i don't even know guys

Brioux chatfic
  • Me:Emotionally devastating ideas that occur to you without prompting: Giroux getting Father's Day presents from Danny's kids
  • Whiskeydaisy:HAND-DRAWN CARDS and heartbreak and awkward skype calls
  • Me:ahahaaha the first time he gets a skype call asking for sex advice he drinks a LOT and drunk texts Danny YOU OWE ME
  • Whiskeydaisy:and caelan texts him 'claude can you buy condoms for me' and claude walks into a lamppost
  • Me:I AM TOO YOUNG FOR THIS, he shouts into the night
  • Me:No one is listening
  • Me:Danny is in Colorado
  • Whiskeydaisy:"danny why aren't you in montreal any more - at least we could argue about this in French"
  • Whiskeydaisy:"sorry claude i was out w/duchene"
  • Me:who does Claude go to for comfort? does he suffer ALONE
  • Whiskeydaisy:yes but he keeps opening his phone and staring at sid's number - why does he have sid's number- this is seguin's fault
  • Me:Finally he calls and--"ugh, Lauren [Lemieux] did that to me once," Sid commiserates.
  • "Were you in love with her father?"
  • Oops, he didn't mean to say that out loud. The silence gets uncomfortable. "Uh, *no,*" Sid says carefully. "No I was not."
  • Whiskeydaisy:"oh," Claude says.
  • "Shit," Sid says. "I mean - I know what you mean, though."
  • "It was dumb to start with," Claude says.
  • Me:"Shut up," Sid says. "You called me to vent about your love life, so now you better deliver. I want details."
  • Whiskeydaisy:"He didn't know the boys sent me cards for Father's Day," Claude says. They're on the fridge. He can see them from the couch.
  • Me:"are you drinking?" Sid says. "I feel like you should be drinking. I feel like *I* should be drinking, damn."
  • Whiskeydaisy:"Not drinking," Claude says, "because I might think going to Ottawa is a good idea."
  • "So you called me instead?"
  • Me:Touché. He probably shouldn't treat Sidney Crosby as his personal Agony Aunt. "At least if you tell, no one will believe you."
  • Whiskeydaisy:"I wouldn't & you know it." Sid's being captainy. Claude hates that it helps. "You want to keep wallowing, or try to fix it?"
  • Me:Honestly, he doesn't know. Before he can make up his mind, the doorbell rings. "Hang on, I have to let the pizza guy in."
  • Whiskeydaisy:He opens the door, phone wedged against his shoulder. "Hey, sorry, thought I had smaller bills. Can you -- Danny? The fuck?"
  • Me:"Oh my God this is better than Netflix," Sid says in his ear. That fucker.
  • Danny just says, "Hi." He looks good. Great even.
  • Whiskeydaisy:"Crosby's an ass," Claude says. "Why are you here?"
  • Danny raises an eyebrow. "Since when do you talk to Sid on the phone?"
  • Me:Claude has a snappy retort on the tip of his tongue. But what comes out is "Since your kids keep sending me Father's Day cards I don’t deserve.
  • Whiskeydaisy:Danny takes Claude's phone. "Thanks, Croz. I've got it from here," he says & hangs up. "You think they're jokes, the cards?"
  • Me:Claude clenches his jaw. "I don't know what to think. I know they're not--not being malicious." He's never doubted their love.
  • Whiskeydaisy:"You're family to them," Danny says, "after the divorce and during the trades, always. They mean what they say to you, cher."
  • Me:*Cher.* Claude flinches as if the word has cut him. "I know they do," he says, with maybe too much emphasis on "they."
  • Whiskeydaisy:Danny watches Claude until Claude looks back. "I never told you lies, Claude. Not about the boys, not about us."
  • Me:"There will always be room for you here," Danny had said years ago, with that same expression. Claude had thought he meant in the house, in the family, but then the buyout and Danny left and the world fell apart. What if Danny meant *with him*?
  • Whiskeydaisy:"I can't do this out here," Claude says, his voice rough. He shoves two $20s under the doormat for the pizza guy and turns to go inside. Danny follows until Claude stops, his hand on Claude's hip. "Tell me --" Claude can't finish it.
  • Me:"Anything," Danny says, quiet. "I'll give you anything you ask for. Just--"
  • "Come home," Claude says, and his voice deserts him.
  • Whiskeydaisy:"Oui," Danny says. "I'd retire if you asked."
  • Claude laughs and turns to him. "You'll never retire."
  • "For you, I would."
  • Me:He means it, Claude realizes, shaken. That isn't what Claude meant, but Danny would. "Don’t," he says. "That's not what I want."
  • Whiskeydaisy:"It's not what I want either," Danny says, "but -"
  • They're interrupted by an annoying beep. "Fuck me," Claude says. "Skype."
  • Me:If it’s Sid he’s going to—
  • He looks at the phone. It’s not Sid. He takes a deep breath and offers Danny the phone. “Want to talk to your kid?”
  • Whiskeydaisy:Danny takes the call. "Yes, yes, I'm here," he says, wandering into the kitchen. "I'll see you tomorrow. No, not tonight."
  • Me:It probably doesn’t mean anything, but Claude flushes anyway. He shouldn’t have those sorts of thoughts at all, let alone when Danny is talking to Cameron.
  • Whiskeydaisy:"Your cards are on his fridge," Danny says, smiling fondly at Claude. "Tell your brothers good night." There's a burst of chatter over the line, and Danny hands the phone to Claude. "They want to talk to you before everyone goes to bed."
  • Me:Claude swallows. The kids are, well, they’re not kids anymore, they’re teenagers, and he knows it’s not “cool” to call your—your whatever you call the older guy who’s not your father but used to live in your house before bed. He takes the phone.
  • Whiskeydaisy:"Claude? Are you coming over tomorrow?" Caelan sounds a bit hesitant.
  • "Yeah," Claude says.
  • Danny drapes an arm around him. "Claude's friends with Crosby now," Danny says, and someone yells "NOT FUNNY, DADS," and suddenly they're all laughing.
  • Me:Claude’s face burns, because Danny didn’t *exactly* lie, but the truth is, well, worse. He wonders if Danny knows that.
  • “Anyway,” Carson says, “we were just calling to make sure you were coming tomorrow. We’ll leave you two alone now.”
  • Whiskeydaisy:After the call's over, Danny nuzzles Claude's jaw and steps back. "I'll take the guest room?"
  • Claude rolls his eyes. "I asked you to come home, not to come to the guest room."
  • Danny laughs, then slides his arms around Claude. "I'm home."
  • Me:Claude exhales, shaky, and leans into it. “We doing this?” he asks. “For real this time, not….” The first time was a disaster, or the ending was. Claude can’t do that again.
  • Danny smiles. “It’s about time I was your kept man for a change.”
  • Whiskeydaisy:"Get you back in an orange jersey," Claude murmurs into Danny's hair. "Keep you for real this time."
  • "It's always been real," Danny says, kissing him. "Come on, let's go to bed. The boys are going to be horrible tomorrow."
  • Me:“It’ll be worth it,” Claude says. It’s always been worth it.
  • [The next morning, in their haste to leave to meet the boys, Claude steps in the pizza box. Still worth it.]

Janie and I would like to take this moment to wish the late Ms. Sally Ride a very happy
64th birthday. She was a pioneer for women in STEM everywhere and was the first
American woman in space. 

Rest peacefully among the stars – you go, girl! 

Grantaire goes to every party that’s organised by any of his acquaintances even if he has not been invited and one day he shows up at Marius’ and Marius is like “but how the fuck did he even know where I lived” and Courfeyrac puts an arm around his shoulder and just goes “We all accepted a long time ago that he has Jack Sparrow’s compass and uses it to find where the alcohol is”.

Grantaire raises his hat at them when coming in.

499 words for the Sterek Writers’ Kiss Challenge

There are a thousand reasons not to do this. A thousand things that have kept him from even considering it outside of the half-conscious longings he could brush aside in daylight. It’s smarter, safer, to leave good enough alone, to keep from acknowledging what nothing good could ever come from acknowledging.

But when he slides into the room tonight and comes face to face with Stiles, when he looks up with a knowing expression that softens into fondness, when he says, head ducking, “My dad likes you now, creeper. You could’ve used the front door”… suddenly Derek can’t think of a single solitary one.

He’s crossing the room fast, the books he’d brought for research slipping to the floor as he falls into Stiles’ space, close enough to taste the boy’s skin on the air.

Stiles’ eyes skitter up, then float around Derek’s face in an uneven wobble that might seem scared if Derek hadn’t seen Stiles scared before, seen it too many times these past years. No, this is Stiles being startled but intrigued, seeing a puzzle he can’t help wanting to decipher.

And Derek is aching to let Stiles decipher him.

“Derek…?” It comes out tentative, too much air and not enough voice. Derek finds himself falling in closer, as close as he can get without brushing skin. Stiles’ eyes startle shut, mouth parting, breathing in sharp and wanting.

Derek needs to say something, but all that comes out is “I need… Stiles, I want…” before Stiles lets out a frantic noise and surges forward.

They don’t waste any time on tentative touches, their mouths parting on contact, gasping against each other before going deep. Derek has Stiles by the nape as Stiles presses, full-bodied, into him, everything hot and hungry at the first wet slide of tongues.

Stiles whines, hands darting everywhere, the palms dragging down Derek’s biceps, his sides, clenching at his jaw and tugging in some crazed attempt to drag Derek’s face straight into his. His mouth moves with equal fervor, seeming desperate to fill the first few seconds of their kiss with everything he’s ever imagined: hard licks and dragging teeth. His whole body is wracking with frantic shivers, the scent of nerves spiking through the air nearly as sharp as desire.

Derek drags his mouth back, Stiles’ protesting whine echoing deep in his own chest.

“Hey, just…” his voice is gravel-rough, his body hot and shuddery in a way he hasn’t felt in years. He feels like a teenager.

He feels happy.

When he ducks in again it’s all slow, sweet drags of lips and long pent emotion. Stiles sighs into it, relaxing, arms looping around Derek’s neck, his body a long, lean press of soft skin and angled hips. They stay like that, shifting slowly against each other, until Stiles draws back, breathless, brows furrowing.

“Wait, why now?”

Derek could give a thousand reasons. He shrugs.

“I decided to stop fighting it.”

“About time,” Stiles sighs, and drags him in again.