fic by me

billet au

Continued from here.

The next morning, he wakes to the sound of Alice’s laughter drifting up the stairs. The smell of coffee follows, and he stretches, rolling over onto his side as he fumbles for the alarm clock on his bedside table.

The digits flash 9:30, and he can’t remember the last time he’s slept this late.

He pulls on a pair of pants and pads down the stairs in bare feet, scratching at the two-days-old stubble on his chin. “Good morning,” he says as he rounds the corner into the kitchen.

“Daddy!” Alice exclaims, jumping down from the chair she’d been standing on to wrap her arms tightly around his legs. “Jonathan’s  teaching me to cook breakfast!”

He lifts her into his arms and kisses her cheek. “Is that so?” he asks. “I thought I smelled bacon.”

“And coffee,” Jonathan adds, and Brent finally allows his gaze to fall on Jonathan standing at the stove. He’s shirtless in nylon shorts that hang low on his lean frame, the cut of his hips evident even from where Brent’s side view of his body.

He makes his way across the kitchen and hands Brent a mug. “I always made breakfast at home, so I figured I’d help out and let you sleep in a little,” he says with a sweet smile. “I hope that’s ok.”

“Jonathan is a really good cooker, Daddy. He let me try the bacon and it’s super good.”

“That’s really nice of you, kid,” Brent says. “Thanks.”  Jonathan beams at him, and Brent gives serious consideration to investing in a set of blinders for the next 9 months.

Against his better judgement, he complains about it to his Patrick. . “You don’t even know, Sharpy. When the fuck did 16-year-olds start looking like models?”

Sharpy laughs delightedly at Brent’s plight. “There’s only a ten year difference, man,” he says, and Brent makes a face, shoving at Sharpy’s shoulder. “I gotta see this kid,” he says, looking around. “He home?”

Brent shakes his head, taking a slow pull from his beer.  “Practice,” he says. “Should be home any minute, which means you need to get out of here.”

“Where’s Alice in Wonderland?” Sharpy asks, ignoring him.

“Asleep, thank god,” Brent says. “She’s been up late every night this week, waiting for the kid to get home.”

Sharpy grins. “So he’s charmed the both of you, huh?”

“Shut up,” Brent says, pulling a face. “God, I’m a dirty old man, aren’t I.”

“Eh,” Sharpy says with a shrug. “No judgement here, man. You haven’t gotten laid in a while, soooo —”

“Fuck off,” Brent says, snatching Sharpy’s empty bottle from his hand. “No more beer for you.”

His head jerks to the side when he hears the front door open, followed by the thud of Jonathan’s equipment hitting the floor. Sharpy’s grinning devilishly, and Brent shoots him a warning look.

“Hey,” Jonathan says as he comes into the room. His hair is still wet from the shower, cheeks pink from practice. “I’m starving, is there —”

Brent nods towards the kitchen, shielding Jonathan from Sharpy’s view. “Spaghetti on the stove. Might want to warm it up a little.”

Jonathan’s eyes flick to the empty beer bottles in Brent’s hand. “Do you have company? I’m sorry, did I interrupt—”

“No! No, you didn’t interrupt anything,” Brent says, ushering him into the kitchen. “Here, let me get you some —”

“Hi!” comes Sharpy’s voice from behind them, and god damn it, Brent thinks. “You must be Jonathan,” he says, extending a hand. “I’m Patrick.”

Jonathan smiles that smile and shakes Sharpy’s hand. “Nice to meet you,” he says. “I’m sorry if I barged in at the wrong time.”

“No, you’re fine. I was just leaving,” he says, throwing Brent an exaggerated wink. “See you later, man. Thanks for the beers.”

Brent grumbles a goodbye and goes back to fixing Jonathan’s dinner.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices the kid’s fiddling with the hem of his shirt nervously. “Everything ok?” Brent asks.

“I’m really sorry if I interrupted something,” Jonathan says — again. “Was that, uh. Was he your boyfriend?”

Brent nearly chokes. “Sharpy? God, no, Sharpy’s not — no. We’re just buddies. Known him half my life.”

“Oh,” Jonathan says, and Brent’s probably mistaken, but he swears the kid looks relieved.  “He’s pretty hot.”

Wait — what?

“What?” Brent says, a little hysterically.

“He’s a good looking guy,” Jonathan says with a shrug as he sits down at the kitchen table.  

“Oh,” Brent says dumbly. “Yeah, I uh, I guess he is. Not really my type.”

“Really?” Jonathan says, scrunching his nose. “That guy should be everybody’s type.”

That gets a laugh from Brent, and Jonathan smiles. “Yeah, kid, I guess you’re right. He should be.”

He sets Jonathan’s dinner in front of him, hovering for a moment.  “You need anything else?  I’m gonna take a shower and hit the sack.”

Jonathan shovels a forkful of noodles into his mouth and shakes his head. “G’night,” he says between bites.

“Good night, kid.”

Brent jerks off under the shower’s spray thinking about Jonny’s lips.  He comes out feeling a lot less clean than he had when he went in.


Before sorting them to builders or rangers or stewards, the Black Brothers would set their new recruits to different tasks to see where their skills truly lay.

This included needlework.

For kaktuskopf / sabotensan as a part of my standing fanworks exchange!

tictactoews asked:

20 for 8820

  1. things you said that i wasn’t meant to hear

brandon paused in the coridor, hand on the door. he could hear voices in the locker room, though he was fairly sure he would be the only one here this early. he wanted to get some extra training in, but apparently he wasn’t the only one. 

“what are you talking about?” it was jonny, and he sounded pissed. 

there was rustling, and then patrick said, “you know.”

brandon frowned. it wasn’t weird for jonny and patrick to be training together - they came to the rink early quite often, but he was fairly sure the two had been up drinking the night before and that they would sleep in. 

“what i know,” jonny said, and brandon peers around the door to see him sit next down next to patrick on the bench. “is that he would be an idiot if he didn’t say yes.”

“you have to say that.” patrick sounds sad. brandon’s heard that tone, usually after games and during the playoffs, and when his grandfather died, but never so casually in the locker room. then again, it’s just patrick and jonny together. they don’t know he’s there. 

he almost left, but before he could quietly close the door, jonny said, “it’s brandon, pat. he would at least hear you out.”

brandon froze. whatever this was, it was about him. now he really should leave. something kept him from walking away. 

there was a long pause, so much so that brandon contemplated interrupting, and letting them know he was outside. 

“i love him.”

it hit like a punch, winding him. brandon closed his eyes, forcing himself to keep quiet. jonny wasn’t saying anything, leaning into patrick and resting a hand on his leg. it gave brandon time to process, to understand

he considered the knowledge that patrick loved him, him, felt it settle about his shoulders like a blanket. he’d always harboured feelings for patrick, though he didn’t know exactly what they were. they’d kissed, once, and brandon remebered it like it was yesterday, but patrick was hard to understand sometimes, and he didn’t know where he stood. 

now, maybe he did. 

jonny was talking, low murmurs that brandon couldn’t make out, but he took a deep breath and realised it wasn’t only jonny who could make patrick feel better anymore; he didn’t announce himself before pushing open the door.

bitterchord asked:

Halloween fic prompt! Sam/Steve, costumes. Like Steve is a little shit so he bets Sam that they could dress in $15 Cap/Falcon costumes while giving out candy and no one would recognize them. They make a lot of little kids super excited that halloween without their parents having any idea why.

"You wouldn’t sign off on the likeness rights?" Sam asks, and Steve turns from examining the red plastic gel spelling out "BEWARE!!!" to where Sam is behind him holding up—

Well. Holding up a child’s USA HERO costume, a costume that looks suspiciously close to the one SHIELD designed for him prior to the Battle of New York.

He can’t help but smile as he takes the bag from Sam to examine it closer.

"USA Hero?" Sam prompts, poking him in the arm.

"Stark mentioned it right after the Battle," Steve says. He’s been in quite a few battles, but there’s only one in his mind that deserves a capital B. "Apparently people were clamoring for merchandise. Something about marketing and rights, but what I got from it is that Stark owns the rights to Iron Man and the Hulk, Thor is technically public domain, but SHIELD and the government technically hold the trademark on me, Nat, and Clint."

"You’d think with the state SHIELD is in, they’d be happy to sell that stuff off to bring in a little money," Sam says, but Steve is back to examining the bag. The costume is made of some sort of stretchy synthetic material, mostly navy blue with red and white detailing at the waist (horizontal to the vertical on the original costume) and a big white letter A in the center of the chest, which is padded into a squishy set of pectoral and abdominal muscles. There’s a face mask included with a big white star on the forehead and a round red, white, and blue shield with an American flag in the center.

"I bet the real fans will be looking up how to make their own on the inter—well, shit!”

Steve looks up again—Sam is back to browsing costumes, but he’s stopped dead, his jaw hanging open. Steve crosses over to him and has to laugh.

Keep reading

And now for an AU where Tazer and Kaner did go to free agency.

I got bored on twitter today.

ESPN Chicago @ESPNChiHawks · 1h

Agent: Kane, Toews balance wins, payday http://es.pn/1nijTig 

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 1h

LRT = a dark part of me wishes they HAD gone to free agency so that people could see how MUCH they were turning down. Also, ‘cause I want to

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 1h

- see the wooing attempts by other teams/sheer insanity that would ensue. The Leafs offer the ENTIRE CITY OF TORONTO. -

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 1h

Toronto city council: Yes. This is a legitimate offer. We can’t get rid of our mayor, but by god, you two would kinda make up for that. -

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 1h

Buffalo offers Kaner the keys to the city. The literal keys to everything in the city. Kaner can’t lift the box.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 1h

Winnipeg offers Tazer all of the coke stashes in Manitoba. “Just try not to use too much, eh?” they say, worriedly. Tazer: I KNOW MY LIMITS.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 1h

Philly offers to send Giroux to Chicago. StanBo takes Philly up on it, despite the fact that Tazer/Kaner are, y’know, free agents.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 1h

Detroit offers nothing. Tazer just wakes up in Babcock’s basement in a gilded cage. “You’re not a free agent anymore,” Babs whispers.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 1h

EDM offers to make Tazer GM/Coach AND the C. Tazer is thinking on it, but when RNH and Hallsy start sobbing in the hallway he has doubts.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 58m

Sidney Crosby shows up at Kaner’s door with a single rose. “Be my right winger?” he whispers on one knee. *Tazer* never offered him a rose.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 56m

PHX starts crying at the table, just imagining the possibilities. It’s really uncomfortable. Kaner starts edging his chair toward the door.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 55m

Tallon’s a little creepy with the manic eyes: See what I’ve built for you? All the familiar faces? I drafted you, time to come home to papa.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 53m

Tazer can hear shrieking at the Habs’ front office. “PLAY IT COOL!” they’re all screaming. “He’s HERE HOW CAN WE BE COOL OMG” someone cries.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 50m

"WE’LL WIN ALL THE CUPS AGAIN ‘MEMBER HOW WE USED TO WIN ALL THE CUPS?" PK comes out of nowhere: I love u man, get out, get out while u can

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 48m

Calgary offers up Bollig to Boston. Boston takes him. “Wait,” says someone in CGY. No one hears him. No one ever hears Sane Guy in Calgary.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 45m

ANA tells Kaner he can finally play with fellow American Hero Ryan Kesler. Kes is dispatched for wooing, only to find Crosby on 88’s porch.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 44m

Kesler punches Crosby. For ‘Merica. He also stomps on the red rose. For ‘Merica. “Hey baby,” he says, and holds out the eagle on his arm.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 43m

Malkin shows up out of nowhere and punches Kesler. Sees the red rose. Tears well up. He spits something in Russian. Sidney rushes after him.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 37m

OTT shows up with a hopeful smile and 14.5 mil. “OUR American will be REALLY nice to you,” they say meaningfully. (Con’t)

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 36m

In related news: B Ryan discovers intensity. (When he flees into the night or is the repository for Johnny’s PKane feelings, you decide.)

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 32m

BOS tells Johnny he can be their second line center, after Bergy. ‘Cause, BERGY HELLO!!! Johnny T is…unimpressed.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 31m

STL dispatches Backes to make their case. Johnny opens the door. Backes punches him. “He rejected our offer,” Backes says tragically.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 29m

Chicago fans, because they are Chicago fans yell: WE DON’T NEED YOU ANYMORE. WE NEVER WANTED YOU ANYWAY. FUCK PARADES. FUCK YOU TOO.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 29m

"But we were going to sign with Chicago," Tazer and Kaner say, confused. "Oh, okay," Chicago says, and they never have to buy a drink again.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 27m

At the eleventh hour of free agency, Phil Kessel shows up with Bozie and a fishing pole. “I got a proposal you can’t refuse,” he says.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 27m

And that’s how 88 finds himself watching three morons fishing on a boat in the middle of Canada. “Don’t we have contracts to sign?” he asks.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 20m

NSH sits down across from them. “No,” they say. “Just no.” Somewhere, Shea Weber scowls.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 19m

"Dallas is SO GREAT," Segs enthuses. "It’s like, baby Chicago! Before you guys got terrifying! COME ON DOWN TO DALLAS!"

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 17m

J Benn texts 88: Pls don’t come to DAL. I can’t deal with another one. 88 wonders: Another what? But doesn’t wanna go where he’s not wanted.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 16m

Quickie writes a poem: “Roses are red. Violets are blue. Come to LA. I’m sick of you (scoring on me.)” - Goalies are not the best at poetry.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 14m

Giroux shows up with his dick in a box. “What did Philly think this was going to accomplish?” Tazer demands. “…Philly?” Giroux asks.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 8m

"Marry me," Johnny says. "I’m tired of thinking about all this contract shit." Kaner’s half asleep but mumbles yes when Johnny pokes him.

svmadelyn @sweepingexits · 13m

And that’s how Kaner and Tazer wound up married at the end of their free agency period of 2015. ~Fin~ #storytwist

lather, rinse, repeat (ten/rose)

“So it’s not so much the hair, specifically, as it is generally being clean?” The Doctor tilts his head to one side in an expression of deep, thoughtful consideration – as if this is some esoteric logical conundrum, and not a basic hygienic concern.

claravoyant asked “Doctor/Rose, hair care products.”
(Fill #1 for my 2013 fic advent calendar
).



“Right now,” Rose announces solemnly, from where she’s sprawled on the ground, “there is nothing I want more in the universe than to be able to wash my hair.”

The Doctor’s head pops up next to her, and she cranes her neck to the right in order to catch a glimpse of his quizzical expression. “Your hair?”

“Absolutely,” Rose replies, with relish.

The thing about traveling with the Doctor is that a lot of the time, it’s brilliant.

A lot of the time, it really is all stars and supernovas. It’s finding all the wonders the universe has to offer, being amazed by all the fantastic things there are to see and do. It’s sitting next to the Doctor, sprawled on top of his coat on the apple grass, or it’s sprinting across lush green moors, the wind whipping through her hair and their laughter dancing in the breeze.

But some of the time, it’s blood and dirt and sweat and screaming. It’s seeing things that give you nightmares for weeks afterwards, that make Rose want nothing more than to hear the sound of her mother’s voice, or to have a cup of tea and a chat with the Doctor in a warm, well-lighted place.

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I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell.  She had once told herself that, when snow had swirled through the Eyrie and she’d thought herself safe—or nearly so.

And now—here she stood amid scorched and fallen stone.  They had cleared away most of the ashes from when Snow had burned it, and most of the Castle was still functional.

Moat Cailin is functional, Sansa thought, but it is no place to live.  So it must be rebuilt.  I must rebuild it.  

And a wild joy filled her, the likes of which she’d never felt before.  She was stronger within the walls of Winterfell, and Winterfell would be stronger with her within its walls.  

nonplatoniccircumstances asked:

Felicity/Oliver-(416):so I may or may not have had intense sex to mozart's greatest hits on vinyl... I don't know if I should be proud or just really disappointed in my nerdness

Oliver notices the music the moment he walks into the foundry.

It’s not uncommon for there to be music playing whenever Felicity is around. It’s something he’s come to look forward to; a sign of her presence, one he associates with the precious moments when it’s just the two of them. He’s grown accustomed to her usual musical tastes, and while he’s sure he’ll never be able to identify them by artist, he’s noticed that what she’s listening to often depends on her mood. There’s the upbeat pop music she listens to when she’s working through a tedious task and needs a pick me up, and the softer, lilting female voices she gravitates to when she’s stressed and needs to relax a little. He’s come to expect those, to look forward to the evenings when she might even sing along.

Tonight however, what catches his attention isn’t the fact that there’s music echoing through the new foundry, but her particular choice of music. It’s something he’s never heard her listen to before.

The sound of string instruments reaches his ears, and suddenly Oliver wishes he had paid more attention on the occasions when his parents dragged him to some society event hosted by the Starling City Symphony Orchestra. While he can only identify the piece as classical, he takes in the slight sway of her body as she moves in time with the melody, and he’s certain she’s familiar with the specific era of the composer and likely several little-known facts about his or her life.

Oliver has always been struck by the way Felicity seems to know something about everything, so it hardly surprises him that she continues to surprise him. He lets the music wash over him, feeling perfectly content just to be near her in this moment. For all that she hates mysteries, he’s found that he does not as long as the mystery is her. He thinks he could be happy solving her mystery for as long as she’ll let him.

Keep reading

Light's Always Yellow

So the4freedoms got to talking about this evil!snippet verse today/yesterday, and I thought no. 2 would be good times. And that the evil!snippet needed SOMEBODY NICE to do something about it. (Though, uh, I don’t think anybody’d say no to her ALSO doing something about it, since this one’s slightly…off from her ‘verse.)  Yeah, definitely read those (evil) posts before you read this.

Title: Light’s Always Yellow

Author: Madelyn | Word Count: 3K (Toews/Kane)

Notes: Thanks to the4freedoms and ninjaboots for pre-reading! <333

One minute after the Third Worst Sex of Jonathan Toews’ life:

Johnny’s staring up at the ceiling, hands clutched around a sheet that he has hitched up to his armpits. He keeps having to fight the urge to get up and go find his pants or his underwear or just, just, something.

“That was awful,” he realizes aloud.

“Fuck you,” Kaner says, and kicks him kinda viciously in the leg, despite being about as far away on the bed as it is physically possible for him to be. He’d rolled away from Johnny right after, and just kept…rolling. But Kaner doesn’t say anything to disagree, because he can’t, because it was awful.

 

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

For the Palette Challenge: Kane/Toews, steampunk, coffee shop.

sorry if this is shit TUMBLR ATE THE FIRST ONE. (the dialogue in this is not era compliant.)

The coffee machine is broken again.

Patrick slides underneath the machine, knowing exactly what’s wrong with it. He’s aware that at any moment, hundreds of pounds worth of coffee and steel could fall on his face, but it’s not like there’s any other option for a mechanic-turned-coffee-shop-owner to make money.

“You could just buy a new one,” Saader tells him.

Not bothering to grace that with a reply, Patrick readjusts the goggles on his face and sets to work. The steam filter is for shit, but there’s nowhere around to buy a new one, and Patrick’s loathe to barter with the morons that come through the port.

Thankfully, Saader knows better than to continue on about Patrick’s piece of shit coffee maker.

"Did you hear? There’s a new ship in port."

Patrick resists the urge to roll his eyes. “There’s always a new ship in port, Saader, that’s why it’s called a port.”

"Shut up, you know what I mean." Saader sighs, and then steps away from Patrick’s line of sight. "Apparently it’s a Cloud Ship."

"Bullshit," Patrick says, sliding out from under the machine so that he can show Saader exactly what he thinks about this news. He knows better than most that no Cloud Ship system could withstand the polluted and clogged air of a port. "Nobody is stupid enough to bring a Cloud Ship this far south."

Saader looks unapologetic. “It’s true. Shawzy saw it himself.”

"Then Shawzy’s a liar." Patrick glares for effect and then readjusts the goggles on his face.

"Actually he’s not."

That’s not Saader’s voice. There’s no way.

Keep reading

She didn’t let her handmaids near her after Aerys came to her.   Bad enough that they saw her disheveled, bruised, mauled—but she did not need them cooing over her like she was some pathetic puppy, abandoned by its mother and kicked repeatedly.

She was a Dragon—she was a Queen.  She did not need their pity.  And she certainly did not need them to hover over her, wondering if they’d see her strong or weak when Rhaella was neither.  Rhaella was spinning, Rhaella was roiling, Rhaella was unsure, even to herself, what she was.

He had come to her bed so rarely before.  Once she had bemoaned it, that Rhaegar would be her only child, that she was unable to do her duty as Queen when it was loneliness she wished to dispel.  Now she envied her past loneliness, the horrible ache that  Nymeria’s departure, and then Joanna’s, had left in her heart.  She had not asked him to fill the void that they had left—the void that her new handmaids sought to fill but never could.  She did not want him to fill the void.  She wanted her sons, wanted her friends, wanted her mother to hold her and rock her as if she were a child again, letting Rhaella weep tears into her brocade gown and hush her while stroking her head and singing to her about Good Queen Alysanne as she cried herself to sleep.

In the hours after Aerys left her, Rhaella sat in perfect stillness, listening to the crashing of the waves against the base of Aegon’s High Hill, the cry of gulls, her own breath pushing in and out of her nostrils.  And, when the sun began to rise and the room went from pale blue to pale red, Rhaella reached for her brush, and began ease the knots from her hair.

to be announced (tentoo/rose)

“But–” The Doctor manages to finish doing up his trousers, then comes to sit beside her on their bed. “Won’t it be different? I mean, she’s not the one having the baby, this time.”

“Oh, it’ll be different, all right,” Rose mutters darkly. “It’ll be worse.

dryadalis asked “TenToo and Rose are pregnant, only Rose wants to keep it quiet. TenToo accidentally lets it slip in a big way on accident, and Jackie is furious because she’s the last one to know.”
(Fill #3 for my 2013 fic advent calendar).



“You know,” Rose says lazily, as she drags her fingers across the Doctor’s bare back, “we can’t be quite that loud anymore, after I actually have this baby.”

“Hnmgf,” the Doctor responds unintelligibly, into the pillow his face is buried in.

Rose smiles fondly and skates her fingers up the Doctor’s spine, over his neck and into his hair.

It’s been three hours and two celebratory shags since they looked at that little stick and saw a plus sign, and Rose still feels giddy – flushed with excitement and happiness, with contentment and nerves and the best kind of exhaustion.

The Doctor makes a deeply contented sound before slowly hauling himself up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and beginning to root around on the ground for his discarded clothes. “We’ve got time!” he says cheerfully. “Plenty of time. Time for plenty of volume, in – ooh! Plenty of places, too, I’m sure.”

Keep reading

In which Kaner lives in a bathroom and Tazer lives in a Mariano's

http://svmadelyn.tumblr.com/post/107676196236/marianos-mpreg-wip-no-theres-no-title-what-ofdisappointingeveryone said: but what about secretly a virgin COMBINED WITH college au. because late in life virginity. because jonny toews focusing so much on his studies that he just never… gets around… to it. to /doing it/.

A LOT of you sent in prompts last night, so I uh, got myself confused and thought you were talking about this due to um, some past exchanges we’ve had: 

http://svmadelyn.tumblr.com/post/77659861663/coping-mechanisms-we-have-them

So anyway, have 2600 words of, uh, that, with Kaner as the virgin instead. WILDLY WILDLY AU with mpreg. You guys are cracking me up with the intense demand for virgin fic, but hey, as long as I have dumb ideas for this stuff, I will give into what The People yearn for here.

He might not keep track of hockey anymore, but of course he knows who Jonathan Toews is. He’d have to bury himself under a rock to not know who that guy is in this town.

So when Toews comes up behind him, while Patrick’s taking a break from dancing, he doesn’t expect the guy to grind up against him and whisper low in Patrick’s ear, “Hey, you wanna leave here with me?”

Patrick opens his mouth to say he’s not that kind of boy, he’s just here to dance, but when he looks at Toews’ sweaty, shimmery face, he says, “Yeah,” and follows the guy out, a few feet behind him, so that it could almost look like they’re leaving separately. 

*

"Kinda playing with fire," Patrick comments, when Toews lets him into his condo. It’s fucking gorgeous, obviously; a Chicago skyline to die for, expensive everything. Patrick tries not to eye the architecture too hungrily; it’s not what he’s here for.

Toews glances at him quizzically and tosses his jacket onto his coat rack. “You want a drink?” he asks. 

"Water’s good," Patrick says, and hangs his own jacket up. He’s not even sure what he’s doing here. He doesn’t - 

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Father had bought her a new dress to impress Robert Baratheon—a Southron dress.  It had looked so frail and delicate when he’d presented it to her—a billowing pile of silk and chiffon.  Lyanna had hated it immediately and on principle, because such a dress would be easily ripped if she wanted to do anything, and she probably would want to do “anything.”

She disliked tremendously that when she came South, she was imprisoned in silk.  She wore it for the tourney—what part of the tourney she observed, anyway—and could feel Robert’s eyes on her.  She did her best to ignore it.  Ned said he loved her, and this was the first time he was clapping eyes on her, and it wasn’t her.  The real her wore wool and heavy linen and velvet from time to time—not flowy silk like some dainty Southron butterfly. One could not ride in flowy silk.  One could only watch others ride, and clap one’s hands, and wonder what it would be like to be a man riding in the lists.  

Lyanna did not like wondering such things.  She liked holding a sword in her hands, feeling the weight of a lance couched under her arm.  But Brandon had rolled his eyes when she’d ask if she could ride (“a mystery knight, Brandon!  No one need know that it’s me!”) and said, “I thought you would grow out of this, Lyanna,” and that had hurt worse than staring into the sun.

She’d done it anyway, of course.  She had shed the silken dress and put on leathers and armor and ridden the lists.  She hadn’t wanted to win—that had never been the intent.  She was quite confident that she couldn’t have won—with such knights as Barristan Selmy and Arthur Dayne riding.  (Although she was quite confident that she could have beaten Brandon.  That would not have been difficult.)

They said that she had “won” her crown of winter roses.  They’d wondered loudly how she’d done it, what Prince Rhaegar saw in her that he didn’t find in his lovely Dornish Princess.  Lyanna was sure that they wanted her to smile demurely, to blush prettily, and say that she didn’t know and was honored and flattered by his attention.  But she couldn’t.  For she truly had won that crown in the lists, as any knight would have.  They would never understand that Prince Rhaegar, more than any other man, more even than her own brother, recognized that she was brave and bold and gallant.

What a strange place, the South was.  

the continuing search for hope

There’s a split second between then and now, life and death, sleeping and waking, when he sees it.

The sentinel is opening its maw and Charles can feel the heat of its blast on his face. This is it, the end, unless Logan has changed things. He doesn’t reach for Erik—the movement would take too long. Instead, he holds tight to their mental tether, to the strong psychic cable that’s bound them together these last ten years.

I love you, he thinks, because even here, at the end of it all, he has to say it. Even here, he needs his last thoughts to have purpose, drive, and for so long, in so many ways, this man was that purpose.

At least we’re together, Erik thinks. Charles closes his eyes. At least I don’t have to watch you die, he means, but Charles can’t disagree. He can’t pretend he hadn’t been afraid, when Erik came staggering back inside with a hand clutched to his stomach, of the exact same thing.

The heat intensifies and he reaches out to the last of them, to Kitty, whose mind is screaming, and then to Logan, who—

And that’s when he sees it.

It’s a moment suspended in time, rolling outwards even as the sentinel could have killed them a dozen times over. It’s fifty years compressed into endless seconds. It’s Logan’s life, but not as he’s ever known it—Raven and a woman named Kayla. Victor Creed and the school in the eighties. Politicians Charles doesn’t recognize, students he does, time zipping forward so fast he can barely catch up, so fast it takes him far too long to figure out what’s happening.

Logan did it. He did it. He rewrote the timeline. Charles is seeing the world’s new history.

And not just the world’s. And not just Charles. Erik is still inside Charles’ head—he’s seeing it all too.

Charles, Erik thinks with wonder at a flash of Erik at the school, regal and authoritative in front of a classroom, laughing at something Jean has said, looking down his nose as Logan lights a cigar at the dinner table. Charles, he repeats and Charles can’t respond as he watches them kiss on their wedding day, Logan off to one side.

He did it, Charles thinks, as time slows again, to Logan’s present, to the last minutes before the timeline snaps into place. Logan is eating breakfast with Charles and Erik and some people Charles doesn’t recognize. He says something and Erik laughs and leans over to kiss Charles’ temple before getting up from the table. Logan says something and gestures after him and follows, walks down the hall and picks up a book and turns on the radio and time slows closer to normal, almost in real time as Logan sits on the edge of a futon.

They did it. Logan did it, he saved them, he gave them a future better than this.

A future together, Erik says, full of more hope than Charles thinks he’s ever heard from him. Let’s hope they make better choices than we did. Then, I love you too. I always have.

In every timeline, Charles thinks, and he can’t help but smile as the sentinel fires just as the timelines seem to merge into one.

Mariano's mpreg WiP (no there's no title, what of it)

We all remember how Mariano’s fic works, right?

- no promises it will ever finish

- no promises it will not just be a random collection of scenes posted on my whim

- not betaed

- might go wildly off course as I attempt to jam in Many Tropes, but hey, at least this installment is probably longer than the first two combined

That all said, I told twoearsandaheart I might post this if she went to the gym, and I’m a lady of my word. The first two parts are here and here.

(Warnings for potential physical trauma to the bb - spoiler at the end.)

*

The next few days are strangely quiet. Patrick’s morning sickness has eased for three whole days in a row, and he’s taken advantage of the ability to concentrate without going off to puke every half hour and gotten a ton of work out of the way.

So when Saader asks if Patrick wants to go to the rink with him and Shawzy and some of their boys, Patrick surprises them both by saying, “Yeah, sure.”

“Fuck yeah,” Saader enthuses, pulling out his phone. “You’re on my line. Find a red jersey or something so we can remind people not to hit you.”

“That’s kinda mean,” Patrick grins. “I’ll run those poor kids into the ground.”

“Maybe we’ll just have it be 5 on 4 or something when you’re on the ice,” Saader mulls, texting. “That’s a little more fair.”

Word apparently has gotten around that Patrick’s going to be joining in today, because there’s a lot more guys than normal around the rink.

“Saader says you’re on his line,” is the first thing Shawzy says, when Patrick walks in.

“He speaks truth,” Patrick says solemnly.

“Fine, fuck. We won’t hit you, but we get 5 on 4 anytime you’re on the ice,” Shawzy says.

“We already agreed to that,” Saader sighs, gearing up.

“I know, I’m just saying! And he’s not allowed on the PP.”

“PP goes 4 on 4, but he’s allowed on,” Saader says, folding his arms.

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lazyevening asked:

Oliver/Felicity: (626):Actually going to jail after your wedding is NOT part of the plan.

"You know, when I put my dress on this afternoon, this was not how I saw the night ending," Felicity says, emerging from the bathroom dressed in her spare workout clothes. She immediately heads to her computers and checks in on the searches she’s been running.

Oliver, who had already traded in his tux for his green leather suit, walks up behind her to lean over and kiss her neck. “It’s not how I saw the night ending either,” he whispers regretfully. “Believe me. I had high hopes of taking that dress off of you myself.”

"On the bright side, no one will expect Oliver Queen to have walked out of his own wedding reception to put in an appearance as the Arrow and break up an after hours bank robbery." Felicity grins as she types in a few commands and pulls the city grid up. "Looks like they’re breaking in at Adams and 15th," she says, twisting her new rings as though they’ve been sitting on her finger for months instead of mere hours. "So do me a favor and don’t do anything to get yourself arrested? I’ve already changed my plans for the night enough, and bailing you out of jail is definitely not on my to do list."

"I’ll do my best," he teases, rotating her chair so that she’s facing him before tugging her up to her feet and kissing her soundly. He rests his forehead against hers when he pulls away, a few moments for just the two of them, before he picks up his bow and quiver.

"Digg and Sara are already on their way," she says after checking her phone. "Everyone else is still at the reception covering for them. I’ll have everything ready to disable security on site by the time you get there. Be careful, all of you."

As has become their custom, Felicity secures his mask and kisses him once more, for luck.

He takes one last glance at the security schematics for the bank and then meets her eyes before heading towards the back entrance.

"And Oliver," she calls out, right as he reaches the doorway, "if you manage to take care of this fast enough, I might get back in the dress just so you can take it off me."

Oliver finds he doesn’t need any additional motivation.

She knows when it’s done.  She knows it as if her father’s blade had slid across her own throat.  Quick, and cold, and hard—so very hard and she clutches at the front of her dress as if half expecting blood to be soaking it through.

She had already wept bitterly for the unfairness of it all, wept until her tears had all dried up. She had begged her father, begged the king and queen, begged Jory, begged anyone, but none of them would listen.  They were supposed to listen.  The blameless aren’t supposed to be punished for the deeds of others—they’re supposed to be protected, you’re supposed to be safe if you do as you’re told and Lady hadn’t done anything.  Lady hadn’t even been there.  Lady is well behaved, well trained.  

And Lady is dead.  Dead and bleeding and Sansa can almost feel the sticky warmth of her blood on her own neck.  But she doesn’t cry.  She can’t cry.  This…this isn’t a pain for crying.  This runs deeper than tears, as if her very heart had been cut out and she can’t feel anything besides the pain of it, the empty thudding of homeless blood through her body, and this isn’t supposed to have happened, this is not how it is supposed to be, and the air comes shallower and shallower in her chest and for a moment she’s afraid that she, too, is dying because she…she…

She has lost her wolf.

locution

idk, I wrote this in June and then forgot about it without posting it?

***

He’s surprised, when they get back, how easy the word rolls off his lips. Husband, husband, husband.

Charles embraces it, of course, with vigor, and Erik had expected that. Charles was the one who cried the night the state approved the bill, wept openly in the living room as they watched the news broadcast and hadn’t even tried to hide it. He glows as he says it each time, like it’s a gift, like he relishes the chance to hold the word in his mouth. He says it again and again when they’re in private, both rolling it through Erik’s mind and murmuring it against his skin. He likes the sound of it, the taste of it. It’s a deliberate choice.

For Erik, it’s unconscious. He doesn’t make a decision to say it or not say it, and he expected, after spending fifty years with this man and having no good word to describe him, that adjusting to the new title would be awkward, that he’d forget, that he’d have to school himself to remember that this is what they are to each other now. He’s surprised to find that’s not the case—he says the word without thinking, naturally, only half paying attention as he mutters some direction to one of the children (they’re all still children, even Hank who’s now in his sixties) or tells their secretary how they can be reached this evening.

He wonders why, a few weeks into their marriage, as he catches himself saying the word absently when Jean is looking for Charles. He still sometimes forgets to call Jean “Doctor” or Wanda by her married name—how did this come so easily to him?

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Patrick Sharp and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Dog

Title: Patrick Sharp and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Dog 

Author: Madelyn

Summary: There’s only one Patrick for puppy!Tazer.

Spoiler: It’s the less pretty one.

Notes: So here’s 5K of puppy!Tazer. It might be set in the same universe that forochel started and I hopped onto a couple years ago. But I might have changed/ignored some of that verse’s details, IDK. Basically, this is a universe where Jonathan Toews turns into a small golden retriever when he gets stressed/needs (go with it) to turn into a dog, and everyone around him knows/accepts this. I decided to start writing this one yesterday because it seems like we’re all having kinda shitty days/weeks, so here’s to you, my fellow shitty week compatriots.

This is wholly unbetaed, but thanks to ninjaboots for nobly audiencing and sobbing at ridic puppy pics with me.

Warnings: There are some sad puppy images along the way. It gets better.

**This post is super image heavy. I would not attempt to read it on a phone, unless you want your phone to die. If you are trying to get a new phone through phone dying action, then - by all means, let me be of service.

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