more scotch

Inspired by this text post 

Dean’s heart is restlessly pounding in his chest when he’s startled awake for whatever reason. He immediately kicks away the covers and crawls up until he’s sitting, his back heavily resting against the headboard, his stomach turning in protest. He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, and ouch, even that simple movement hurts.

It takes Dean a long moment before he realizes that it hurts because he has a headache the size of Canada. And then panic overwhelms him again, because shit, memories of last night are coming back to him all at once. He might have been drunk, but he remembers almost everything.

How they’d gotten back to the bunker after a hunt, tired but relieved. Him and Sam and Cas playing cards and having drinks, deciding to just have some fun for once; they deserved it, damnit. Sam going to bed around midnight, but Dean and Castiel going for one more round of scotch. And another. Which eventually, had ended in them getting closer and closer until Dean was kissing Cas right on the lips and telling him he wanted him.

“Shit!” Dean curses out loud, his blood turning to ice.

He glances around the room in alarm, then spots something on the nightstand that isn’t usually there. Actually, several items. A glass of water, some painkillers to go with it, and a tiny note. He reaches for the note first.

‘dear sober Dean,

don’t be mad, he kissed you back and he wants you too, it was about time you made a move, you idiot.
you’re welcome.

~ drunk Dean’

Holy shit. But before Dean can even begin to wrap his head around any of it, there’s a gentle knock on his door and it opens after a beat. Standing in the doorway is Castiel, carrying two mugs of coffee, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he mutters a quiet “Good morning, Dean”.

“Cas…” Dean sputters, clearing his throat. “I… I’m sorry for… You know, what I did last night.”

He goes for the apology, because it’s the only thing that seems to fit here. But the angel smiles and slowly shakes his head, closing the door behind him before calmly making his way to Dean’s bed, sitting down on the edge of it and placing the mugs on Dean’s nightstand.

“Please look at what’s on the back, Dean.” Is all he says.

Dean frowns at him, not yet awake enough to make sense of that order.

“The paper, in your hand.” Cas hints again.

Bewildered but curious, Dean does as he’s told. And indeed, there’s another message on the back, in a handwriting much neater than Dean’s.

'Dear sober Dean,

I want you too, but I won’t take advantage of you while you’re this far gone. If you still want me when you wake up, I’m all yours.

~ Partially drunk Castiel’

A silence stretches between them as Dean attempts to get with the program, until it all suddenly clicks. And the only answer that he gives Cas in return is a whispered “please”, knowing that it’s the right answer when blue eyes visibly light up at his response, Cas’ hand reaching for Dean’s. 

Their coffee goes cold as they properly trade lazy kisses for the first time, now both fully aware of it. Dean has to admit that for once, drunk Dean kinda did a good thing here.

By the time Sam and Dean walked in, two bottles of wine, three of tequila, half a 750cl of Scotch and more beer cans than they cared to count littered the table in front of you and Cas.

“Jesus. What are you two doing?!” Dean’s stare immediately went to you for answers. After all, you were sober as a nun.

“Getting Cas drunk,” you replied. It was pretty obvious, wasn’t it?

Why?” asked Sam.

Because you had been bored. Because Cas told you it practically couldn’t be done. Because it was about time the angel took a break from bearing a world of guilt on his shoulders and had a little fun.

But you didn’t get to say any of that. Dean had interrupted with a loud, “Aw, man! I was saving this!”

He yanked the bottle of Scotch from Cas’s hand. It didn’t take much effort. The angel’s coordination was desperately lacking.

“For what?” you asked.

“Special occasion,” complained Dean.

Castiel glowered drowsily at the hunter. “He means masturbating while watching animated pornography. That’s what happened to the missing six-pack from last week.”

Dean went red, and Sam abruptly dropped the dripping beer can he had picked up from the table. “Ugh, more than I needed to know.”

You, meanwhile, laughed. “Yeah, he’s been a wealth of info. It’s the best part of getting him drunk. Like, did you know that Adam was with Eve when she first tried the apple?”

“He dared her,” Cas said. Then he belched.

“Or that Delilah didn’t really weaken Samson by cutting off his hair?” you continued.

“She cut off something, but it certainly wasn’t his hair,” Cas slurred, grinning darkly. Dean and Sam both winced and pressed their knees together.

“I’ve been learning all kinds of stuff. The Da Vinci Code’s got nothing on this guy.” You grinned and patted Cas’s arm. “Come on, Cas. Spill. What else? Shock us with another revelation.”

Without missing a beat, Cas replied, “I’ve been in love with you for 3 months, 2 weeks, 5 days, 3 hours and approximately….” Squinting, he looked at the clock on the wall before turning back to a jaw-dropped you. “Twenty-two minutes.”

He smiled.

After a moment of silence around the table, Dean poured you a shot.

“Looks like you need this.”

mimidan  asked:

[Cognac] Hello Cognac, Bourbon here! Want me to take you out for ramen? Rye and Scotch will be there as well! 0/

[Father had told me not to associate much with Them, especially those with Codenames. Still, Bourbon and Scotch were kind to me when they saw me. I guess they felt sorry for me.

It feels so unreal to think about it now, especially with what happened two years after that. Bourbon had changed after Scotch died, more so after Rye was outed as an FBI spy… and so had I, when his intrusion got my Father killed.]

Charming Chevron 

My basement has a central space that separates the TV lounge and cold room from the common snooker area. That space is also the most boring of areas in my house so I decided to make it a little “charming.”
Here are a couple of pics of the project that I was working on last week: 

Several hours of careful measurement and some 50 metres of painter’s tape later…

Color me red Make me bleed: from brush to roller to hand sponging, I cried tears of blood while trying to even out the shades:

But it was worth it… 

Et voilà:

[My grandma brought those handmade reflective mirror vases from Pakistan after she saw the red decor in our pool room, love how they went with the chevron] 
and a Before and After pic:


Her voice drew him out of his head. The click of her heels seemed to mimic his own rapid heart beat. “They are going wherever I say they are going.” He panned. He was the boss. He was in control. He took a much more moderate sip of scotch before she reached him. Joe resisted the urge to pull his face away from her. She would know his state whether he tried to be a good actor or not.

“Business, babe. All just business.” Her hands felt cool on his skin. He slipped his hands from the bar top and snaked them around her waist. She had a way about her, one that made him feel larger than life. Made him feel powerful. “What did you do all day?” He already could’ve known had he wanted. In this lifestyle, he made sure she was carefully protected. But there was no need to check up on her through his personnel.

A Party to Remember

Based on a prompt by a RIchonne shipper on the Richonne boards.

Prompt:   Rick and Michonne are both too shy to express how they feel about each other. However, one night they have a little too much to drink while attending a Halloween costume party hosted by Deanna. What happens next..

“This party is a waste of time,” Daryl grumbled.  He was over at the table with Rick as people milled around the house in costumes that had been thrown together and thrown on.  Everyone was going through the motions for the Halloween party that Deanna had thrown.  She was still grieving over her losses so Rick figured this must be her attempt to cope.  But he mostly thought it was a waste of time as well.  The only reason he was here was because Michonne had talked him into it.  His eyes scanned the room. But she was nowhere in sight.  He was starting to think she had talked him into going without planning on following through herself. He gulped down more scotch.  “We got a threat outside we need to be getting ready for,” Daryl finished in a growl.

Keep reading

Dear useless diary,

Whatever affliction had me fleeing the office earlier this morning has passed. I alleviated the symptoms with care, dumping enough strategic stock to start a run that has halved Lord Tech’s share price, and worked the rest of my frustration legitimate annoyance out on the cross-trainer.

If I had a little more Scotch with lunch, I’m sure nobody’s counting. It gave me the necessary clarity to offload a couple of struggling publications in the Midwest, and let’s just say the Sydney office has a few nasty surprises waiting when they roll into work a few hours from now.

It’s a pity Carter has chess club after school, a few extra hours with him would have been just what the doctor ordered. Still, here at home I can luxuriate in the quiet, get some real work done and not be distracted by-

The doorman just called up to say he let one of my authorized guests up in the elevator, but refused to say which one. Unfortunately, there’s only one semi-regular visitor he would risk that kind of favor for.

Any minute now, Kara is going to step out of that elevator and into my home. Where we’re completely alone. And if she’s still dressed to kill…

God help me, diary. What’s that hoary old cliché about resisting everything but temptation?


Quote of the day: “Hey guys, just so you know, the rule of three still stands even when your counselor is trapped inside a conjuration triangle. So you’ve got to break it if you want to go to dinner.”

Closed with @theagentturnedwanderer

John sighed as he surveyed the bar restlessly. This particular establishment didn’t really appeal to him. But bars tended to be a good place to find an easy meal and he couldn’t afford to just stick to ones he liked. Patterns were bad. Vampires who over-hunted the same spots tended to end up dead, whether from human vampire-hunters or other vampires intent on preventing exposure.

So, he was dully going through the motions of hunting, searching for a particularly easy target so that he could just get on with his night. But it was early yet, so he was still sitting at a small table in the corner, fiddling with a glass of scotch more than drinking it, as he scanned the crowd lazily. Until he saw her walk in.

If his heart had still been beating he would have said it stopped. It couldn’t be. His eyes must have been playing tricks on him. She was gone. He had lost her so long ago. But no, he would recognize her anywhere. Without even a thought he was on his feet walking toward her.

“Clara?” he asked when he reached her, not quite able to keep the confusion out of his voice.

  • Fitz: I hate my fucking job
  • Fitz: Olivia is gorgeous wtf
  • Fitz: omfg I'm gonna be stuck with Mellie for the rest of my life
  • Fitz: I need moRE SCOTCH
  • Fitz: where the fuck are my children
  • Fitz: can I just sleep for like, eternity
  • Fitz: who the fuck is *reads smudged hand writing* Joke Ballsack?
  • Fitz: have you heard of our lord and savior, Olivia Pope?
  • Fitz: I'm gonna go watch Netflix
  • Fitz: *talking to jesus* why do you hate me?