did want to upload something. Thank you to those of you who have stuck around despite the hiatus. This fic is absolutely my worst work. It’s been so long since I’ve written anything that the quality has just deteriorated. Plus, this was whipped up in about an hour. Too quick. Nonetheless, it’s something to read between revision for those of you who have deadlines rn. Thanks to @mel-in-my-head​ for the request, I’m sorry it deviated. Enjoy, my darlings!

Prompt[s]: can you do one where Peter Parker (CW) (if you don’t peter parker that is, if not Thor is fine) is really over protective of the reader like all the time, but the reader is 100% oblivious and one night the reader and him can’t sleep, so they go all movie marathon and they wake up to the avengers (and if you are doing peter,) aunt may finds them all cuddled up on the couch in the main room taking pics, and awing. sorry for this being long it’s my first request, I think, so yeah, thanks


“Is that…” You asked, holding up a hand. Peter looked up and around.
“Oh god, it is.”

You stared at him pointedly. “Run.”

Despite the hastiness with which you took off, you were still sopping wet by the time you reached the apartment building. Peter slammed the door shut behind you, panting. You doubled over breathlessly and laughed giddily. When you stood up straight again, you ran a hand through your hair and felt it completely drenched.
“Want to borrow a towel?” Peter laughed, holding out a hand in the direction of the stairwell.

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take my hand, take my heart

read on ao3

She finds it just two weeks after he’s been in prison.

Amy has just been to visit him for the second time that week (they’d decided on two to three visits a week), and she flops down, exhausted, on their bed. She shuts her eyes and sighs, and she can feel the tiredness seeping into her bones. The past two weeks have been filled with work to free Jake and Rosa, with work to distracted from missing Jake, with missing Jake, missing Jake a lot. It’s somehow worse than when he was in Florida, even though she gets to see him. It’s worse knowing he’s in that place for all the wrong reasons, knowing that Lieutenant Hawkins is out there, smugly going about her life. It won’t be long, Amy keeps telling herself and Jake, before Hawkins decides to break the law again, and they’ll catch her in the act, use it as evidence in court, along with proof that the money didn’t come from Jake and Rosa, but rather someone connected to Hawkins.

“They can’t look past that,” she’d told Jake into the phone, on her first visit, “it would prove everything we’ve been saying.”

Jake smiled weakly at her, and she longed to reach out and squeeze his hands reassuringly, to caress his face. She hated that pane of glass that separated them. “We’ll have you out of here before you know it, I’ll get you out of here.” she whispered emphatically.

Jake smiled again. “I wouldn’t bet against you,” and Amy laughed; then she looked at Jake and the laughter abated. The laughter in his eyes was glazed with sadness, and his smile fell. He gulped, and a wave of pure sorrow passed between them.

“I’ll get you out of here,” Amy repeated, her voice cracking, “I promise.”

“I know you will,”

“Peralta,” the guard called right at that moment. “Time’s up,”

He walked over as Amy hastily wiped her eyes. “I’ll see you soon, okay?” she murmured.

“Yeah,” Jake replied. “I love you,” he added softly.

“I love you, too,”

She sits up and rests her head in her hands; through her fingers she can see his leather jacket hanging on the cupboard handle, exactly where he left it. She reaches out and takes it off the handle. She runs her fingers over it, and feels tears spark in her eyes. Crying, that’s another thing she’s been doing a lot of. Her fingers bump into something, and she frowns, looking down at a small bulge in one of the pockets that she hadn’t noticed before. She unzips it (also odd, he never zips up his pockets), and her heart almost stops as she pulls out a small navy velvet box. With trembling fingers, she opens the box, though she can hardly see the ring inside due to the tears in her eyes. She wipes her eyes, tears falling onto his leather jacket. It’s a simple ring, a silver band with three small diamonds, and she smiles as she slides it onto her finger. It fits perfectly. She laughs and then she cries, imagining what would’ve happened if they’d won the court case, how happy they’d be.

She takes the ring off and puts it back, zipping up the pocket and hanging up the jacket. She stares at the small bulge, a whole different version of her life sits in there, a happier version.

She shuts her eyes and breathes in deeply, allowing the tears to disappear.

She opens her eyes and walks out to the kitchen to work on the case file lying on the table.

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silent night || kai parker

author: @broodybell
pairing: kai x reader
word count: 1,689

authors note: i’ve been kai trash since forever and even though i’m starting a kai series, i wanted to start posting some separate one shots too, so here you go! :)

summary: kai surprises y/n after a long and tiring day of work, determined to see his girl. 

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William Nylander - Not Normal p2 (smutty)

Originally posted by hockeyontrend

If you haven’t read part 1, you can do it here, but you don’t have to read part 1 if you’re only here for the smut (which btw, I totally understand). and if you don’t want to read smut but follow the story, you can skip this part :)

This is my first smut, but I think it’s good? Please leave some specific feedback on that, if you can :) 

Warnings: smut-ish, but what’s written is pretty graphic. though it’s not the dirtiest.

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so robert got the completely white kitchen cupboards with no handles he wanted I’m laughing

it’s actually incredible?? the stairs and the snooker balls and the colour scheme and the random ass vespa and the cushions and the industrial theme, it’s just such a beautiful mix of robron I’m in love

they have robron FAMILY photos cos they’re a FAMILY

and there’s a triceratops on the shelf in the mill and I’m deffo saying that aaron picked it out because of his love of fossils 

and there’s also a bedroom set 😏😏😏

the mill is ridiculous and beautiful and I love it so much oh my god


Mill Cottage Indoor Aesthetic Moodboard

Robert’s got his magazines out again. White cupboard without handles may be off the cards but it doesn’t mean he can’t indulge his suave posh needs elsewhere. With books and comics at easy reach from a sofa that makes Robert feel sexy and powerful. And a desk he can conduct his ‘business’ on, ie Aaron.

At least he’s listened to Beck’s advice and held unto the Mill’s core architecture and old charm, just because Aaron kept teasing how he was right about everything and Rob loves when Aaron is confident. 

Their bedroom is inspired by Aaron’s green top that he uses to make sweater paws. With one purple cushion thrown in to pay homage to their old bedroom which was inspired by Rob’s purple suit.

Obviously he’d design a cute little space for Liv to actually do some work for once, and also so she can draw her masterpieces on the condition that she stops drawing Robert as a monkey. 

And finally he’d make an underground boys club den for Aaron and him to get drunk, play darts and xbox without Liv hogging it or cockblocking them from cuddling and making out. 

i´ve been hearing symphonies, before all i heard was silence.

ao3 link

prompt: “I love you from the bottom of my heart, but I don’t trust your cooking. “ 

aaron feels like after everything robert´s done for him over the last year, the least he can do is cook him a proper anniversary dinner. so he does. well, he tries to.

Aaron was cooking. Well, actually it would be more accurate to say that Aaron was trying to cook. He was man enough to admit that anything more elaborate than a bacon sarnie was usually beyond him. 

But today was important and he would be damned if he didn´t put a decent anniversary dinner on the table by the time Robert returned from work. Sure, booking a restaurant would have been easier, but after having spent the past few weeks locked in a cell, constantly having to look over his shoulder, constantly running scared, he didn´t need the crowd. 

And really, he just wanted some quality time with his husband. Alone. No interruptions.

So that was why Aaron was standing in the kitchen of the Woolpack. A kitchen towel thrown over his shoulder, trying to keep an eye on the two pots and the pan currently on the stove in front of him as well as the preheated oven. Cottage pie. Robert´s favourite food. (Yes, proper farmer´s food. Not that fancy sushi he´d had at a business dinner in Leeds that one time. He just said that, because it made him sound posh.) 

Because of course it couldn´t have been something like curry and chips. That would have been too easy.

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anonymous asked:

How about #58 with Harry Hart and the reader?

58. Moving Around While Kissing, Stumbling Over Things, Pushing Each Other Back Against The Wall/Onto The Bed

TW: they’re basically going to have sex and they totally going for it also swearing. It’s not very VERY graphic though. 

It all started with the mission. You and Harry were assigned to go on a party as a couple to get information about the enemy. It all went smoothly concerning the mission. It didn’t go so well for you.

There was nothing extraordinary in seeing Harry in suit. It was his second skin. But seeing Harry in this suit…well that made things different. Perfectly fitted, velvet jacket, rich in colour with golden cuff links. Dimmed light in the room the party had been held didn’t help with the shadows it had cast on Harry’s jaw, shoulders and made his eyes shine behind the glasses.

So maybe it went very well for you. Especially when you shared hungry, deep kisses at the back of Harry’s car as his hands mapped every inch of your skin.

The doors to your shared apartment where thrown open but it took you a few second to push from the frame and enter the room.

‘Shit’ Harry muttered stumbling over threshold. But he didn’t utter another word when your hands holding his face desperately brought him closer.  

His hands roamed your back gripping the material of your dress. Your behind hit the cupboard shaking the photo frames and vase that stood there. They quickly ended up on the floor the moment Harry helped you jump on the furniture.

The clatter made both of you pull away from each other just enough to glance at the mess you had caused. Your laughter tore through the dark apartment but it was quickly mixed with a breathy moan when Harry’s smiling lips went up your neck.

He pushed away your hair to give himself a better access to kiss the soft spot behind your ear before his nose moved over the hot skin of your cheek to once again connect both of you in a kiss.

Harry’s hands left your back to move away your dress that stood between him and the skin on your thighs.

This cupboard ain’t gonna handle that’ you giggled in his lips. A soft moan interrupted you when he brushed the sensitive parts of your inner thighs.

Fuck it’ Harry muttered biting your lower lip.

Oh no darling’  you breathed out ‘Me’

The velvet jacket ended up on the floor.

You pushed him away just enough to jump down before your arms were around his shoulders once again pulling him towards your bedroom.

The moment you reached the stairs and you felt banister pushing at your back you both realised that you cannot climb them like this. You turned in Harry’s arms and started running higher and higher at the same time feeling the pull of his arms on your waist as he followed you close behind and his laughter in your ear.  

gif source

reuquest prompt here!

That's the Way the Cookie Crumbles

A/N: This was prompted by a conversation with Cherry (@criminal-minds-fanfiction). Just a lil’ fluffy(?) PenelopeXReader fic, either a romantic or platonic relationship, it’s up to you. It is meant to be like, ridiculously dramatic lol. Feedback would be greatly appreciated! Hope you enjoy! 😊💕

Writer: Me, @louiseeleanorbee

You walk to the kitchen area of the BAU, hand on the cupboard handle where your cookies are stashed. A crunch under you foot catches your attention. Crumbs. Crumbs very similar to those belonging to your cookies. You check the cupboard, it’s inventory absent of them. You scan the desks of the BAU, most of your team members working away, no suspicious activity occurring. Your suspect isn’t here. You turn your attention to the floor, more crumbs a few steps away, and then some more getting closer to the door. Time to follow the breadcrumbs, literally.

They lead you out of the glass door of the BAU, down the hall to your right. You lift your head as you bump into something, something blocking your way, a door. Not just any door though, the entrance to the bat cave, better known as Miss Penelope Garcia’s workspace. You close your mouth which had involuntarily opened in astonishment, before opening the door.

“Penelope Garcia! How could you?!”

She spun in her chair in shock, a cookie in her hand. She looked at you like a deer caught in headlights, talking through crumbs, “What?”

“Oh you know what…” You pointed to the tupperware box on her desk, “-They. Are mine. They have my name of them for Christ’s sake!”

Penelope gulped the food down, “I’m sorry! But I knew they were the ones you made, and they’re sooo nice, and I… I just couldn’t resist, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you! I promise!”

You held a hand up to stop her rambling, “You know how much I love cookies, Penelope.” You grabbed the box and the cookie out of her hand, mumbling a sassy, “Thank-you!”

You moved to walk away, before turning back to her, “You’ll pay for this, Penelope Garcia, you’ll pay.” A small smile played on your lips as you turned and walked out of her office.

The next morning Penelope found a nicely decorated can on her desk, a note attached.
Hey Pen,

I’m sorry I reacted the way I did yesterday, as much as I love cookies and although I was joking, that doesn’t give me an excuse to treat you like that. I don’t want you to think I was seriously mad at you, because I wasn’t. So to make it up to you, here are some delicious home-made cookies for you to enjoy!

From, Y/N xx

“Ooooh!” She clapped before sitting at her desk, taking off the lid. Thin, plastic worms jumped out at her, causing her to shriek and throw her hands in front of her face for protection.

“Well, well, well…” your drawn out statement caused her to turn, being greeted by a grin on your face as you leant against the door frame. Her eyes were wide, and her hands were still in the air from her earlier defense. “Looks like you eating my cookies yesterday opened a can of worms!” You laughed loudly before pushing off the frame with your shoulder, waving backwards over your shoulder, “See ya later!”

You walked back to your desk full of pride, thinking that you had had the final word.

Penelope walked through the glass door as Hotch walked up to your desk. The team were in the bullpen, not-so secretly eavesdropping on the conversation.


“Yes, Hotch?”

“Why are you called ‘Cookie Monster’ in everyone’s phones?”

You looked around the room as your colleagues and friends laughed. Some were trying to hide it, but others, such as Derek, were loud and proud of their amusement. Your eyes met with Penelope’s as she walked through the crowd, a file held up in the air, “We have a case, my oh-so lovely crime fighters!” She walked towards the briefing room, her eyes still locked on yours, “And that includes you too…Cookie Monster.”

She disappeared into the room, the others chuckled as they dispersed. Hotch looked at you with a hint of a smile, before following the team.

You thought the battle was over, but alas, you were wrong. The battle had now turned into a war, a war that you must win.

22 May 2017

[Robert’s Car, idling in front of the Emmerdale sign, before the episode begins]

AARON: We’re here now Robert, if we don’t go in soon we’re gonna miss our cue.

ROBERT: Maybe if we do, we can throw them off their game and fix this story ourselves.

AARON: Robert!

ROBERT: I just really don’t want to tell you about the Plot Aaron! I mean, I do, because I’ve had at least some character growth and I want to be the one to tell you even though they think I need multiple people putting pressure on me to get me to do it. I swear though Aaron, I wanted to tell you a long time ago but I wasn’t allowed to. I hope you remember that when the moment finally comes.

AARON: I’ll do my best. Hey cheer up though, we’ve got a new house to move into! I’ve seen the pictures. It looks great! Totally digging the triceratops on the shelves above the telly by the way.

ROBERT: Well, I know how much you love fossils and I used to have a Jurassic Park poster in my room when I was a kid. Though I think now, maybe I was more into Jeff Goldblum than the dinosaurs, but yeah, dinosaurs are awesome!

AARON: I didn’t see any toasters in the pictures though. You did remember to buy one right? I mean, I don’t think Charity would like it if I nicked the one from the pub. But I’ll do it if I have to.

ROBERT: I think your life of crime and the Plot’s need to punish you for it has done enough damage to our storyline. Don’t worry, I remembered to buy a toaster.

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I finally got around to installing the bars on the top bar beehive. We had a bunch of brass cupboard handles from an old kitchen, which I screwed on to the bars to make the frames (and combs) easier to lift.

So far, this thing has been built with almost 100% salvaged materials: the only things purchased have been screws and copper nails.

mysenia  asked:

If you're taking prompts, Steter for "I'm sorry that I got way too into playing house and accidentally kissed you passionately." Thanks! :)

A/N I love fake dating, it’s not of my favourite tropes.

Stiles isn’t quite sure how this happened. He certainly doesn’t remember volunteering for this particular mission and yet here he is, playing house with Peter Hale of all people. White picket fence, yellow front door, mailbox with their names on it. It’s incredibly surreal.

Stiles isn’t sure how they’re going to successfully pull off a newlywed couple either. Just because he’s finally grown into his body and isn’t a gangly youth anymore doesn’t mean that he looks old enough to pull this off. He’s 24, barely out of Hogwarts (Deaton always sighs heavily when Stiles refers to his emissary training as Hogwarts) and he’s now fake married to Peter because they are the only single members of the pack. Stiles thinks that because they were the only single members that the job should have been fobbed off to one of them but apparently not. Apparently Stiles status as a spark means he’s the only one who can defeat the siren. Deaton had said something cryptic about werewolves being too easily influenced by high pitch frequencies. Something like that. Basically Stiles is the chosen one.

Also Derek is single but he’s not being Stiles fake husband. Stiles isn’t quite sure how Peter got roped into this. It’s left him very puzzled but currently he is more puzzled by Peter cooking. Peter can cook. In the eight years Stiles has known Peter, he has never seen him cook. It’s disconcerting. Stiles feels disconcerted. Also Peter likes to walk around the house barefoot. That’s even stranger. They’ve only been a married couple for about two hours and already Stiles has found out more about Peter than he has in the last freaking eight years.

“So,” Stiles says breaking the comfortable silence whilst he stares at his new wedding ring, “We have to pretend to be a newly married couple in order to entice the siren who wants to entice one or both of us from this marriage.”

“So nice to know you were paying attention when Derek laid out the plan,” Peter quips, dicing carrots into small chunks to add to the bolognaise sauce.

“And you have no problem with this,” Stiles says, arms opening in a gesture that implies that he very much has a problem with this. Surely Peter doesn’t want to be fake married to him. Stiles isn’t entirely sure he’d want to be fake married to himself.

“Stiles,” Peter says, turning away from the stove, “We have a job to do, perhaps it is best if you stop overthinking it and just get on with it.”

Stiles opens his mouth to reply but closes it with a click when he realizes that what Peter is saying makes a lot of sense. This siren has already killed two people; they really don’t have time to discuss the intricacies of why Stiles and Peter have been paired up. Although after this is all over, Stiles is going to have a long discussion with Derek about his decision making process.

“You should be grateful it’s me Stiles,” Peter says, returning his attention to the stove and fiddling with the hob, “Derek is a notoriously awful cook. I imagine that if the siren didn’t kill you then Derek’s attempt at lasagna would.”

Stiles snorts. He catches the edge of Peter’s grin and it’s a genuine one, instead of the usual snarling smirk that typically decorates Peter’s face. Stiles isn’t sure it’ll be plain sailing but at least they share a dry sense of humor. If nothing else, their fake marriage can be built on being salty about things together. Salt mates as opposed to soul mates. Stiles is sure he can live with that.

The neighbors keep bringing them baked goods. Stiles isn’t sure the fridge or cupboards can handle another batch of brownies or a whole pie. News of the newly married gay couple that moved into number 4 spread quickly around the neighborhood.  Stiles is hoping that the pack will come round for ‘dinner’ and he’ll be able to offload some of them. It’s becoming a problem.

“Oh a pie,” Stiles says, voice ringing with false glee. The stepford couple in front of him smile in unison and wow that’s actually terrifying. Stiles didn’t know it was possible to have teeth whiter than the ceramic teapot that Peter had produced from nowhere yesterday. They had tea together and read books in the garden. Peter is actually tending to the garden as if he genuinely cares. Stiles is famous for killing plants so he’s staying far away.

“We are just here to welcome you to the neighborhood,” the wife says cheerily. She’s so blonde that Stiles think’s the sun is reflecting off the strands. Her husband is wearing tennis whites, which clash with his teeth.

“Welcome neighbor,” He says, “I’m Jim, this is my wife Betty. It’s just so nice to have new people in our little street. It would be real swell if you would join us for dinner this week. Thursday ok for you folks?”

“Err…” Stiles replies, eloquent as usual. He stands there clutching the pie and wondering how to politely decline.

“Another pie, how thoughtful.” Peter’s voice drifts over Stiles left shoulder. Its testament to how used to Peter that Stiles has become in their brief time together than he doesn’t jump out of his skin.

“You must be the husband,” Betty coos. Jim sticks out his hand for Peter to shake. Peter to his credit shakes it amicably rather than ripping it off which Stiles suspected might be an actual concern. Peter can be charming and suave when he wants to be. To Stiles it makes him look more like a predator. Maybe because Stiles knows that Peter is a predator hiding in plain sight.

“Peter,” Peter says, retracting his hand. He puts it round Stiles waist under his shirt to touch the skin, tugging him close. Stiles heart speeds up on briefly before he gets it under control. Happy married couple. Supposed to like the touching thing. Peter’s hand is warm against Stiles side.

“Jim and this is my wife Betty. We were just asking your husband here if you wouldn’t mind joining us for dinner some time this week. Betty makes a mean meatloaf.”

Peter smiles in a way that if Stiles were an unsuspecting civilian, would cause his brain to turn to mush and his legs to jello.

“Well, we’ll just have to look at our calendar won’t we darling?”

It takes Stiles a few seconds to realize that darling means him. Oh joy, pet names.

“We certainly will snookum.”

Ha, two can play at that game. Peter’s claws prick Stiles side but Stiles plasters a grin on his face and ignores it. Betty and Jim look simply delighted with this display of intimacy.

“Well aren’t you too just the cutest,” Betty says. She pinches Stiles cheek. It hurts more than the claws. “We’re just down the road at number 8, come round anytime for a slice of pie. And we must have dinner soon.”

“Yes,” Stiles says brightly, “Dinner. Wonderful.”

Betty and Jim wave as they leave, creepy grins back on their faces. Stiles is very happy to shut the door on them.

“Where are we going to put this?” Stiles asks, grimacing at the pie.

“Snookum?” Peter enquires, voice sharper than a razors edge.

“Darling,” Stiles retorts. He holds the pie away from him as if it personally offends him. Which in fairness it does. There’s something about it that just doesn’t sit right with him. It might be that Stiles has been mentally blinded by the whiteness of Mr. and Mrs. Creep’s teeth.

“Point taken sweetheart,” Peter replies. He takes the pie from Stiles, wandering into the kitchen and binning it. Stiles ignores the sweetheart; Peter has called nearly the entire pack sweetheart at some point. Mostly when he’s being a dick. It’s a consistent part of Peter’s dialect.

“So um,” Stiles says, leaning against the kitchen counter as Peter begins to deposit more pies into the bin. “How long before the siren tries to seduce us?”

Peter pauses, cherry pie from the Abbotts from number 12 in his hand. They were a nice couple. Even if their children stared at Peter as if he was going to eat them. Again another genuine concern.

“I have no idea,” Peter finally says, “Perhaps we need to integrate ourselves into the community a bit more in order to be noticed.”

“Furthermore,” Stiles says, tapping a finger against his chin, “How do we know we’ll be targeted?”

Peter ties the top of the trash bag into a neat bow.

“A spark and a werewolf,” He says, heaving it out to take to outside to the garbage. “We’ll be like catnip.”

They settle into a routine after that and before Stiles knows it, three weeks have passed. Peter is startlingly easy to live with. He cooks, Stiles cleans and they both go grocery shopping. Occasionally Peter will allow Stiles to sneak a bag of Cheetos into the shopping cart. Mostly they buy organic goods, as processed food is abhorrent to Peter’s senses. It’s also a good way to immerse themselves into the strange suburban community because the grocery store is frequented by practically the entire street. Except Jim and Betty for which Stiles is eternally grateful. They are simply too creepy for words. Betty also keeps bringing over pies all the time in some weird attempt to entice Peter and Stiles into her house through the medium of food.

Stiles hates to admit it but being fake married to Peter isn’t too bad. They are very similar in interests allowing them to have interesting conversations. They’ve learned more about each other than in the entire eight years of acquaintanceship. Peter brings Stiles a coffee every morning with the creamer stirred in anticlockwise twice. Stiles discovers that Peter has a weakness for RuPaul’s drag race, which leads to many fun evenings cuddled up on the sofa. Stiles is trying to avoid thinking about the cuddling. Peter mentioned that the siren would know they weren’t a couple if Stiles didn’t have Peter’s scent on him.

So they touch but nothing too intimate. They sleep in the same bed but they remain resolutely on their respective sides. Frequent reassuring touches throughout the day, a hand on a shoulder or a pat on the back. Peter scent marks Stiles every morning and night and before they leave the house. It consists of a long hug with Peter nuzzling Stiles neck and cheek. They don’t kiss. Ever.

When they are seen in public, they hold hands and in coffee shops they place interlock their ankles. To the casual observer, they look like a happily married couple. But the siren has yet to reveal itself. Thankfully it hasn’t killed anyone else so there is a consolation prize.

“I don’t know Derek,” Stiles says tiredly. Derek is frustrated with their lack of progress and Stiles can sympathize but there isn’t a lot he can do about it. He tells Derek so.

“Do something,” Derek growls. Somehow it sounds deeper and rougher down the phone, “I don’t like you being away from the pack for this long. The wards are going to need refreshing soon.”

“Good to know my services as your personal wizard are appreciated,” Stiles snaps. He hangs up on Derek spluttering an apology. He’s fuming but mostly frustrated. He misses the pack. He misses his dad, who is currently on his honeymoon with Melissa and blissfully unaware of his son’s fake marriage. He misses Scott trying to bring injured animals from the vets into the house, thinking Allison and Isaac won’t notice. He misses Erica and Boyd bickering over their wedding plans. He misses talking to Lydia and her constant attempts to improve his wardrobe. He misses teasing Derek and seeing the Alpha honest to god smile. He even misses Jackson.

Peter comes into the kitchen, wrapping his arms around Stiles waist. Stiles relaxes into the hold almost instantly. Peter hooks his chin onto Stiles shoulder and nuzzles him gently. Peter is always gentle in his touches.

“Is our alpha unsatisfied with our progress?” Peter murmurs against Stiles skin.

“Our alpha can shove it,” Stiles grumbles. Peter chuckles. When his laugh isn’t snide or cruel in nature then Peter actually has quite a nice laugh. He also has a great singing voice. Stiles knows because Peter sings Beyonce in the shower when he thinks no one can hear him.

“I miss the pack,” Stiles says.

“So do I,” Peter replies, “But at least we have each other. Our pack connection is still strong.”

Stiles makes a soft hmm noise.

“Come on,” Peter says, nuzzling his cheek against Stiles, “We should go to bed. Strategize in the morning.”

Stiles allows himself to be lead to bed by Peter, ignoring the implications of that particular train of thought.

Stiles takes it too far in the grocery store. He isn’t even aware of why he thought it was the best idea at the moment but it was the idea that he followed through, which in retrospect is a clear demonstration of why Stiles shouldn’t come up with plans on the fly.

The facts were these. Stiles is listening to Peter drone on about the importance of checking organic produce before purchase or something like that when he spots Betty advancing down the aisle. Stiles panics, because he makes it his mission to avoid the woman at all costs and he figured that the grocery store was the only place she didn’t go. Apparently not. She’s coming closer. Stiles is mentally flailing whereas Peter is sniffing grapefruits and is unaware of the impending doom. Peter turns to face Stiles, placing the grapefruit into the cart. They are standing next to each other, close enough to touch. Stiles isn’t sure which synapses were misfiring for him to come up with what he did next.

He grabs Peter’s face and kisses him. It’s sloppy at first because Peter is caught completely unawares but soon enough Peter is responding, hands clutching Stiles waist to bring him flush against him. Stiles goes pliant in Peter’s hands, mouth opening so that Peter’s tongue can lick inside. Peter nips at Stiles lips, one hand reaching lower to clutch Stiles ass. Stiles moans, his own hands gripping Peter’s V-neck. Peter growls in return like the wolf he is.

“Gentlemen, don’t you think this is a bit heated for the grocery store?” Betty’s sharp, irritating voice cuts through the hazy, lust fog that Stiles was currently in. He breaks apart from Peter, blushing crimson and staring at his hands. Peter lets him go, plastering on a charming grin though his pupils are blown wide with want.

“Stiles has no sense of delayed gratification,” Peter jokes, smoothing down his V-neck. Stiles wants to die, right here, right now. He hopes Scott will remember to put something funny on his gravestone.

“Well,” Betty says, hand clapping down on Peter’s forearm in a way that makes Stiles insides churn, “A little passion is needed for now and again. While I’ve got you, you boys must come to dinner this Friday. Jim just had a big merger go through and we’re having a little dinner party to celebrate. You must come.”

“Sure,” Peter says. Stiles manages to keep his mouth shut but it is in serious danger of falling open. He subtly kicks Peter, thankful that the shopping cart hides his foot. It hurts him more than Peter.

“Wonderful,” Betty practically screeches, clapping her hands together, “Our house at seven, don’t be late.”

She bustles away, hips swaying and tennis skirt swishing. Once she’s out of sight, Stiles rounds on Peter.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Stiles hisses, “How could you possibly want to spend an evening with them? Especially Betty, that woman never leaves us alone.”

“Exactly Stiles,” Peter drawls, “The fact that she never leaves us alone is why we are going.”

It all clicks into place.

“Oh,” Stiles says, elongating the sound. “Siren got it.” He turns his attention back to the shopping list he was supposed to be in charge of so that they won’t discuss what transpired just now.

“Stiles,” Peter begins, voice low and somewhat husky.

“You know I think we missed cucumber,” Stiles replies, voice somewhat hysterical, “Yeah, no definitely missed it. I’ll just go get that.”

Stiles speed walks away, the tips of his ears burning and his mind thoroughly beating the remembered feeling of Peter lips against his into a squishy pulp before tucking it away in a dark corner never to be thought of again.

The rest of the week is spent preparing for Friday’s dinner, in case Betty really is the siren. All the research and evidence certainly points that way, Betty and Jim had thrown two parties a day before the victims were found and those victims were people that frequented their social circle. Thankfully Peter doesn’t bring up the kiss and Stiles is definitely never going to. Sometimes at night, Stiles can feel the ghost of Peter’s hand against his skin or the press of his soft lips against Stiles forehead. He resolutely ignores it.

“Remember, don’t eat or drink anything she hands you,” Stiles hisses, “Her venom is what will get you first.”

“I know Stiles,” Peter snaps, pushing the doorbell with a little more force than was probably needed. Stiles is shifting from foot to foot, a bottle of wine grasped in his hand that Peter snatches off him, for fear of it breaking. The door swings open, Betty’s bleached teeth blinding them both.

“Welcome neighbors, come in, come in.”

She ushers them in, issuing endless platitudes and thanking them for the bottle. Stiles suddenly becomes hyperaware of the knife that’s strapped to his thigh. The whole house is decorated like any WASP’s would be. Tasteful and practically dripping with money. Betty is a trophy wife to a her husband which you know, is fine in Stiles book. He’s all for feminism and respecting that women can do whatever the fuck they want, it just seems like unusual cover for a siren. Typically they are solitary creatures.

Stiles fiddles with the hem of his shirt as Betty leads them into the garden where practically the whole neighborhood is gathered. Peter is the social butterfly, flitting between groups of people and charming every single person. Stiles on the other hand, finds a quiet corner to observe. He’s not built for this kind of undercover work, the tendency to run his mouth is a habit that just will not go away.

Betty, like Peter, is flitting about, making sure that everyone feels welcome. Stiles watches her carefully, but it doesn’t look like she’s put her venom into any of the drinks or food, which either come directly from the bartenders or the waiters. Unless she’s done so beforehand but given that she hasn’t been in the kitchen since the caterer’s arrived (not that Stiles was watching), it seems unlikely. It’s frustrating.

Stiles catches Peter’s deep, rich laugh. He looks across to see Peter smiling at a handsome, black boy who is approximately Stiles age. The boy is stroking Peter’s arm in a suggestive manner. Peter catches Stiles eyes. There is a smugness there and a strange coldness that Stiles can’t quite identify. Peter turns his attention back to the boy, smiling in a way that Stiles has never seen before. Stiles ignores the churning of his stomach.

“Well, that’s just not right.”

Stiles turns to find Betty at his side. She’s watching Peter and her look reeks of disapproval.

“Does he do this often?” Betty asks, placing a hand on the crook of Stiles elbow. Stiles shrugs, trying to pretend he doesn’t care when in fact he does. The fact that those are his real feelings is something that Stiles will examine later. Preferably with Lydia over a huge pint of ice cream.

“Oh sweetie,” Betty says in tone that normally Stiles would find grating, “Come on, I know what’ll cheer you up. A nice slice of pie, I’ve been saving a lovely cherry almond one.”

Stiles allows himself to be lead away, hoping that she’ll reveal herself to be the siren so Stiles can stab her, bury her and go home. He’s tired of playing house with Peter. They enter the spotless kitchen, which is somehow a brighter white than Betty’s teeth. Betty ducks into the fridge, bringing out the pie. She puts it on the island in the middle of the kitchen then goes to the knife rack beside the sink to retrieve a sharp knife. Stiles moves the one strapped to his thigh to his hand, hiding it from view. Betty cuts a large slice of pie, places it on a plate then takes it to the microwave to heat it up.

“So when did you make this?” Stiles asks, mentally preparing himself to calculate how strong the venom will be.

“Well I’ll let you into a little secret,” Betty says. The microwave dings. She removes the pie and places it in front of Stiles. The scent of warm cherry and almond tingles Stiles senses. Betty hunts for a fork. “Truth is, I’m useless in the kitchen. I can’t even make a slice of toast. Jim is the one who bakes all the pies bless him. He doesn’t like to brag, thinks that it’s unmanly but I always think he should be proud of his achievements. I just sprinkle sugar on top and that’s my contribution over.”

This is it. She’ll sprinkle sugar and bam Stiles will be whammied into being in love with her and that’s when he’ll get eaten. But he’s wily to her plot. The knife is gripped in his hand, hidden in the sleeve of his plaid shirt. Betty is reaching for the sugar.

“Betty dear,” Jim says, entering the kitchen wiping his hands on a towel, “The Davidson’s dog is in the pool again. You’re better at scolding them than me, sort it out will you.”

“Of course dear,” Betty replies. She kisses Jim on the cheek as she leaves, bustling away. She bustles everywhere.

“You having a piece of the cherry almond?” Jim enquires. He walks up to the island, standing close to Stiles in a way that is vaguely concerning.

“Yes,” Stiles replies slowly. Jim hands him a fork.

“Mind if I split it with you,” Jim says, “Been hankering for a piece all day and Betty likes to watch what I eat so that I’m in shape for the country club tennis tournament so I barely get any pie anymore. And I make the damn things.”

Jim takes a big bite of pie. His eyes don’t glaze over nor does he exhibit any signs of being affected by siren venom. Stiles figures the pie is probably safe to eat, so he takes a bite because he hasn’t eaten since breakfast and he’s starving. All at once he starts to feel woozy as if overcome with morphine. He sways, knife slipping from his grip. His mind is clouding over, filled with a strange fog. And as he crashes into Jim’s arms, all he can think about is Peter.

He wakes up tied to a chair. Of course he fucking does. As Stiles blinks back into consciousness, he can smell the sugary sweet scent of pie and possibly his own coppery metallic blood. He certainly can taste copper in his mouth. His eyes adjust to the lack of light, which allows the outline of Jim to swim into view. He seems to be singing. It sounds suspiciously like Summertime Sadness.

“Ah, there we are, come on little spark,” Jim coos, tilting Stiles head up, “Come back to the land of the living. There we are.”

He lets go of Stiles chin. Stiles coughs before spitting blood onto the floor. Jim grimaces.

“If we could keep all bodily fluids inside where they belong I’d be most grateful.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles grunts, spitting again out of spite. Jim tuts, waving a finger at Stiles like he’s a naughty puppy who’s peed in the house.

“Firstly, we don’t use that kind of language in this house. Secondly, I’m not incubus; there will be no coitus here. In fact I’m asexual.”

“Really? Does you wife know?” Stiles asks sarcastically. Jim laughs. It’s vicious and cruel. It twists his features into a sneer.

“Betty, she’s blissfully unaware of what I am. Makes for the perfect cover. So devotedly Catholic that she doesn’t believe in divorce. But getting a bit on the side, well as long as it keeps her out of my hair and allows me to feed then I’m not too fussed.”

Jim leans into Stiles space, sniffing him. His eyes darken in lust, pupils expanding until the whole eye is completely black. Stiles tries to lean away but the back for the chair restricts his movement. He’s handcuffed at the wrists and ankles and there’s a chain across his waist for good measure.

“Now, now, little spark,” Jim, coos, gripping Stiles chin to hold him in place, “This won’t hurt, in fact you’ll probably enjoy it. I can sing to send you under. You won’t feel a thing.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Peter’s voice drifts over Jim’s shoulder. Stiles heart rate, which has been pretty steady all things considered, speeds up. Jim whips round, claws digging into Stiles chin. Stiles hisses in pain.

“Why not wolf?” Jim taunts, “Afraid your little boy toy will break. He is a pretty thing; I can see why you chose him to be your fake husband. I bet he tastes even better.” Jim then licks Stiles blood from his clawed fingers, moaning obscenely. Stiles gags.

“That’s disgusting.”

“Just my nature,” Jim retorts. Both hands are curled into long, golden talons. “We can’t ignore our nature.”

“You could try,” Stiles suggests. He’s nearly out of the cuffs on his wrists. Luckily they’re not magic binding so unlocking them is fairly simple. All he needs is for Peter to distract Jim long enough for Stiles to stab him with the back up knife hidden in his sock.

“Touch him again,” Peter says, words slurred around his fangs, his claws lengthening, “And I won’t be responsible for my actions.”  

Jim places a talon on the end of Stiles nose. Peter roars and leaps. Jim and Peter clash in mid air, talons and claws clashing. They move too fast for Stiles eyes to process but it sounds horrendous. Clothes rip, skin tearing, bones cracking and resetting. Peter’s roars are loud and violent. Stiles struggles against his bindings, willing them to unlock. Peter is slammed against a wall, causing it to crack. Jim stands above him, eyes glittering malevolently.

Jim opens his mouth but no sound comes out. At least not a sound that Stiles can hear. Peter’s hands are clamped over his ears and he’s howling, as if trying to drown out whatever Jim is doing. Deaton’s higher frequencies thing makes sense. Peter is evidently in pain, tears are threatening to cascade from the corner of his eyes.  Stiles magic starts to overflow, like a pan left boiling for too long. The handcuffs and chain snap as if made of paper and the only light bulb in the room shatters. Stiles retrieves the knife from his sock, running up behind Jim and slitting his throat.  Jim crumples, icky green blood oozing from his slit throat. Stiles kicks the body away, pretending not to be satisfied when he hears a rib crack.

Peter looks up at him, blinking away tears. Stiles is breathing heavily, adrenalin and magic pumping through his veins. His irises are probably a strange amethyst color right now.

“Are you ok?” Stiles asks. Peter gets to his feet, ripping off the remainder of his tattered silk shirt. And wow, shirtless Peter is not exactly a bad image. Arousal is probably not the best emotion to be having near a dead body but Peter doesn’t look at all put off. He grabs Stiles, pulling him close and kissing him tenderly as if Stiles is about to break.

“Did he hurt you?” Peter asks, running the tips of his fingers over the shallow talon marks in Stiles chin. Stiles shakes his head.

“I’m ok,” Stiles, murmurs, leaning in to kiss Peter again. Peter growls, nipping at Stiles bottom lip. They break apart pretty quickly.

“We should probably get rid of the body,” Peter says, his thumb rubbing across Stiles cheek.

“Yes, that might be a good idea,” Stiles replies. Peter rests his forehead against Stiles before placing a tender kiss upon it.

“Then afterwards, perhaps a proper date,” Peter, suggests, “Care to have dinner with me?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Decorations in December

“Come on! We have to get it inside before it starts to rain!” Taylor called to Adam from the front door of their house as he stood in the driveway assessing the situation at hand.

It was the beginning of December and Taylor had insisted they went to buy their Christmas tree today; which Adam was fine with considering he knew how excited Taylor got about Christmas. What he wasn’t totally on board with was the fact the tree was 13ft tall and he didn’t have any help getting it out of the driveway where it had just been delivered.

“I might need to call for some help Tay…. I definitely cannot manage this alone… and you’re not much help.” He said, scratching his head.

“Well thanks for that.” Taylor replied sarcastically, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I didn’t mean you aren’t helpful babe…. I just meant that right now I don’t want you lifting heavy objects.” Adam said quickly, realising he had just dug himself a huge hole.

Keep reading

With few books around, [the Beatles] rely on each other for amusement. Their jokes are Marx Brothers and Goon and often a bit sick. Ringo will be stationed in bed in a pair of pajamas in one Beatle’s hotel bedroom. The waiter will be summoned to bring tea. Ringo will then be shifted from bedroom to bedroom while the same waiter brings different teas to the same Ringo in different beds. Other Beatles may be heard muttering in cupboards, or handling change from the bathroom.
—  Maureen Cleave (journalist), London Evening Standard c/o Herald-Post: Beatles are bound together by their music, hair, jokes. (February 12th, 1964)

My Little “Helper”.

Barney’s been helping me out today. He kept on handing me this old piece of tinsel, which hadn’t gone on the tree because it’s so thin & scruffy.

He’d pick the tinsel up & present it to me, I’d thank him & take it, then put it down somewhere. At which point, he’d scurry over once again, grab it, while doing one of his excited little squeak-growls & proudly give it back to me once more. This carried on for quite some time.

Apparently, that tatty old piece really needed to be used & put up, so it’s now been twisted round a cupboard door handle above the dog’s bed.

Thank you Barney, for your contribution to our Christmas decorations :)