does she come with knee pads

Not So ‘Quick and Bracing’

Description: Killian sees his fiance making breakfast, and soon they hunger for more, which eventually leads to the shower… (Canon/scene divergence from the pancake scene of 6.18). 

Rating: E (because, reasons…)

Word Count: ~2600 

Author’s Note: I know, know…Everyone and their mom is doing this, but @killythecowardlypirate ask me to “do the thing,” and so…here’s my version. It’s a “what if Snow didn’t interrupt” version. And yes, Chantal, syrup is included… I mean, what’s pancakes without syrup, amirte? lol This is unbetad, because I just needed to get it out, and it’s twice as long as I intended it to be. Smut, humor and feels: just what you come to expect from yours truly! Enjoy!!


Killian quietly wrapped his arms around his fiancé as she flipped another pancake onto an already towering stack. He nuzzled her ear, his trimmed facial hair tickling her exposed appendage. “Something smells delicious,”  he whispered.

Emma smiled from ear to ear, the heat from Killian’s body radiating from behind her. “It’s just from a box…”

He practically growled as he responded, “I wasn’t talking about the pancakes..”

Emma turned swiftly in his arms, taking no time to lock his lips with her own. He must have recently brush his teeth, because she could still taste spearmint along his tongue. Her hand travelled from his scruffy chin, to his slightly exposed chest (he was in the middle of dressing himself and didn’t finish before walking down to the kitchen). After exploring each other’s mouth for what seemed like an eternity, she broke the contact, looking into his cobalt blue eyes.

She must have been staring far too long, because Killian broke her concentration, asking, “What?”

“I’m just…happy. Still surprises me sometimes.”

He just smiled. “Aye, love. Me, too.” Killian then leaned down for another kiss, this one more gentle than the previous one. As he lifted his lips from hers, he ask, “So, should I look forward to this every morning? My loving wife, dressed in naught but her black silk robe, making me breakfast?”

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come back to bed maggie says softly, her voice a light in the dark, her hands a welcome pressure sliding along your thighs. 

you turn, one hand wrapped around a glass of water did i wake you? you ask, bringing a hand to the small of her back, widening your legs to maggie can step between them. so her hips can press against your knees and her hands can come to your ribs. 

no she replies, and you think it’s not quite a lie, but not quite the truth either - like perhaps maggie rolled over and reached out with a hand to touch you 

[she does this sometimes, reassuring herself - even in sleep - of your presence] 

and when her hand was met only with half cold and empty sheets, a deeper part of herself was roused from slumber. a deeper part of herself pushed a sheet back from across her body, tugged the nearest shirt on over her frame and padded across the hardwood floor, across the rug, to you. you imagine this all, of course. but you think you’re right. you know maggie, after all. 

you okay babygirl? she asks, voice soft, words crossing the inches between you easily. 

they loosen something in your chest and a sigh escapes before you can stop it. you feel her eyes on you, studying you in the quite dark of your kitchen, taking in the way your back can’t quite relax, the way you shift on the stool ever so slightly. 

maggie’s gaze does not make demands of you, not right now. you feel her watch, you let her observe and when you’re ready you ask quietly 

hold me? 

and she does. 

without question, without yet coaxing you to bed. maggie murmurs of course and then it’s her arms wrapping around you, pulling you close. and you? you’re collapsing quietly, forehead pressing against her collarbone. letting yourself take steadying breaths where all you can smell is maggie, and her shampoo, and the laundry detergent she’s so particular about. 

all you feel for long, long, easy minutes is the strength of maggie’s arms around you, her hands pressing into your back, keeping you close, keeping you safe. 

you’re not sure why you needed this, 

on tonight of all nights, 

only that when she stood there before you, you recognized safe harbor in her arms from the storms raging inside you. and here you are, safe, and warm, with maggie’s lips brushing against your temple. and for now, that’s all that matters. 

House of Wind - fic

This is what I imagine happens every morning in the House of Wind, based on an idea that came from this post. Just a little Moriel fluff, I hope you like it! (There is a tiny bit of angst in there, it just came out of nowhere, I swear.)

(AO3)

*****

It is still early in the morning at the House of Wind, and the sun is just breaking over the horizon, light pouring into the open kitchen windows. Azriel is in his usual spot, on a bench where he can easily take in the crisp air. Something about this time of the morning feels cleaner, more pure, as if the daylight and the noise of regular life mute his senses rather than aid them, and this is the only time that he can see clearly through his shadows. He has already heard Morrigan stirring, and is waiting for her to come to him.

He looks up as she quietly pads into the kitchen, stretching and blinking as she tries to wake up. Her nightgown swings around her thighs, the hem brushing just above her knees, and from his seat Azriel appreciates the way the silk moves on her. A cup of coffee is waiting for her on the counter, still steaming. He has made sure that it has an adequate amount of cream and sugar. He doesn’t understand how she can drink it so sweet, and usually does the opposite for his own. After all this time, though, he has the ratio right. She makes a small satisfied noise and grabs the mug before she takes her usual place at his side.

She slides onto the padded bench and tucks herself into him, legs bent over his lap, and he places a hand on her bare knee. “Thank you,” she manages to whisper. Azriel makes a small grunt in response. She smiles to herself. Every morning, for so long that she’s forgotten when it began, Azriel has been waiting here for her. She isn’t sure how he knows when she wakes, how he always manages to be up before her to make her coffee. As long as he isn’t away, she knows what to expect when she walks into this room.

“Azriel.” Mor’s voice is still quiet, scratchy from having recently woken up. She is warm against his side and he resists the urge to pull her in closer. Between her and the sun coming in from the window next to him, he feels like he wouldn’t know how to describe the dark right now if his life depended on it.

“Yes, love?”

She clears her throat. “I had a dream about you.” He raises an eyebrow at her.

“Not like that,” she grins. “No, in the dream we owned a pet store.”

Azriel starts. “A… pet store?”

She nods her head. “Mm-hm. Someone brought in a kitten they had found out in the woods. We were trying to decide if we should keep it or put it up for adoption. It was tiny and fluffy and black. But we already had so many cats. In the dream, that is. You and me. And so we had to give it away.” She rests her head on his shoulder.

“We gave it away,” he confirms. His voice rumbles through her body.

“Yes. But you were very particular about who he went to. It was very sweet of you.” She nestles further into his side, trying to steal some of his warmth. She knows she should wear something heavier, that covers more of her, but she enjoys the look on his face when she walks in every morning. The way he tries to pretend he doesn’t notice, acts like he isn’t cataloguing every bit of bare skin. Anyway, he has never minded that she comes to him every time, pretending that she can do nothing for the cold except press her body into his.

“That sounds like a nice dream, love.”

“Mm-hmm,” she murmurs.

Sometimes, he knows that she has nightmares. He hears her thrashing, calling out for him to find her. He dreads the nights when she needs him in that way. When it happens, he goes to her and holds her until she realizes that he has found her not in the Autumn Court, but in her room, in Velaris. That the wounds only exist in her memory now. After those nights, he must find her and coax her to get out of bed the next morning. If he even leaves her room, that is. He counts the days when her nightmares leave her in peace, and is grateful for them.

Moments pass in silence while they drink their coffee, neither of them thinking about anything except the comfort of being with the person next to them. Azriel watches while the sun rises slowly, the light in the nook slowly changing, becoming less otherworldly and more solid, more like the reality they will have to face soon when they part and cool air takes the place of her at his side. He wishes he could freeze this time, that every morning would start like this. That there would be no more missions or time apart, just the warmth and familiarity of her form pressed against his, her breathing the only other sound in the room.

“Azriel, could we get a kitten one day?” Sometimes Morrigan asks him questions like this, about the future, and it makes his heart skip a beat.

“If you want one, of course.” He turns his head to kiss the top of hers where it is resting on his shoulder. She presses herself closer into his warmth at that, rubbing her cheek on his shoulder in a particularly cat-like manner, reassuring herself. She might go back to sleep in this position, if they aren’t careful. She takes another sip of the coffee he has prepared for her and makes a small noise that he takes for contentment. Azriel can’t help when a corner of his mouth lifts to smile slightly, and he continues drinking from his own cup. He leans his cheek into the top of her head almost imperceptibly, not caring when a stray wisp of hair tickles his chin.

“For right now, I think I’d like some waffles,” she says.

“I’ve already got the ingredients out.” He knows that he needs to get up, leave this spot, but he doesn’t want to be the one to make the move. An interruption makes the decision easier.

Cassian walks in on the two, curled on each other and seemingly inextricable. By now he is used to the way they envelope themselves in their own world when they are at the House of Wind. The intimacy that Mor and Azriel have developed over the centuries might surprise their friends, but for Cassian, it has become normal.

“Morning,” Mor says in a voice that is suddenly energetic and almost chipper. She moves away from Azriel slightly and he tries to keep his disappointment at bay.

“Good morning,” Cassian replies. He nods to Azriel and then keeps his back to them as he gets his own coffee and breakfast, trying to leave them some semblance of privacy. He isn’t sure what this thing is that they do, but it brings them both comfort. Azriel is able to take care of her instead of retreat into himself. And for Morrigan, she gains the knowledge that Azriel does care for her, though it might not take quite the form she wants. Yet.

“Azriel was just going to make me some waffles. I might share them with you,” she says playfully.

“No thanks,” he declines. “I need to be off.”

Cassian raises his coffee cup to them by way of goodbye and walks out of the room. On his way, he notices a look exchanged between Azriel and Morrigan, a quick return to their own universe. What is hidden beneath that glance is a puzzle to him, though he is sure that each of them are able to read it as clearly as if they had spoken.

Returning to quiet understanding again, Azriel stands from the bench and begins to prepare breakfast while she watches. In these moments, she feels full to bursting – she is as at ease now as she has ever been, and she knows that there is little else they could do for one another that would show more devotion, more care.

When he is done, he brings the food to her. Azriel watches her eat, content in the fact that he will do this again tomorrow, that if she has a nightmare instead of a dream he will go to her, and that for these few moments, there is no one else in the world but them.

words. [johanbeck]

i have absolutely no fucking excuse for how fluffy this is. gonna blame it on the piles of cotton candy-esque snow outside my window. happy belated blizzard, or something. (also, i usually don’t write in present-tense, so this is a slight experiment.) 

Beth knows she’s smart, and highly skilled, and good at what she does. But, like most people, she still feels like a bit of a mess and a bit of an asshole sometimes, and every now and then a little voice in her head wonders what someone as genuine and gracious as Chris wants with someone like her.

She loves him, god knows she fucking loves him, and she knows he loves her. But sometimes she just can’t help but wonder why.

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peaceful in the deep

( in which bellamy and clarke aren’t interrupted in 3x13 and even the stars are humbled by what they are. alludes to canon-divergence / existing romantic relationship. rated m for slight smut under the cut. )

a thousand miles down to the sea bed,

i found the place to rest my head.

“We need each other.“

They stumble backwards so violently, Clarke is worried that the night will swallow them whole.

She doesn’t know if his weight buckles first or if it’s hers, but suddenly they’re collapsing into each other. ( Clarke supposes that words are heavy. Only thing heavier is what they haven’t said. ) And when he grasps the back of her neck and presses his face into the slope of her jaw, she isn’t sure about who’s the anchor. Who’s the shore.

“I don’t want to feel that way anymore.”

There’s her answer.

They escape into a crevice of land kissing beach, sand curling to sleep against shards of grass, and the battered wood and half-soft grass bends to be claimed as theirs. Bellamy walks with purpose, a stride, weakened maybe, yet still as hard and regal as it was when he first strolled onto Earth. 

But Clarke moves like the land, and still shaken by their previous hug, her grip falters when it lands on his shoulder, pulls him back.

“Look, Clarke, I know that the thought is enticing…”

“Bellamy.”

“…but I’m not going to fight you…”

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