not such a cute meet

the-nerdy-stjarna  asked:

Fluffy one shot idea: meet cute or something. Fitzsimmons both reach for the last piece of [enter food of your choosing] at a party/wedding/gala/benefit/conference.

Jemma hurried into the luncheon room with just five minutes left before the panel she was supposed to be leading on Women in STEM. Her presentation before lunch had ended precisely on time, but several people had stayed afterwards to discuss her research. By the time she’d gathered up her laptop and posters and brought them back to her car, she was starving and out of sorts and feeling a little bit sweaty. 

She rushed over to the buffet to find just one, sad, half-mangled sandwich left and a few limp pieces of fruit. It was hardly appetizing, but it still technically qualified as food, so…

She hunted around for a moment looking for a plate, or at the very least a serviette so that she could carry her ‘lunch’ over to the hall where the panel was being held. She finally found a couple of cocktail napkins over by the empty coffee urn and then turned back just in time to see someone else taking her food. 

No!” she wailed, perhaps just a bit too dramatically. 

The man startled and immediately dropped the sandwich that he’d had halfway to his plate. It collapsed onto the tablecloth in even worse shape than it had been before, and Jemma stared at it in utter disappointment. 

“Erm… sorry?” he said, looking at her with a mixture of awkwardness and fear. “Everything alright?” 

She was sure that if she weren’t looking at him, he’d have bolted. 

“I missed lunch,” Jemma said pitifully, dropping the napkins on the table in defeat. “And I need to be at my panel in,” she looked at her watch and sighed. “Now.”

Looking a bit wistfully at the sandwich she hadn’t been looking forward to eating, she picked up two thin slices of cantaloupe and an orange wedge. 

“Sorry for the fright,” she apologized with a small, sad smile. “I think my blood sugar’s a bit low.” Shrugging, she sighed again in a ‘what are you going to do’ sort of way. “Enjoy the rest of the conference.”

“And now we’ll open it up for the Q&A,” Jemma said brightly. She’d managed to request a cup of tea at least and the miraculous power of Earl Grey had sustained her for the last hour. 

She gestured to the mic runners that they could allow their first questions. On the right hand side of the hall was a man who’d been standing for nearly the entire panel, so she allowed him to go first. 

Shielding her eyes so she could see past the stage lights, she thought he looked familiar. Perhaps he’d been in her session that morning?

“Ah, yes,” came a Scottish accent. 

Her eyes widened. It was the man from the buffet. 

“I actually,” he cleared his throat a bit awkwardly. “I have two questions, if that’s alright?”

Jemma nodded. Then realized she actually had to say something. “Of course. Go right ahead.”

He nodded and cleared his throat again. 

“My first question is for the panel as a whole. What can I, as a man working in STEM, do to make sure that I’m supporting the women who work with me? What kind of pitfalls can I avoid falling into that you wish more men would realize?”

Jemma nodded. It was a general question, but it was a good starting place for a discussion. She was just turning to the rest of the panel when he spoke again.

“And my second question is, do you like chicken salad? Only I feel bad for taking the last sandwich before, so I went to the shop across the street.”

I just got back from a BBQ with a lesbian social group and let me just say

never ever think that it’s too late. 17 or 21 or 25 may feel old, but today I met a lady that realized she was a lesbian at 45 – after marrying a man and having three kids. now she has a girlfriend, and she manages a brunch group with other lesbians.

it’s easy to feel like you’ve lost so much time to self doubt or fear, and it’s okay to mourn that lost time. but it’s never too late to find happiness in who you are.

These guys. You gotta love em.

A little consolation after the epilogue ;.;  Although, I do like Boruto ^^;



Scavenger Hunt

Stiles/Derek, T, 2500 words, Meet Cute AU

Written for the following prompt:

“i picked up your bag at the airport but i can’t find your number so i’m about to embark on the largest scavenger hunt of all time by using your strange belongings to track you down” au

“Honey, I’m home!” Stiles calls out as he wrestles his roll bag over their entry mat.

“That’s still not funny,” Scott says, without looking up from his textbook.

“Once again, we disagree.”

Scott snorts. “How was the trip?”

“Fine,” he says, plopping down right in the middle of the living room to start unpacking. “Typical conference. Some sessions were actually interesting, most were boring as shit.”

Scott hums, already absorbed again in his reading. Stiles reaches for the zipper on his suitcase but then freezes—this is definitely the same brand as his suitcase, but he doesn’t remember this extra zippered pocket on the top.

“Oh, shit.”


Stiles grimaces. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t my suitcase. Goddamn it.”

Scott finally looks up, frowning. “Shit, really? How’d you manage that?”

“It was a redeye,” Stiles says, running a hand through his hair. “I was exhausted, in fucking LaGuardia, and I was just trying to get out of there as fast as humanly possible.”

“Is there a name on it? Are you sure it’s not yours?”

“Pretty sure,” Stiles says, feeling around the sides for the pocket. He sighs when he pulls out the little card and sees that it’s blank. “Motherfucker. This is definitely not my suitcase because I’m actually smart enough to put my name on it.”

“Sorry, man,” Scott says sympathetically as Stiles falls back on the rug with an anguished groan.

“What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

“Open it,” Scott suggests. “Maybe there’s something with their name on it.”

Stiles fiddles with the zipper. He’s nosy as hell, in general, and normally he’d be jumping at the chance to rifle through someone else’s personal belongings. But… 

“What if there’s like, dead bodies in there or something?” he asks, and Scott just stares at him for a second. Stiles rolls his eyes—that’s a perfectly valid concern. Or maybe he watches too many police procedurals, whatever. “Okay, fine.”

Stiles holds his breath as he slowly unzips the suitcase, but nothing happens when he lets the top part flop back onto their crappy, threadbare rug. There’s a Dodgers hat on top, and Stiles grimaces. “Well, they have shitty taste in baseball teams.”

He sets the hat carefully aside and keeps digging. The person is neat, whoever they are, because everything is folded, and all the dirty clothes are even all contained in their own zippered bag. At first glance, there’s nothing too out of the ordinary—phone charger, American Gods, Calvin Klein briefs. Fancy, he thinks. There’s a monogrammed leather toiletry bag (DSH, he commits those initials to memory), and he pokes through it.

“I’m gonna make an educated guess that it’s a guy.”

“Why’s that?” Scott says, finally looking somewhat interested in this mystery.

Stiles holds up an electric razor. “And that he’s maybe not totally straight,” he says, brandishing a little bottle of lube that’s about three-quarters full.

Scott rolls his eyes. “Lots of people use lube.”

“Yeah, but do you travel with it?” Stiles counters, and Scott sighs.

“No,” he admits. “Did you find anything with his actual name on it?”

“Not yet,” Stiles says absently. He continues to rifle through the bag until he’s pretty sure he has his plan of attack. “Okay. I’m gonna find out who it is,” he says with a determined nod, and Scott frowns.

“How? This is New York City! There are literally millions of dudes here.”

“It’ll be like a real-life scavenger hunt,” Stiles says dreamily, ignoring Scott as he carefully lays his three chosen items out on the coffee table. “This is awesome.”

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