my ficlets

Yuuri is never good with words.

I love you, he thinks when he sees the black and silver blur on the crappy 2003 R&M television screen. Takeshi, who was a few feet away, sees his awed expression. Being the little shit he used to be, Takeshi deliberately steps in front of Yuuri’s view.

With surprising force, Yuuri shoves him out of the way.


I love you, he thinks when his knees scrape the ice, his palms kiss the shards of cold flying throughout reality. He cries, hisses, until he grits his teeth and stands up only to fall all over again.


I love you, he thinks when he sees Viktor Nikiforov with the sun on his chest, the stars forming constellations and into the ribbon that rested around his neck. He was beautiful, blinding, Yuuri was burning.


I love you, he thinks when he walks away.


I love you, he thinks as he skates. His blades hiss and scrape, but the only sound Yuuri could hear was the sound of Stammi Vicino playing throughout the rink. Yuuko, her children, and unfortunately, six different cameras watch.


I love you, he thinks as he stares at his bedroom wall. Usually at a poster, but it wasn’t needed, because Viktor Nikiforov was in the next room. And not even a few hours ago, Viktor Nikiforov had appeared in their family onsen, naked and shining and Yuuri was burning.


I love you, he thinks when Viktor stands next to him on the podium, arm around him, his touch sending bouts of comfort as the seconds pass by. Yurio was gone, Viktor chose him. Viktor would stay with him. He had won.


I love you, he thinks when Viktor massages his feet, tending the bruises until they no longer sing in pain. Yuuri would never have guessed that Viktor Nikiforov would be helping him up, tending his feet, carrying him into the onsen even when Yuuri had screeched that he could walk perfectly fine.


 I love you, he thinks before his back hits the ice, but Viktor has his head cradled in his hand. Soft, protective, fiery, the remnants of Viktor’s lipgloss is on Yuuri’s lips. He is burning.


I love you, he thinks when Viktor hops onto his plane, back to Hasetsu to see if his beloved dog will ever see the light of day again. Yuuri remembers the fragile shards of his broken heart, shattered by life, and he knows that Viktor didn’t have that much to lose. 

Yuuri made sure that he didn’t.


I love you, he thinks as he buries his face into Viktor’s shoulder, the arms around him far too longing to be anything but platonic. I love you, he thinks, but he says please be my coach until I retire! instead. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

I hope you’ll never retire.

That was enough too.


I love you, he thinks as he holds Viktor’s hand through out Barcelona. I love you, he thinks as Viktor laughs and smiles and it does things to Yuuri. I love you, he thinks as he slides the ring onto Viktor’s finger.


I love you, he thinks.

Thank you for everything, up to now, he says, the idiot that he is.

I love you, he thinks.

After the final, let’s end this, he says instead.

I love you, he thinks.

He doesn’t say anything, but he does do a Quad Flip.

I love you, he thinks.

Stay close to me, he says, and Viktor does.



“I love you.”

Yuuri nearly falls off the bed, dropping his phone as it lands against their apartment floor with a thunk. Viktor just smiles, eyes fond and longing and doting, the afternoon light gleaming against their curtains and tracing his bare torso with fairy dust. Yuuri was burning.

“W-What?” Yuuri sputters out an attempt to cool down the fluttering of his traitorous heart. Viktor just chuckles, resting his chin on his arm as he lies stomach down on their bed, buried under the covers.

“I love you.” Viktor says, as if he wasn’t shaking down every wall Yuuri has built in his lifetime. “I was… I was a little doubtful, at first, and nervous. Since… you’re not really that vocal.”

I love you. I love you. I love you.

“But… I realized that you’ve told me. Many times, already, just… not through words. And…” Viktor just smiles, eyes happy. Happy. “I-”

“I love you too.”

so, post-canon…

  • Capheus wins the election, of course he does. He wins re-election, too…but probably not the one after that. It’s difficult, you see, to be the face of anti-corruption when your father-in-law is a drug lord.
    • He stays in politics, though. Zakia needs someone to drive her tour bus. 
  • Wolfgang and Felix go with the India Plan, and the story is that, after the scare of Kala being shot, she and Rajan hired this scary-looking Germans as bodyguards. After a year or so, Kala’s parents suspect something but would rather not think about it and Rajan’s father is oblivious. 
    • They’re all pretty good at keeping up the act - Felix is surprisingly fantastic at covering for the three of them - but now and then, someone will approach Rajan and suggest, sometimes genuinely sympathetically, that his wife might, just maybe, be…
    • Rajan is amazing at looking shocked and offended that you would even imply this about his beautiful wife. Of course she is perfectly honest, and their marriage has never been steadier! How dare you!
    • They have two daughters. The second is conspicuously light-skinned. People have almost given up commenting.
  • Lito has like two weeks in the middle of filming where he’s half-convinced that Hernando is going to leave him for Blake Huntington, because Blake can talk about Kant and metaphor and all those things that make Lito love Hernando so much but he Does Not understand. Hernando, of course, is stifling completely irrational spikes of rage every time he watches Lito kiss Blake, because…it never bothered him when it was women, you know, because he knew Lito wasn’t really interested. That it could never be real. But not only is Blake Huntington, well, Blake fucking Huntington, 3-time Academy Award winner, hot as a steaming griddle, and clever and educated to boot, but he’s male and Lito is out, and playing this role that is 50% his own story anyway, and here’s Blake being the love of his life… Meanwhile, Lito is off crying on a pillow somewhere because Hernando and Blake were talking about Proust…
    • Dani sorts this out by
      • a) shutting them in the bedroom until they talk to each other, and
      • b) sleeping with Blake Huntington and claiming dibs by right of First Bang. 
      • she also, incidentally, prints cards for herself as an agent, and gets a lot of calls
    • The whole cluster, plus friends and family, flies to LA for the opening night of Iberian Dreams. Lito spends half of it full-on sobbing, at his own acting and more importantly because his dream is coming true. 
      • The only one crying harder is Bug. 
  • Nomi and Amanita stay in San Francisco, for the most part. They take a lot of romantic vacations to visit their family around the world, and take turns bringing each other coffee and pastries while they co-write a fictionalized, urban fantasy version of their story. Because even if the details need to stay secret, there are some things you need to say loud and proud. 
  • Sun and Mun probably get married eventually, but they never have biological human children. They have a lot of dogs, and eventually Mun gets shot one too many times and she convinces him to quit the force and go work in a dojo. He loves it. Sun, meanwhile, is back at Bak, rebuilding her family name and doing finance by day and fistfights by night. The other fighters know her now, though. As do the kids Mun trains. It’s a really great extended family. 
  • Will does not move to Iceland so much as move to Riley, and Riley’s home is Iceland but she cannot stay there, not always. Fortunately, there are clubs all over Europe that will open the doors and vive la resistance for Riley Blue. 
    • In only a few years, she is pregnant again - though not with a child this time. With eight. 
    • They go home for this. She has nightmares, of the car and the frozen hill and the empty church in equal parts. 
    • It is nothing like that. They are on the beach, because it felt right, righter than her living room. Will holds her hands, as do Nomi, Lito, Sun, Capheus, Kala, Wolfgang. The sun is setting, but it is summer in Iceland; it is warm. Around the world, eight other people open their eyes and see the sunset as well, and their mother exhausted but smiling.
    • They will never be hunted. 
Love notes (that aren’t always love notes)

At first, when Bucky comes back, he and Steve maintain their totally healthy and not-at-all emotionally constipated communication style. Sentences trail off into unspoken sentiment. Memories are mentioned in lieu of discussing the present. “Hey,” replaces, “I’ve missed you so damn much, and I love you more than anything,”

It all changes with one note. 

Steve catches Bucky in the bathroom mirror, staring at his reflection, at tired eyes and at metal and empty space in the place where his left arm used to be. There’s self-loathing, tied like an anchor around his neck, where self-confidence used to be, and Steve understands it, generally – but damn it, not for this. 

Steve can’t help it. He leaves the sticky note in the middle of the mirror, passive-aggressive pink. ‘You’re gorgeous,’ underlined about six times next to a tiny doodle of himself, rolling his eyes. 

Bucky doesn’t mention the note. He doesn’t take it down, either. When he looks at the mirror, Steve sometimes sees him smile. 

A few weeks later, Steve hasn’t been sleeping. Every night, he sees Bucky fall. He goes to bed one evening and finds a note on the pillow. “It’s not your fault!!!” scrawled in a messy, hurried hand. It means too much. It means more than Steve can say. 

The notes go back and forth, after that. ‘And what you did isn’t yours,’ on Bucky’s armory. ‘You’re still that kid from Brooklyn,’ on Steve’s old uniform, ‘I’ve changed, too,’ on Bucky’s hairbrush, ‘I remember us,’ on Steve’s underwear drawer and, ‘You’re worth all of it,’ on Bucky’s favorite chair. Until one day, Steve finds, ‘I love you,’ on a pot of his favorite soup in the fridge, and Bucky finds the matching note on the bottom of the morning coffee on his nightstand. 

After that, they decide to try talking. Among other things. 

Satisfied

Viktor had a relationship once- why not? He’s hot and people confuse him and his usage of mascara- when he was young. The details are blurry to Viktor these days, but he was too excited and he was delusional with the prospect of love back then, almost a cringe worthy moment for Viktor when he remembers these things late at night.

It was how you would imagine it. Viktor, looking back on it now, wondered how seemingly enthusiastic he managed to be in the two year long crusty ‘relationship’ they had. There were these little sprinkles of affection, shy blushes and the kind of exploration young crazy teenagers do during their young crazy lives, but there was nothing special about it.

He was an art major. Viktor figured they were compatible, two pieces of puzzles sliding together in delusional harmony, with Viktor’s artistry out on the ice and his on his canvas.

What made him special, amongst the other folders of exes he had locked away in a metaphorical file cabinet, was the fact that he was the one who stayed the longest.

Viktor was a fucking whirlwind. Nobody could keep up his tiresome training schedules, his absent meals, the long hours spent at the rink. His ex wrung it out as far as possible, trying hard to be understanding and patient at first, until finally, he broke.

“You’re… You’re too much.” He finally hisses after another failed date night. Viktor doesn’t have the heart to deny the statement. “You’re fucking selfish. You… You revolve around nothing but the ice! No hobbies, no ambitions, nothing but that stupid gold fucking medal you always win anyways.”

Viktor doesn’t flinch, doesn’t feel anything at all. He was right. He was right.

“And then what? What happens when your body tires out, huh Viktor? What happens if you lose?” He says, there are tears brimming his eyes. Viktor doesn’t have the heart to well up a tear. “I tell you, you’ll regret it. You will have nothing.” 

When he walks out the door, Viktor realized that he had nothing the whole time Not even the satisfaction of being complete.

When Chris asks him if he had any plans to get into a relationship anytime soon, he’d laugh. I don’t have the time. He’ll say. Nobody is willing to stay. His mind pleads.

And then comes Yuuri.

He realizes many things: Yuuri was an even bigger whirlwind. He was deadly and dangerous and beautiful, Viktor had felt the thrill of standing in the eye of a storm when he holds Yuuri’s hand, when he sees his smile. He was beautiful. He was deadly.

Yuuri spends even more time in the rink than him, eyes focused and determined and Viktor watches in awe from the side because he felt like he just got crushed by an avalanche and Yuuri wasn’t even breaking a goddamn sweat. He was fragile and strong, loud and quiet, an enigma Viktor has yet to solve. 

Yuuri was beautiful. Yuuri was perfect.

He’s perfect when he takes Makkachin out for walks, when he looks over his shoulder and tosses Viktor a teasing little smile, when he wakes up in the morning with bed hair and crusty eyes, when he’s crying and broken and Viktor doesn’t know what the fuck to do and Yuuri calls his bullshit out for it, when he skates, when he lets Viktor hold him, when he’s Viktor’s.

Yuuri was his.

Yuuri would stay.

One day, while in a hotel bar as he waits for his dearest, he spots someone across from him with the eyes of a ghost from his past.

“I’m opening up a gallery somewhere.” He says when Viktor asks the standard how are you out of sheer politeness. He hasn’t changed, maybe getting edgier and manlier, finally not the young art major he used to be. He has grown. Viktor has grown too.

“The… The Japanese man. Is he…?”

Viktor smiles, purposely setting his hand on the marble counter to show off the gleam in the golden band. The memory of Yuuri sends another warm flutter in Viktor’s heart. God, it’s been years. “Engaged.”

He smiles and nods, seemingly happy for them.

“You love him, truly.”

Viktor purses his lips around his glass. Of course he does, why wouldn’t he? Yuuri was kind and beautiful and smart and all his.

“The moment I mentioned him… you looked like the happiest man in the world.” He says, shaking the glass in his hand, swirling the amber contents. Viktor does not feel any resentment in his voice, but he feels cautious at the incoming topic. “You’re truly happy. It’s amazing.”

Viktor narrows his eyes, just for a fraction. “What made you think I wasn’t?”

He raises an eyebrow. Are you fucking kidding me? Viktor couldn’t blame him. “Your eyes shine, you perk up, and hell, I didn’t even notice that your smile was heart shaped before. Now your grin is bigger than ever.”

Viktor cracks a smile, leaning back against the counter. 

He sets the glass down, smiling softly. “I’m happy for you.”

Viktor’s happy too. Truly. He was right. And for once, he was glad that he didn’t decide to stay.

“Do you want to come to the wedding?” It was a little weird to invite your ex to your wedding, but Viktor wasn’t one to follow social norms. 

He accepts before finally leaving, one last goodbye between them.

Yuuri finally arrives a few moments later, cheeks flushed and burrowed adorably under a scarf. God knows how torturous Russian weather can be. “Who was that?”

Viktor smiles, kissing Yuuri’s knuckles before lacing their fingers together. “No one of importance.”

During their wedding, Yuuri dips him in for a kiss. Viktor never wanted to let go of the moment, but they crumble on the floor laughing. Chris was discreetly installing a pole in the banquet room and he had to prevent tears more than five times in the past two hours. Yurio resentfully gives him tissues from the sidelines 

Viktor might’ve thought that he’ll never get the satisfaction of being complete, thought that he’ll never stop being a whirlwind, but Yuuri carries him away and swept him off his feet, launching him into the air laughing and giggling.

He spots him in the crowd, talking to the girl he brought with him- possibly his now girlfriend, Viktor thinks she’s lovely- and they connect gazes.

He smiles, raises a glass like a toast.

Viktor raises his own glass back.

Viktor was happy. Viktor was complete. Viktor was satisfied.

Freak

“That was completely out of line, Sherlock!” John yelled. Sherlock had felt the tension from the moment he deduced at the crime scene and all the way home. He had had a bad day, so his deductions were rather scathing. He’d thrown insult after insult at everyone, and, mistakingly, at John. He hadn’t meant to, but he was just there.

“John, I -”

“No, Sherlock! You’re done talking. What you said to everyone - to me - no. I don’t have to take this shit anymore.”

“Anymore?”

“Yes, Sherlock. I’m leaving.”

“Come now, John, I’m so-”

“No you’re not. When are you ever sorry for anything?”

Sherlock flinched as if slapped. “John…”

In the heat of his rage, John turned from facing the kitchen and shoved Sherlock to the ground. Sherlock looked up at John, fear evident in his eyes.

“John, please -”

“I said you’re done talking, dammit!” John hissed.

Sherlock looked away, refusing to let his tears fall.

John is leaving. John is leaving him. John is leaving because of him.

“Please stay,” Sherlock whispered. “I - I need you.”

“They’re right you know,” John mumbled. “I always tried to defend you when they talked, but they’re right. You’re nothing but a -”

“Freak,” Sherlock’s voice croaked. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.

The one thing he always loved John for is that he never found him to be anything other than extraordinary. But now … Now it hurts.

“I’m going to pack my things, and I’m leaving. For good. I just - I can’t take this anymore, Sherlock. Don’t come looking for me, don’t tell Mycroft to do surveillance, just don’t try to contact me. I’ve had enough.”

John trudged upstairs, leaving Sherlock to sob on the living room floor.

He’d really done it now. He’d messed up the only good thing in his life, and now he could never get it back.

Sherlock wiped his face and brought his hand to his left trouser pocket, pulling out a black box. He stared at it for a while until he couldn’t anymore and threw it across the room. He wrapped his arms around himself and let the tears fall freely. At the sound of the front door slamming shut, he lay down and curled into a fetal position as he silently cried out his sorrows.

John was gone.


@sorcererofsupremepizza @morgendaemmerung89 @loveinthemindpalace @love-in-mind-palace @currently-in-my-mind-palace @yorkiepug

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Winning Myself

“Remind me again why Luna invited the Malfoys?” Harry asked Ginny as he tried not to be blatant with his staring.

“Malfoy is her friend, and she wanted to include him in the wedding party.” Ginny shrugged once, showing that she didn’t understand her fiance’s decision any more than Harry did.

The cluster of people outside of the burrow were preventing Harry from hearing what Malfoy and his father were arguing about, and they were definitely arguing. Malfoy was gesturing wildly with his hands, face red, and anger prominent in his eyes. Lucius was the opposite, the same calm exterior as always, the only hint that the older Malfoy was angry was the hand clenched around the snakehead of his wand.

“Has Malfoy always been so…” Harry trailed off when Malfoy narrowed his eyes, anger heightening.

“Dramatic?” Ginny supplied. “Definitely.”

“I was going to say striking, but yeah, that’s accurate too.”

“But he makes dramatic look good.”

Harry nodded in agreement, wishing that wasn’t the case. Encountering Malfoy in the Ministry was trying enough on his firm denial of any kind of attraction, but seeing him outside of work was causing Harry’s resolve to crack—fissures obvious the more emotion Malfoy released.

“What do you suppose they are arguing about?”

When Ginny didn’t answer, Harry looked at her curiously. There was an uneasy edge to her stance and it concerned him.

“I don’t know, Harry. They’ve been arguing since they got here, and they were late too.”

Keep reading

adashi & klance garrison au

this is a no voltron au so consider

  • shiro and adam are bitter exes
    • they dated for years through most of their garrison training and a few years after
    • they were in love, they were going to get married
  • but they ended up breaking up, probably over something small and petty
    • a couple years later, shiro and adam both end up teachers at the garrison
      • they’re both flight instructors for different groups
      • they try to be professional, but theres a lot of tension in the staff room
      • at some point shiro “accidentally” eats adam’s pudding out of the staff refrigerator and the two have a screaming match that has to be broken up but iverson
      • both are given a warning that if they dont cool it, they can kiss their teaching jobs goodbye
  • shiro is keiths legal guardian and is mentoring him
  • garrison cadet lance does not like keith
    • he doesnt like that keith shirks responsibility and doesnt follow orders
    • he doesnt like when keith flies recklessly and brings their whole team down
    • he especially doesnt like that keith is shiros favorite
  • adam is lance’s favorite instructor
    • lance was bummed at first that he didnt get to be in shiros class, but now that he knows keith is in it hes glad hes in adams class
  • one day after a practice flight, lance is fuming in class, and adam talks to him after and asks whats up
    • lance: that stupid keith is always trying to one up me. he ruined the whole teams score!
    • adam: oh well keith is just a student like you with a lot to learn, its probably not fair to judge him so harshly
    • lance: it wouldnt be as bad if he wasnt shiros mentee and never got in trouble
    • adam: he’s shiros WHAT now?
  • out of pure pettiness, adam decides to take lance under his wing and mentor him
    • and if, in the process, adam’s mentee gets to trample shiro’s mentee, that’s a big bonus
  • when shiro realizes what adam’s doing, and he’d definitely realize, he dated the guy for so many years he still knows him better than anyone else, he starts driving keith extra hard to beat lance at anything and everything
    • it goes on for a couple months, shiro and adam both pushing their mentees extra hard to be the best are you going to let him beat you? huh? you’re better than that!!
    • they’re just competing vicariously through lance and keith, its not about being good mentors anymore
  • lance and keith are getting TIRED
    • their rivalry was fine at first, when it was just them, but now it’s too much
    • they have a late night bonding session that consisted of them eating their weight in vending machine snacks and bitching about their mentors
    • keith: i cant believe shiro is doing all this just to get back at his ex boyfriend >:(
    • lance: i’m sorry his what now??
  • so keith is the one that reveals they used to be together, lance is the one that realizes this is all happening because of their latent feelings for each other, and together they hatch a plan to get adashi back together
    • keith: why wouldnt we call it Operation Shadam?
    • lance: Operation Adashi just sounds better, trust me
  • so lance and keith basically parent trap them over the next couple weeks
    • they each text their mentor that they’re in trouble and need help, and when shiro and adam arrive, lance and keith lock them in a room together
      • shiro breaks a window and climbs out of it to escape confronting his feelings
    • they trick shiro and adam into showing up to a romantic candlelit dinner in the mess hall, food prepared by lance and keith, but theyre dumbasses who didnt realize adam was allergic to peanuts
      • the date ends with adam in the hospital and swearing that shiro planned it all along
  • after several desperate attempts of getting shiro and adam to reconcile, while also being pushed harder and harder to beat each other, lance and keith snap
    • keith: we dont want to beat each other anymore!!
    • lance: yeah we’re friends now!
    • keith: we’re practically boyfriends now!!!!!
    • lance: we’ll talk about that later!
    • keith: you two need to get your shit together and leave us out of it
  • after that verbal smackdown at the hands of 2 teenagers, shiro and adam finally sit and talk their shit out
    • turns out after all this time, neither of them really remembers why they broke up
    • both admit that theyre still harboring feelings for each other
    • and since they dont even know why theyre not together, they figure its worth another shot, and they officially start dating soon after
  • even after everything, it’s surprisingly easy to pick up where they left off, but better now that they’re a little more mature
  • 2 years later, lance and keith are groomsmen at shiro and adams wedding
    • they both recount the super embarrassing story of how they got back together while shiro and adam hide under a table
    • lance and keith slow dance at the reception. theyre both shit at slow dancing

anonymous asked:

I NEED A HEAD CANNON OF HUDDERS FINDING OUT AND BEING A SUPPORTIVE MOM!

OH OH OH OH Okay Nonny!

A continuation of this scene here I wrote, from Hudders’ POV!!  SORT OF inspired by the Caught in the Act series by Shirley Carleton because seriously that’s kinda what this will be and I’m sorry if any of it is similar… I haven’t read the series in a year or so, so any similarities are coincidental <3


She couldn’t help herself; Martha Hudson loved cooking for the two tenants she loved as if they were her own sons. 

She had heard them stumble in an hour ago, for they were never, ever quiet whenever they entered into 221 Baker Street; tonight John and Sherlock were talking animatedly, and it sounded like John was in the process of mollycoddling Sherlock once again, mentioning something about patching up a cut on his face, she thinks. She had brought them up some blueberry scones earlier in the afternoon, since she knew that her boys might have the nibbles upon returning from a case. Upon hearing their lighthearted bickering and bounding gait up to flat B, she thought tonight they would absolutely appreciate a home-cooked meal as well.

She wasn’t their housekeeper, she just really loved her tenants when they were in a joyful mood, and they never turned down a delicious vegetarian shepherd’s pie. She could put them in an even better mood, she thinks, with a hearty dinner and a pot of tea!

She had been watching some “insipid garbage” (as Sherlock would call it) when the timer on her oven had beeped its reminder that the pie was done. Smiling to herself, she shut off the telly, then the oven, and put on her mitts. An aroma of cooked vegetables escapes as the oven door opens, and the pie follows as Martha pulls it out and places it on a trivet which had seemed to have a permanent place of pride on her counter since John had returned home (John did so love her baking and the poor boy, always so busy taking care of their Sherlock that he hardly ever took care of himself!). She closes the oven and makes her way out of her flat and up to flat B.

It’s only when she makes it to the first landing that she becomes aware of the muffled grunting coming from the general direction of Sherlock’s room, and then a loud moan that was definitely Sherlock. 

And that cry of “OH GOD, SHERLOCK!” was most definitely John. 

She stops suddenly, eyes wide, and a Cheshire grin cracking from ear to ear. Could it be…?! Have they FINALLY got themselves sorted? She stifles a chuckle of glee, and decides that her curiosity may indeed be the death of her, but at least she will die happy KNOWING.

Quietly, she pads up the remaining steps, and tests the door: open – her boys rarely ever locked it. She turns the knob quietly, then pushes the door gently with her hip. 

The creaking of Sherlock’s bed, a loud thump of the headboard against the wall, Sherlock’s breathy moans and John’s growling confirms her suspicions, and she can’t help herself: “Woo hoo, boys!”

Chaos is heard in the room down the hall: sounds of someone falling onto the floor, an utterance of “FUCK!!! SHIT!” is cursed aloud, and what sounds like wrestled fumbling with the ensuite’s door, followed by the door to the hallway slammed closed with a bang. Water is heard running in there while more sounds of scurried movement come from Sherlock’s room, and loud, sharp whispers which sound like “locked the door” and “thought you did” are tossed between the ensuite and the bedroom.

“HUDDERS!!” Sherlock cries out in what Martha perceives as annoyance, “we’re a tad busy being busy, please leave!” A noise of hopping across the room and then a thump to the floor are heard, which Martha assumes is Sherlock tangling himself in his sheets when he tried to get out of bed.

“Sherlock!” is John’s admonishment, then she hears John’s rumble of “Oh god oh god oh god,” following it.

Mrs Hudson titters to herself and decides to play dumb. “What are you boys up to in there?” she asks, moving to place her pie onto an uncontaminated space on their counter. 

“About 7 inches,” is Sherlock’s deadpan reply. “John was about 10.”

The dropping of a hairbrush clatters against the sink. “SHERLOCK!!! Oh my goooooood.” She can hear the utter embarrassment in John’s groaned response.

Martha blushes heavily and nearly chokes. She shakes her head. “I’ve brought you boys some dinner, thought you would be hungry.”

Deadpan, again: “I’ve already eaten, thanks. And have been pleasantly filled up.”

A hiss from the bathroom: “For fuck’s sake, Sherlock, STOP.” Something clatters against a wall in the bedroom; Martha assumes it’s John throwing something at Sherlock in his frustration. The hallway bathroom door flies open and John skitters out of it breathlessly, scrambles down the hall and into the kitchen. “Mrs Hudson! Thank you!” John breathes out heavily, his shirt barely  tucked into his trousers and his hair hastily brushed into its normal style: clearly he dressed in a hurry and is acting like he did not just come from Sherlock’s room.

She furrows her eyebrows. “John, dear, what’s going on?”

John’s face turns bright red, and he quickly turns to switch on the kettle and retrieve plates and cutlery for their dinner. “Would you –” he squeaks, pretending he didn’t hear the question. John clears his throat. “Would you like to stay for dinner, Mrs Hudson?”

Sherlock’s bedroom door is heard opening, and Sherlock emerges looking like a debauched Greek statue: his hair is wild and tousled, his body shrouded in a sheet like a toga, cheeks flushed, lips reddened, a HUGE purpling bruise sucked onto his neck, and a noticeable glow about his person. He’s also walking a tad stiffly, and Martha most certainly does NOT think of the reasons why. Sherlock’s whole demeanour screams “I’ve just been buggered and I enjoyed it thoroughly”. He strides tall and proud into the kitchen, ensuring to show off to Mrs Hudson his love bite as he makes his way past her and to crowd up against John’s side. He nuzzles John’s head with his cheek, then peeks at her over his shoulder and through his mussed-up fringe with a smirk on his face, the look daring her or John to say something negative.

Martha has never seen John become so red. She was sure that if it was possible, the whole flat would have burst into flames with John’s heated embarrassment. “Sherlock, oh my god, put some pants on,” John mutters quietly in one long, run-on sentence.

“Why? You’ll just be taking them off again after Hudders leaves,” Sherlock mumbles into John’s hair, ensuring Martha hears him. John heaves heavily and stares up to the ceiling, his hands falling to the counter space, furling and unfurling with tension.

Martha can’t contain her happiness anymore. “OH BOYS!!!!!!” she squeals, earning her a proud smile and a clinging of John’s arm from Sherlock and a face-palm from John. “Oh, my precious boys! It’s about time you two got yourselves sorted!”

John attempts to turn his body to face Martha, but Sherlock is latched on so tightly to his side that all he can manage is a glance over his shoulder. John is about to say something but she can’t help herself, “Oh, you boys, we should have a celebration!” she coos. “We should invite everyone! We’ve all been waiting SO long!”

At that, John’s face falls (though she’s not sure if it’s the implication that everyone suspected or the idea of a get-together), and Sherlock replies without missing a beat: “A fantastic idea. The invitations will read, ‘John Watson Conveniently Came for Sherlock Holmes.’”

Mortified, John hip checks Sherlock off of him and barrels his way out of the kitchen to hide in his chair. “Oh my gooooooooooodddd,” he drawls as he sinks down heavily into the cushions.

Sherlock stands tall and proud, and turns to Martha. "Mmm, yes. Or ‘John and Sherlock’s Coming-Out Party’. So many interpretations in that one; I can think of at least four. Oh, and we’ll put special emphasis on the ‘coming’, wouldn’t you say, John?”

Silence from the chair. 

Sherlock sniffs. “John is very pleased, too, Mrs Hudson. You know how he is.”

Martha pats Sherlock’s cheek. “Oh, Sherlock, I really am very happy for you, dear. You’ve been pining for him for years and you boys deserve to be happy!

That gets a reaction from John. “Wait, years??” he questions as he straightens up and glances over the chair’s back.

It’s Sherlock’s turn to blush, and he takes over making them all tea. “Why don’t you cut us each a piece of pie, Mrs Hudson?”

“No, wait, Sherlock, years?” John bodily turns around in his chair and settles his elbows onto the top of it, knees in the seat cushion.

“It doesn’t matter, John,” Sherlock replies, scooping a large amount of sugar into his own tea and topping it off with a dollop of honey. “We can’t change what was. Only what will be.” He smiles up softly to John, one that Martha has never seen before on Sherlock’s face. It’s a tight smile laced with pained memories but fond hopes. “And I hope that it is a change for the better. Isn’t that a good thing?”

Martha is nearly in tears now, and hugs Sherlock as the look on John’s face softens to its customary adoration. “Oh, Sherlock!” The dear, sweet boy! Finally allowing himself to be the romantic she always knew he was!

John huffs inwardly, smiles begrudgingly, and gets up out of his chair and returns to the kitchen. He hesitates momentarily, then embraces the two of them, adding his own love to their little family. “Yeah. You’re right, Sherlock, of course you are.” He squeezes them both tightly, and Sherlock nuzzles his cheek against John’s when he comes nearer. “Besides,” he continues, “I’m really one to talk.” His face furrows softly as he and Martha share a knowing look with each other. 

She knew John was besotted with Sherlock the very first day they both showed up to Baker Street. She knew how much Sherlock’s death had destroyed John. She knew how much he hurt when Sherlock returned and how couldn’t bring himself to let Sherlock back in. The look they share is one of understanding, one that tells her that John isn’t leaving ever again, that he is in this for the long run, but that he also fears he cannot offer Sherlock everything he needs to be happy.

Sherlock catches their little exchange, seemingly able to read the look in John’s eyes, and he snuggles closer to them both. “I love you,” Sherlock says quietly, and Martha isn’t sure if it’s meant for both of them or just John, but she kisses Sherlock’s cheek anyway. Martha squeezes them once more, and pulls away.

“Well!” she claps, turning to the pie. “How about we have a dinner, and then I’ll leave you boys to yourselves?”

“A spectacular idea, Mrs Hudson,” John speaks for himself and Sherlock, since Sherlock’s mouth is currently nibbling at John’s ear. “Stop that!” John swats halfheartedly at Sherlock, and pulls away to retrieve the utensils he had previously placed on the counter. Sherlock stands unmoving in the centre of the kitchen, looking lost now that John has pulled away from him. John hands the plates to Martha, then goes to Sherlock to pull him to their dining table. “Just this, okay Sherlock?” he says quietly, and Sherlock nods. John gets a mischievous glint in his eye, and leans down to whisper something for Sherlock’s ears only; it causes Sherlock’s eyes to widen. He looks right at John, who nods, and Sherlock reaches up to pull John down to receive a crushing kiss. John giggles and pets at Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock pecks light kisses on John’s cheek as John tries to pull away. 

Martha has placed pies on plates by this time, and John is still trying to come and help her but Sherlock won’t let go of his fingers. It’s quite a sight to behold, seeing a bed sheet-clad Sherlock sitting in his chair at the dining table, his bare arm outstretched as if it fears John will not return, his fingers clasped tightly to John’s fingers. John’s own arm is reaching behind himself, attempting to make it to the kitchen but at a loss if he wants to break off the connection with a clingy Sherlock; it’s a new relationship built on years of fear and worry that one or the other will never touch each other again should they ever part. 

“Sit down, John-dear, I’ll bring us the food,” Martha says, carrying over Sherlock’s tea and pie, “but just this once, dear. I’m not your housekeeper.”

“The lady doth protest too much,” Sherlock says quietly with a smile. He lets go of John and now reaches over to pull one of the empty chairs so it’s directly beside his so that John can be close to him. “Thank you, Hudders,” he says when she drops the meal in front of him. He watches as John sits himself down into the chair next to Sherlock, and then proceeds to use John as support to lean on while he eats. 

Martha places John’s meal in front of him, and he also thanks her. As she’s going to pick up her own, she hears John admonish Sherlock about being a lazy git and at least he left him his dominant hand to eat with. She returns to the table with her meal, and she smiles up at them. “Look at you two lovebirds,” she titters, seeing that John has wrapped his not-free arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and Sherlock is leaning heavily into John’s side, absently picking at his food by separating the corn from the rest of the pie – she never understood why he always did that, but she found it endearing. John, on the other hand, is heartily eating into his pie, and only puts down his fork so he can have a sip of tea. They both smile at her comment, and they alternate in telling her how they ended up finally confessing to each other. John promptly stops Sherlock from saying anymore when he starts to talk about the “stripping of clothing”. 

Martha giggles, and gathers up their plates. Sherlock’s food is mushed around his but mostly eaten save for the corn he picked out. He’s more interested in John now that John is done eating and Sherlock’s impatience at waiting for alone-time with John begins to take over. John thanks Martha again for the meal. “Just leave it in the sink, Mrs Hudson. I’ll clean it up later.” His voice sounds a bit strained, and she turns to see that Sherlock is starting to get handsy with John, while he keeps telling him to ‘stop!’ and ‘can you please wait!’. He redirects his attention to her for a moment. “At least take a piece back with you for lunch tomorrow! We’ll pack it away and bring you down your dish later – Sherlock, stop!” 

Sherlock is now nibbling at John’s ear, again.

Martha decides that, just this once, she’s going to not also pick up after them, and leave them be.

“Alright, John-dear.” Martha smiles, cutting herself a piece for later and putting it on her plate. She covers the rest with some tinfoil she finds in a drawer, and puts it in the fridge. “Have fun, boys! And congratulations again, Sherlock-dear!”

Sherlock deems this worthy of a few seconds of distraction. “Thank you, Hudders!” John gets up to see Martha out, and Sherlock follows by clinging to John’s arm and sniffing his head.

She can’t help it; she hugs the two of them together one final time, and says, “I love you boys so much. I’m so happy you have each other now!”

“We always had each other, Hudders,” Sherlock states, looking John directly in his eyes, “we just…” he sighs heavily. “We’re just a couple of idiots.”

John chuckles, and kisses Sherlock’s cheek. It makes Martha’s heart soar with fondness. “Yes, we are.” John kisses Martha’s cheek one final time, and pulls open the door for her. “Goodnight, Mrs Hud –”

“– We’re sorry if we wake you up later. You may want to take some of those ‘Herbal Soothers’ before bed.” Sherlock says over John, grinning maniacally. John groans and face-palms. Sherlock winks.

“Oh, boys! At my time of life,” she admonishes, but with fondness and without any real meaning. She’s actually very happy, and glad her boys have worked out their issues. She collects her pie piece and heads back down to her flat, hearing the upstairs door lock behind her, and Sherlock’s deep voice mutter something to John. John giggles, and heavy thumping down the hall back to Sherlock’s room carries down the stairwell.

Perhaps she will take her Herbal Soothers after all.


I’ve had this drafted for MONTHS Nonny. Sorry if it’s not good, but I hope you like it <3

4

“………..oh.”

It’s just the two of them in the training room. It’s a flash of movement, a crumpled bot beneath Keith’s boots. 

Truthfully, it’s always been there, lingering in the corners of his heart, nooks and crannies he wasn’t prepared to investigate at the Garrison while Pluto’s moon beckoned. It was buried deep under a pile of items labeled “things that matter” that he would certainly, absolutely, eventually get to once he–if he– figured out a way to escape his shackles as Champion.

So it feels helplessly belated to have it strike him so suddenly at such an unexpected moment, this piercing sensation curling upward from his stomach to expand across chest. 

Keith huffs out a soft triumphant laugh and rolls his shoulders as the bot beneath him fades away. “Commence level 4,” he calls out.

Shiro falls in love.

Probs not quite what you had in mind anon but this kinda goes with another prompt I got so… consider this the prequel I guess? To…

5+1 Confessions

0 / 1 / 2 / 3 / 4a / 4b / 5 / 1       Next>>

Cas is the night shift barista at a 24-hour Starbucks and Dean always comes to the drive through after the lobby is closed. Cas knows the Impala by sound and is kind of in love with Dean’s voice through the intercom and the brief smiles he gets when he hands him is late-night cup of joe. He never orders anything fancy so Cas doesn’t know why he keeps coming to this particular coffee shop. Probably just convenient.

After several weeks of this, Dean strikes up a conversation at the window. They start chatting about nothing for a few minutes every evening, swapping jokes and funny little stories about their daily lives. Cas starts writing things on Dean’s coffee cup, things he think will make him smile. Dean brings Cas a snack because Cas is sick of muffins.

Cas mentions this guy casually to the coworkers who work when he’s off, but they draw blanks. They might vaguely remember a guy in a cool car, but nothing else comes to mind. Cas can’t believe that he might be special or anything. 

Schedule and staffing changes require Cas to move to the morning shift. As happy as he is to get a little more regular sleeping hours, he misses the night shift when it was quiet and he had the place to himself and didn’t have to deal with the hurry-hurry-hurry of the morning crowd. But most of all he misses Dean. He liked their little private moments in the middle of the night. He doesn’t kid himself that he’ll ever see Dean again. It was a passing thing, nothing important. Nothing that could have gone anywhere anyway.

He tells himself that right up to the moment Dean is walking into the Starbucks, a little after the morning rush has died down, bleary-eyed and looking nervous. Dean grins at him, shy and pleased. Is he blushing? Cas thinks he might be blushing. Which, well, would only be fair, because Cas feels like his face is going to catch fire.

Dean orders his usual coffee. Cas wishes, not for the first time, that his usual was something more elaborate so that he could spend more time making it for him. Cas can’t control the way his heart races when their fingers brush around the heated paper cup.

He’s about to take his coffee and go when Cas opens his big fat mouth and asks, “Shouldn’t you be sleeping? I thought you worked nights too.”

Dean is definitely blushing when he laughs at himself before answering. “It’s stupid,” he says. “But, um. I asked what happened to the guy who used to work nights, and they told me you got switched to mornings. So. I, uh.”

Cas can feel his fingers trembling with his heartbeat. “So you came to see me?” he asks.

“Well when you put it like that,” Dean laughs, sipping at his hot beverage. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

Cas can’t think of a single thing to say. His mind is a complete blank. But he can’t stand to watch Dean fidget, watch doubt and self-deprecation creep over his beautiful face, so he blurts out “I’m on break in ten minutes,” which isn’t technically supposed to be true but he can beg for coverage. “Will you still be here?”

Dean’s grin is brighter than the morning sun through the window. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be here.”

highfunctioningfangirl  asked:

Prompt: John keeps trying to flirt with Sherlock, but it keeps going over his head.

“Hey Sherlock, there’s this science exhibit in town this weekend. Do you want to go?”

“I’d love to, if I weren’t already busy this weekend, sorry John.”


“John, can you pass me a pen?”

“If you say the magic word.”

“..Now?”

“Nope.”

“Oh, you mean please. Please, John.”

“Wow, who would’ve thunk I’d get you to beg twice in one go.”

“You’re being rather odd.”


“Sherlock, how does this tie make me look?”

“Very nice, I’d say. Wait, when did you get it?”

“Yesterday.”

“Hm. It suits you.”

“Your suit suits you.”

Sherlock just raised a brow.


John sat in his chair, looking across at Sherlock as he sat opposite him. He looked down as he began to think to himself. He’d been trying to get Sherlock’s attention all week, but nothing has happened, and he’s starting to lose hope.

He sighed as he stood and slowly started making his way out of the room, but then Sherlock stopped him.

“John, have you been … flirting with me lately?”

“Nice of you to finally notice,” he shrugged. “I’ll stop if it’s bothering you.”

“No, no, it’s not bothering me. It’s just - I normally don’t pick up on these things, and I didn’t expect you to do … that … to me.”

“Well who else would I do it to?”

“I don’t know, a girl? Someone better looking and better at being a human being?”

“Sherlock, you’re the only one I have an eye out for, and you can’t even see it. Well, until now.”

“John?”

“Hm?”

“I … don’t stop. Don’t ever stop being you.”

John smiled and shook his head fondly at the man.

“I won’t, whatever that means.”

“It means don’t ever stop flirting with me. It means always come home and announce that you’re here so that I can be happy upon your arrival. It means don’t stop making me fall in love with you.”

John had no words to describe his feelings, but he knows he definitely loves this man with every breath that he has.


Sorry if it’s shit omf

anonymous asked:

I’ve been going through some hard times and would really love a sweet fluffy first morning after ficlet. It would make my day a little brighter.

Oh gosh, I’m not the best, Lovely, but I’ll try! Here’s my quick ficlet I’m writing between projects at work.


HOT. HEAVY.

Those were John Watson’s first thoughts when he began to gain awareness after his deep sleep. He breathed in heavily through his nose; the smell of cinnamon, chemicals, and something utterly Sherlock hit his consciousness and the previous evening’s events flashed into his immediate thoughts.

OH. 

The heaviness moves at John’s risen chest, snuffling and tickling his chin, a pressure squeezing his rib cage tighter in protest of John even daring to move. The weight settles again and hums contentedly, a rumble into John’s ribcage. 

John smiles widely, turning his nose down into Sherlock’s hair, inhales. 

The smell is so heady to John; he fears he is dreaming, at least until he brings his arms around the man cuddled against his chest. John’s arms grip tightly around Sherlock’s back, pulling the Sherlock-shaped limpet up closer to his own face. Said limpet finds this an agreeable idea, and makes the effort shuffle up, positioning himself so that his whole body is lying right on top of John, wrapping his own arms under John’s shoulders. Sherlock buries his face in John’s neck, and proceeds to nuzzle it with his nose. Sherlock’s morning stubble is rubbing pleasantly against his own. 

“Mmm, good morning, Love,” John mumbles as he returns the nuzzle. He feels Sherlock smile, squeezing tighter, curling his toes against John’s calf.

“Pet names already, John?” Sherlock speaks softly to John’s earlobe, a lilt of mirth tainting his voice. “We’ve only just started sharing a bed together.”

“Oh shush, you idiot,” chuckles John, fondness oozing from his lips, “you love it.” John brings up one of his hands to pet at Sherlock’s curls; the grunt of pleasure Sherlock emits sends a shiver down John’s spine. “Adore it, even. Would have never taken you for a cuddler, though. Thought you hated all this sentiment stuff.”

Sherlock lifts his head up and presses his cheek into John’s. “This is different, John.”

John cracks open his eyes as he chuckles, “Oh? How so?”

“It’s YOU, John. It’s impossible for me to hate anything that has to do with you.” Sherlock’s face goes very serious as he stares right into John’s eyes.

John giggles. “You hate my jumpers.”

Sherlock’s face goes terribly soft and starts to blush. He pushes his face back into John’s neck, and mutters, “Not really, no.”

John chuckles. He pushes his head into Sherlock’s. “And my blog.”

Sherlock squeezes John tighter still. “No.”

John’s smiling wide, strokes one of his hands down Sherlock’s shoulder blade.  “Knew it.”

“Is-sow-i-owe-oo-uv-eee,” Sherlock tells John’s cranium.

“What’s that, Love?”

“It’s how I know you loved me,” Sherlock whispers to the pillow. “In some capacity,” he adds after a second. Sherlock kisses John’s shoulder. 

John sucks in a breath, brushes his lips against Sherlock’s ear. “Was it that obvious?”

Sherlock shakes his head minutely. “Not really. Though in hindsight it is fairly obvious.” Sherlock lifts his head again. “I guess I just didn’t want to hope too much.” Their foreheads touch. “I’ve loved you for too long, John. I couldn’t bear it if I was wrong about this one thing, so I just never let myself hope too much.”

John returns a hand to Sherlock’s scalp, and brushes his lips against Sherlock’s. “I’m sorry I made you wait so long.”

Sherlock smiles, presses his lips into John’s. “Worth it.” They share a tender kiss, then another. Lazy pecks to greet each other on this new day, the first day of the rest of their lives. 

Later, they will share a shower together, lazily drawing soapy patterns on each other’s backs. They will share a few of Mrs Hudson’s scones for breakfast, John feeding Sherlock as they snuggle close on the couch. They will share a tea, because Sherlock just likes John’s better. And later still they will share kisses and moans as they make love in Sherlock’s bed, after Sherlock decides that he just isn’t close enough to John sitting practically in his lap, and John will tell Sherlock how beautiful he is. Sherlock will tell John he’s an idiot, but he’s HIS idiot, and that no one else can have him.

Later, Sherlock will ask if he can keep John forever. They will share the rest of their lives together.

But right now, John is content petting Sherlock’s hair, as Sherlock dozes off again, sharing this moment together.


Bleh, sorry it’s kinda crappy and short Nonny, but I hope you feel better.

Viktor Nikiforov has nightmares.

Should it be that surprising? It shouldn’t be. But he’s seen as nothing but a perfected statue, a chiseled bust laden with gold made to display on podiums for the rest of time. Any ordinary person wouldn’t think that a god constantly offered with gifts and praises would have grimy fingers snaking into his unconscious state, swirling his ocean of dreams with toxins and muddy oil as dark as the night.

But Zeus tosses in his sleep sometimes, Shiva, Brahma, and Vishnu sleep with their lights on, and Yuuri isn’t just any other ordinary person.

The first time Viktor jolts awake is two months after Yuuri finally moves in. Yuuri, who was laying on Viktor’s chest, nearly gets one tooth knocked out after Viktor heaves, jolting awake.

“I had a dream about Makka.” Viktor pouts, holding the poodle close and Yuuri tries his best not to snort. “I dreamt she betrayed me, Yuuri. You can’t just laugh at that.”

Usually they’re silly, nonsensical dreams. Dreams about falling, being chased, Yuuri had these types of dreams himself as well. It was perfectly normal to have a nightmare once in a while, he could say. Viktor’s dreams were purely eccentric. Balding hair, his teeth yellowing, strangely, it was always something about his image.

And he’s been there for him, no matter how silly they were. Viktor would pout as Yuuri wiped the sweat of his forehead- it’s not that big, Vitya- and he was there to hold him close as Viktor snored into his collarbone, his dreams now nightmare-free, protected by Yuuri’s soft humming and his embrace.

But there are times when Viktor doesn’t jolt, doesn’t sit up awake and wide eyed and heaving. There are nightmares that leave you snapping your eyes open, leaving you laying there as you tried to decipher whether what you just encountered was real or fake. They leave you broken, shattered into nothing and all you can do is stare as you try to go back to sleep… but you fail. You always do.

Yuuri rolls over one night from his position on the edge of the bed, eyes still a little blurry from sleep and his general ability of being half-blind. Nonetheless, he can still see the tear tracks streaming down Viktor’s face as clear as glass.

Yuuri and Viktor both jolt, Yuuri from shock and Viktor like he just got caught stealing from a cookie jar. Immediately, Viktor tries to wipe away the streams like they were burning his skin, like he wasn’t just staring aimlessly at Yuuri’s back just seconds ago-

Yuuri grasps Viktor’s hands, stops them before they could wipe away anything else. Viktor looks back up at him, blue eyes glassy and quivering and he looked so lost.

“Did you have a nightmare?”

And Viktor shakes his head, but Yuuri knows better. Viktor refuses, saying that he’s alright, and that Yuuri should go back to sleep. But Yuuri doesn’t go back to sleep. He grasps Viktor’s face, his round cheeks cupped in his hands like they were made to fit there, and he looks at him in the eye.

And Viktor finally succumbs, the mighty god crumbling by the worshiper’s feet. Yuuri encases Viktor in his hold, rocks him slowly as Viktor cries a little more, silent but clutching onto Yuuri like he was going to slip and fall and Yuuri was the only thing keeping him alive.

Eventually, before they fall asleep, Viktor tells him all about it. Yuuri won’t go into detail, but it’s just Viktor’s past demons coming back at him, clawing and ripping at his throat. And Yuuri traces swirls into Viktor’s skin, the blue eyed man purring as he finally falls asleep once more.

And Yuuri realizes how many times Viktor’s had dreams like these, where he snaps awake and limp and Yuuri was just too asleep to realize it, when Yuuri wasn’t there to hold him and save him. And Yuuri, in all of his overcompensating glory, promises to never let it happen again.

Viktor jolts, sitting up awake and rolling both him and Yuuri off the bed.

When Yuuri gives him a bewildered look, Viktor demands that he should check his hair.

“Is it still there? Tell me it’s still there.” Viktor shoves his scalp into Yuuri’s face. Yuuri doesn’t know what to look at. “Oh god, I dreamt it all fell off! I nearly died, Yuuri. Do you know how horrifying- hey, this isn’t funny!”

Yuuri giggles uncontrollably, clutching at Viktor as they both lay on the floor.

AU where instead of a vlog, Bitty just has a cooking blog where he writes every single juicy detail of his life in the chunk of text before the actual recipe. No one knows or cares. All of his comments are exclusively on his recipes. Maybe 2 or 3 messages of “Are you okay???” when he mentioned that he wasn’t gonna be posting as much after his concussion, but that’s it. 

He knows that people don’t read the top bit. If people wanted to really know about his life, they’d follow his twitter.  That’s why there was nothing really to lose when he shares the link one day to his blog with the Haus. (It was Thanksgiving and Dex wanted to help make the stuffing.) The rest of the Haus saw his blog, saw that it was like the rest of the recipe blogs they’ve had limited interactions with, and went on their merry way. 

So when Bitty tells Dex that he’s dating Jack, he wasn’t expecting to hear an “I already know” from him.

“I thought you already told me, like…6 months ago?” Dex adds

“Now when would I have said that?” 

“Your blog. You wrote nearly 5000 words about what happened after graduation before your Strawberry Rhubarb Pie recipe”

“Oh”

“Yeah”

“Did you try the recipe?”

“I did actually! It really stole the show when I served it on Father’s Day”

It happens in the middle of the kitchen, while Dean’s preparing a pot pie for dinner. He makes a joke – tasteful, and fucking clever, in his humble opinion, if someone were to ask – and by now, he knows he’ll only get disdainful looks, but he lets himself hope for a little indulgence from the guys. Dean turns to gauge their reactions from over his shoulder, getting that very look from Sam, who’s sprawled at the table, covering the surface with books and data. Then Dean looks at Cas and wiggles his eyebrows a bit, grinning and hoping for some other response, but not expecting, because it seems that no one in the bunker shares his wit. So he’s wholly unprepared for what follows.

Cas tosses his head back and laughs.

Dean’s too stunned to do more than stare.

Cas’s eyes and nose wrinkle, his grin wide and gummy – it’s the first time Dean has ever witnessed Cas like this, and god, he can’t take his eyes off him. Feels his heart stutter or stop or both; it’s warm and fluttery, and only increases in intensity. Cas has such a stupid laugh, and Dean loves everything about it.

When Cas eases into lingering chuckles, he gives Dean a smile that’s so filled with warmth and happiness. He just – he looks so good, leaning back against one of the counters, devastatingly handsome as always in loose-fitting jeans, a red threadbare tee, and bare feet. It shouldn’t be a surprise that, just so overcome with love and adoration for this man, this is the moment he finally makes his move. Dean stops what he’s doing, walks over to Cas, and grabs him by the face, forgetting that his hands are covered in flour and sticky dough. Then he kisses him right on the mouth, right there in the middle of the kitchen while Dean was making dinner. (Dean also forgot about Sam still being there, didn’t even bother to hesitate before making a move. He just went for it, because the love of his life just laughed at his joke and Dean loves him all the more and needed to kiss him.)

Cas stands still for only a brief second before he absolutely melts, making a soft noise and winding his fingers through Dean’s hair. Both of them are too caught up in each other to hear Sam’s indignant protest of Guys, we eat in here, but they do manage to control themselves – just barely, though.

As Dean pulls back from the kiss, Cas blinks a couple times, slightly dazed and like he’s in disbelief that happened. Then his eyes clear, and he grins wide again, all gummy and scrunchy. He lets out another laugh, this one softer and delighted, and he pulls Dean back in for more kisses.

Dinner is late, and this time Sam is giving his disdainful look to both Dean and Cas, who are rumpled and red-mouthed from a very thorough makeout session. They’re all happy, though, and the pot pie is delicious.

Urges

Some nights are tolerable, but some nights can turn into Sherlock’s worst nightmare. He’d been clean for months now, but his mind still betrays him with thoughts that urge him to just do it one more time, but he tries so hard to ignore it. Sometimes he can, other times he has to find something to distract himself.

Tonight happened to be a bad night. He shut himself in his room and sat on his bed with his arms around his knees, trying to breathe through everything. John had left for work that morning and should be home any minute to pester Sherlock into eating takeaway.

At the sound of the front door slamming shut, Sherlock winced.

“Sherlock, are you home?”

He didn’t answer. He was too caught up in his mind.

“Sherlock?”

He could hear John’s footsteps get closer and closer to his room. When he knocked on the door, Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. His head is pounding, raging with thought after thought. Unable to take it anymore, he jumps from his bed and groans as he puts his hands over his ears.

John hears movement and decides to open the door. Upon seeing Sherlock in distress, he steps closer to him. Sherlock pulls away and whimpers.

“John, make them stop!”

“Make what stop?”

“The voices! Urging, always urging, won’t shut up,” he cries.

“Can I touch you? Is that okay, Sherlock?”

Sherlock pauses for a moment before nodding. John makes his move, placing his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders.

“Alright, I need you to breathe for me. Take deep breaths and let them out at the same time as me, okay? Put one hand on my wrist and just focus on my pulse.”

Sherlock did as John instructed. About ten minutes later, Sherlock had calmed down enough to sit back down on the bed.

“There you go,” John murmurs. “Just keep it up with the deep breaths until you’ve calmed down some more, then we can talk.”

It took at least another ten minutes for him to relax enough to look at John.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispers.

“Don’t be,” John says. “Nothing to apologize for. Are you ready to talk, though?”

Sherlock nodded. “I was just sitting here, thinking about my experiment, when my thoughts turned into … that,” he sighed. “John, I don’t want to do it again. I don’t, I can’t!”

John listened with rapt attention and nodded in understanding when he finished talking. “Come with me,” he said and held out a hand to help Sherlock stand.

He lead the way out into the kitchen and to the fridge. Opening the freezer, he took out a piece of ice.

“Hold that in your hand until it melts, or until the urge goes away. If you need another one, then just let me know. You can do as many as it takes.”

Sherlock squeezed the hand that held the ice and sighed, his shoulders relaxing with every breath.

“Thank you,” he mumbles.

“Of course,” John smiles. “I’m always here to help.”

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

I don't know if you answered this before, but.. Where do you think it's going to be the first Johnlock kiss?😊 And in what context? They will be laughing, crying, completely silence???? I love your blog!!!! 😊💜

hoppspindel said to inevitably-johnlocked: Hello! I don’t know if you’ve been asked this before, but what is your ultimate dream scenario for when the confession and first kiss finally happens?

Hi Nonny and @hoppspindel!!! (SORRY HOPPS I JUST FOUND YOUR ASK AMONGST MY OTHER ONES)

I’ve actually written about my thoughts on the Johnlock kiss before in this post here, but I feel like expanding my new thoughts on it, so here you go:

During the episode, they have a case, and maybe Sherlock gets scuffed up a bit after he attacks a thug who went after John, who They run up the stairs, giggling. The fire is lit, the lighting soft in the 221B common room. It smells like firewood and the blueberry scones of Mrs Hudson’s that Sherlock loves so much; she’s brought some up while they were out and left them on the table for her boys, for they are usually very hungry after a case.

Tonight, though, it’s a different hunger for Sherlock, but it still makes his stomach unsettled all the same.

Sherlock goes to stand by their chairs, scraped up and lightly bleeding from a cut on his face. John glances over to him, telling Sherlock to wait there, he’ll patch up the cut on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock watches John putter around the kitchen, finding everything John requires to tend to Sherlock’s needs, and Sherlock’s face softens. ‘This is it,’ Sherlock thinks, ‘This is the perfect moment.’ John is just perfect to Sherlock when he is concerned, content and caring for Sherlock. The force of his realization about just how much he loves John hits him so hard in that moment… 

The night could have turned out so differently. John was so brave protecting Sherlock, watching over him like a silent guard dog, all hard lines and rough exterior. But when the thug kicked John to the ground, brandishing a knife and making the motions to stab John, well, Sherlock’s mind may have whited out at the horror of possibly losing John, and he may have caught the thug by surprise when he tackled him and clawed at this face. It had taken John’s placating words and strong arms pulling Sherlock away to calm Sherlock down. John had quickly tied up and disarmed the thug, and called Lestrade. Sherlock just stood there, silently seething to hide his terror of John being attacked and John being almost hurt AGAIN and John being almost… well. John knew what to do. He always knew.

John’s small “Ah ha!” at finding his med kit shatters Sherlock’s reverie and brings Sherlock back to the present. Little moments like this always hit Sherlock hard, and he finds it increasingly difficult as the days - months - YEARS go on to hold himself from spilling all his secrets, liquid hot words that could tear Sherlock’s whole world apart. 

John returns, his smile soft, and places the kit down on the table next to John’s chair. John reaches up to Sherlock’s face, one hand lightly grasping his chin and the other with an alcohol swab. John gently cleanses the wound across Sherlock’s eyebrow, and Sherlock stares at John in wonder. It is in that moment, Sherlock thinks John has never been more beautiful, more devastatingly handsome. The feeling swells up his chest. No more lies: without a second thought, he moves forward to press his lips softly to John’s, who pauses suddenly in his ministrations, shocked. Sherlock pulls back, and smiles sadly at John, reaching up to hold John’s hand against his face, then closes his eyes, not wanting to see John’s rejection. 

But John can feel Sherlock’s heartbeat, racing and unsteady. He studies Sherlock’s face for any signs of a farce – he knows all of Sherlock’s tics and tells better than his own.

He sees none.

And suddenly, John knows. Their entire life together, SHERLOCK’S little tells and truths that only John was able to see, slams into his brain like a freight train into a wall.

The looks, the sadness behind Sherlock’s eyes every time John denied or was with someone else. Sherlock’s need to constantly make John happy.

Sherlock giving up John, even if it meant never seeing him ever again.

The relapses. The lingering touches. 

The need. The want. The selfless LOVE.

Suddenly, John SEES. 

‘I am SUCH a tit.’ John admonishes to himself, watching a tear escape from Sherlock’s eye.

And then John tears up, and puts down his cloth, brushes his thumb under Sherlock’s hand softly against his cheek. 

“Sherlock…”

Tears stream from Sherlock’s eyes.

“Sherlock, look at me, please.”

And he does. And then John knows with absolute certainty that Sherlock wants “a forever” with him. John brings his other hand up to Sherlock’s cheek, and moves in for a more solid kiss.

And it’s silence, save for the cracking of the fire – no background music at all. The camera is zoomed right in and the kiss is deepened as Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow, eyes streaming in happiness, and his hands are now grasping John’s face, as he pulls them closer and closer. 

They break off for a breath.

“It’s always you, John Watson.”

A watery laugh from John. A soft petting of John’s hair. And then: the kiss gets passionate, goes on for at least a minute.

Finally, FINALLY, they stop and stare into each other’s eyes. So much is being said in just looks – A galactic ocean of love in John’s, and a chromatic rainbow of “always and forever” in Sherlock’s. Sherlock continues to pet John’s hair as he brings their foreheads together, just needing to feel. 

John holds Sherlock’s face gently in his hands, his thumbs stroking Sherlock’s cheeks, brushing away the tears.

“I’ve loved you for so long,” John whispers.

“I’ve loved you always,” is Sherlock’s reply. Sherlock pulls back and communicates everything with just a look. John understands, and backs towards Sherlock’s bedroom, holding Sherlock’s hands without ever breaking eye contact. 

And as they’re walking to Sherlock’s bedroom, it will slowly pan out, a hint of suggestion to what’s about to happen. A soft swell of John and Sherlock’s themes mixed together starts.

And the scene changes, an exterior shot of 221B. John and Sherlock are sitting at the table having a meal, John in only his pants and Sherlock’s dress shirt (à la Janine), Sherlock in pants and John’s jumper, their hair a mess, ABSOLUTELY GLOWING. Silent grins on their face as they munch on the biscuits left by Mrs Hudson and sipping their teas. Sherlock’s eyes crinkle in the way John adores so much, and he giggles. Sherlock follows suit, reaching across the table to hold John’s hand.

“Brilliant,” says John.

“Amazing,” replies Sherlock. 

End credits. 

OR, it will be after a three Garridebs moment, which I’ve written a nice little fic about before here. That would work for me too :D

That’s how I headcanon today. It will change again, I’m sure.

For my Steve/Bucky Civil War fix-it needs (and yours)

“How long?” Bucky asks, when he wakes up, and Steve is next to him, waiting. He’s in a hospital bed, not in the tank. It’s a good sign, but – Bucky wants to reach out, to make certain that he’s real, that this isn’t then, that no one will –  

“One year, three months, four days. You’re safe. The triggers are gone.” Steve says, voice heavy with swallowed emotion. He’s visibly hesitant when he places a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. 

It’s warm, solid, real, and affectionate. It’s too damn good to be real, but even HYDRA couldn’t fake that. Shit. Steve strokes Bucky’s collarbone with his thumb, absentminded, like he can’t help it. Bucky’s never been so aware of something in his life. 

“I’ve got to tell you something, Buck,” Steve says – and here it is, the catch. He take a breath. “You were – you are – worth it. All of it. I’d do it all again. Every time. I choose you. Always.”

Something tight unravels in Bucky’s chest. “How long have you been sitting on that one, you sap?”

“One year, three months, four days,” Steve says. “Longer. Since you said you weren’t.”

Bucky moves to get up, restless with – guilt, emotion, lots of things. 

“Sorry, Buck,” Steve says, keeping him down with a gentle shove. “Doctor’s orders.” 

“Did hell freeze over while I was out? ‘Cause you sure as shit never cared about those.” 

Steve ducks his head and smiles. “I care when it’s your doctor. Rest, Buck. We’ve got time. I mean – you’ve got time. We don’t have to –” 

“’We’ sounds good to me,” Bucky says, in spite of himself, in spite of what he’s done, in spite of everything. He can’t resist. 

Still hesitant, Steve’s hand moves from Bucky’s shoulder, to his hair. Bucky hasn’t been touched like Steve’s been touching him – soft, caring – in seventy years. So what can he do? He melts. Steve keeps stroking his hair, and they stay like that, together – and yeah, “we” sounds good. If Bucky’s being honest, it sounds even better than that. 

Hey pals, it’s been a rough week, who wants some Tony/Rhodes fluff? Yesterday I complained in the tags about a lack of President Rhodes/First Husband Tony fics, and the thing about fandom is that you can always just write it yourself, so here’s a ficlet in that vein.


“So I set you up with Janet this Friday.” Tony took a bite of his eggs, made an appreciative noise, and moved another egg from the pan onto his plate. “You’re taking her to see Swan Lake. Not the most original choice, I know, but some classics are classic for a reason.”

“Back up,” Jim said, rubbing a hand over his face. His brain always took a few minutes to reboot after orgasms, which was probably why Tony had blown him when they first woke up. He should have known it was a trap when Tony voluntarily surrendered the first cup of coffee. “Who’s Janet, and why does that sound like a date?”

“It is a date. What?” Tony said, at the look Jim gave him. “You’re not leading her on, trust me, you’re not her type. She’s a friend.”

“Why are you setting me up on dates with your lesbian friends?”

“You’re a healthy, attractive, successful man in his 40s, it looks weird for you not to be in a serious relationship.”

“I am in a serious relationship.”

Tony waved his hand dismissively. “I mean one you can go public with. The van Dynes are old money, Janet is well-established on the New York society circuit, and she’s involved in something long-term with a married couple in politics, so she knows the score. She’s good company, too, she’s got all the society gossip you could ask for. Plus she’s done great research on hyper-elastic polymers. You should see the things she can do with the fabrics she designs, she literally flew into the Met gala last year.”

“It’s very sweet of you to recruit your friends to be my beard, Tony, but if I’m going to be in a public relationship, it’s going to be with you.”

“Honeybear, be reasonable.”

“What’s unreasonable about that?”

“You’re going to be President.”

“So?”

“You’re going to be President, so you can’t be in a public relationship with me,” he said, like he was reciting e=mc2, like this was just another mathematical inevitability, Rhodes+Tony=lost election.

(continues behind the read more link)

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

A fic where Steve and Bucky are super gross and mushy on the phone because it started as a joke making fun of couples that use pet names, but now it's escalated due to their chronic one-upmanship. Steve refers to Bucky as Jamie/Jamiebaby in these conversations, so Steve's coworkers are expecting a girl with particularly sappy tastes. Instead a brick shithouse shows up to the office party and just fuckin roasts Steve the whole time.

Shout-out to the Stucky discord for helping brainstorm the pet names!


Clint looked around the conference room with satisfaction. The decorating committee had leaned extra hard into the non-denominational theme for this non-denominational holiday party, so the only nod to the season were the paper snowflakes taped onto the windows. There were rainbow streamers twisted above the doors, and Clint had appropriated a trailing strand of royal purple and was now wearing it around his neck like a crinkly paper boa. Most importantly, Clint had managed to snag a table near the back that was strategically positioned between the bar and the buffet table, and he’d claimed one of the leather roller chairs that didn’t squeak. The night was off to a good start.

The Stark Industry bigwigs were having a much more formal gala on the atrium level, but Clint was but a humble security guard, so he was down in the building’s largest conference room with the rest of the peons. The joke was on the important people, though, because the peons got all the same delicious catering without having to sit through speeches from the Board of Directors.

Tony Stark, son of the company founder and terror of the engineering department, dropped into the chair next to Clint. They’d met five months back when Clint had nearly arrested Stark for trespassing when he’d set off the motion sensors during an all-night engineering binge. Once the accusations and apologies had been dealt with, Clint had escorted Tony back to his workshop and kept refilling his coffee pot until he passed out over his drafting table. It wasn’t the most conventional way to start a friendship, but it was about par for Clint; at least neither of them had actually wound up in prison this time.

“So, that was easier than I expected,” Tony said.

“They kicked you out already?”

“I thought I’d have to hit on a few of the board members’ wives, but violating the dress code was enough.” Tony absent-mindedly rubbed a smear of engine grease on his wrist, then wiped it on his Metallica t-shirt. “Howard sent me packing as soon as I walked in. Is Steve coming?”

“He said so. And he’s bringing Jamie-baby.”

Tony lit up. “We finally get to meet Steve’s mystery partner?”

Steve had been placing calls from the security desk to the mysterious “Jamie-baby” as long as he and Clint had worked there. Clint could never make out the other side of the conversation, but Steve always gave the caller endearments like “honey-pie” and “angel face” while Clint (and Tony, if it was a day when he was hiding from his dad in the security office) mimed vomiting all over the security monitors. Steve usually ended the calls with “See you at home, Jamie-baby,” which was as much information as Steve would disclose. “I don’t want to skew your first impression,” he always said, with that face that meant he was up to something, and good luck figuring it out. Clint had a healthy respect for that face.

“He said they’d both be here.” Clint scanned the crowd, looking for a boy scout’s face on a lumberjack’s body. “I don’t think he’s shown up yet.”

They only had to wait ten minutes, during which Tony cut paper snowflakes into increasingly complex geometrical shapes and Clint scaled the windows to stick Tony’s snowflakes above the ones already in place. Clint was dangling ten feet above ground from a complicated network of window blind cords when Steve walked in. He waved energetically to attract Steve’s attention, then directed Steve towards their table and climbed (climbed, fell, same difference) back down to ground level.

Steve was followed by a beefy dude in a blue button-down with the left sleeve neatly pinned up below the shoulder. He had the kind of broad, angular face that managed to produce dramatic cheekbone shadows even under the conference room’s soft fluorescent lighting. Their intern Peter, who was taking pictures of the party for the office newsletter, was going to love this guy.

“Hey!” Steve leaned in for a hug, and Clint enjoyed the sensation of being briefly engulfed by a friendly blond grizzly bear. “Buck, this is Clint and Tony.”

“Nice to meet you,” the one-armed cover model said. “I’m Bucky.”

Clint hid his flash of disappointment. He’d been hoping to meet Steve’s mystery partner Jamie-baby, but obviously something had come up. Bucky looked like Clint’s kind of guy, at least. He was already leaning around Steve to scope out the buffet.

“Glad you could make it.” Tony held up two flutes of slightly different amber liquid. “Who’s the designated driver?”

“Me,” Steve said, and accepted the sparkling cider Tony passed him.

Bucky took the other flute. “There more where this came from, or is this a one-and-done kind of deal?”

“It’s an open bar,” Clint said.

“Fuck, yeah,” Bucky said, and drained half his glass in one gulp. “Steve, I take it back, your holiday parties are the best.”

“Told you. I’m hitting the appetizer table before the brie wheel runs out, you want anything, sweetpea?”

“Yeah, get me five of everything wrapped in bacon.”

“On it, lambykins.”

“Thanks, fucknugget.”

Tony choked on his champagne. Bucky raised his eyebrows at Tony and set his glass on the table. “That your special holiday party outfit, or does this office have a really loose interpretation of business casual?”

“Huh? Oh,” Tony said, looking down at his grease-smeared band t-shirt and ragged jeans. “Nah, I’m trying to get fired. It’s a long story full of power struggles and non-compete clauses. Lesson learned, never work for your overbearing family patriarch, no matter how much your mom guilt-trips you.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Bucky said. “There a bathroom around here?”

“Down the hallway, second door on the right,” Clint said, and barely waited until Bucky was out of earshot before turning to face Tony so fast the swivel chair kept rotating and he was forced to swing around again. “Did Steve just call him lambykins? This is the smoking gun!”

Tony nodded rapidly. “Bucky is Jamie-baby. We’re blowing this conspiracy wide open.”

“What did Bucky call him back? Duck crumpet?”

“Fucknugget.”

“For real? That’s what I heard, but I thought my hearing aids were acting up.”

“So are they roommates, or,” Tony made an obscene hand gesture, “roommates? I say roommates.”

“I say roommates,” Clint said, doing an insinuating eyebrow waggle. “No way sweetpea and lambykins are platonic friend terms.”

“I call Rhodey ‘honeybear’ all the time.”

“Yeah, well, you’re you.”

“Fair point. Shh, they’re coming back.”

Bucky sat back down a minute before Steve returned carrying half the buffet table, most of which he transferred onto Bucky’s empty plate. He spent a few moments arranging the dates wrapped in prosciutto into the shape of a heart.

“Wow,” Bucky drawled. “Such romance.”

“Anything for you, Jamie-baby.”

“Thanks, sugartits.”

Clint and Tony exchanged a frozen look. What was the appropriate way to respond to someone calling their roommate…boyfriend…person sugartits in the middle of a work party?

“So, uh, do you go by Jamie or Bucky?” Clint hazarded.

Bucky snorted. “The only one who calls me Jamie is this asshole.”

“Becca does it.”

“Becca does it when she’s trying to wind me up. You do it because you were put on earth to test me.”

“Aww, buttercup, don’t be like that,” Steve said, making cow eyes at him. “You know you’re my precious honeybunny Jamie-darling.”

“Yeah, sure, and you’re my teenie-weenie termagant.”

Steve looked down at himself pointedly. “I’m six-two, Buck.”

“You’ll always be a shortass to me, sunshine.”

Hah.” Steve slapped the table, a huge grin spreading across his face. “‘Sunshine.’ I win.”

Bucky groaned and let his head fall forward. “God dammit.”

“Pay up,” Steve said, holding out a hand. Bucky dug around around in his jeans pocket, then dropped a wadded-up dollar bill into Steve’s palm.

“I just got that back,” Bucky said mournfully.

“You’re too sweet for your own good, Buck.” Steve layed a smacking kiss to the side of his head. Bucky huffed, then turned and pulled Steve in for a real kiss.

“Aha!” Clint pointed at them triumphantly. “Roommate roommates! Boyfriend roommates! Do I get a dollar? Bucky got a dollar, I feel like I should get a dollar.”

“Technically, he’s not my boyfriend,” Steve said.

Tony paused, a dollar bill half out of his wallet, and held it above his head when Clint tried to snatch it. “He’s not?”

“Nah.” Bucky leaned back in his chair and pressed his left side against Steve. “I’m married to this butterball, if you can believe it.”

“Close enough,” Clint said, and climbed up the back of Tony’s chair to yank the dollar out of his hand. “Wait, does ‘butterball’ count as an insult or not?”

“I don’t even know anymore,” Tony said.

Steve wrapped an arm around Bucky and sipped his sparkling cider, the crumpled dollar a lump in his breast pocket. “He’s calling me a turkey. It counts.”

“I’ll get that fucking dollar, Rogers,” Bucky said. “Just you wait.”

“You’re a sappy drunk, Barnes. I like my odds.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Is that why you volunteered to drive tonight?”

Steve pulled Bucky in to settle more comfortably against his chest. “You can’t prove nothin’.”

“I should’ve known. Doesn’t matter how big you get, you’re still a little shit.”

“Love you too, pumpkin.”