otf: old married couple

Domestic destiel would be like
  • Cas: it's your turn to do the dishes, i did them yesterday
  • Dean: no no i distinctly remember doing them last night
  • Cas: dean i have photos of myself doing them as proof and also you have used that excuse exactly 74 times in the last 3 months
  • *
  • Dean: caaas stop hogging the tv remote
  • Cas: shut up we're watching desperate housewives and nothing you say will change that
  • *
  • Cas: dean did you eat pie in our bed again?
  • Dean: ...no
  • Cas: there are pie crumbs
  • Dean: it must have been sammy
  • Cas: i'm :) sleeping :) on :) the :) sofa :) until :) you :) clean :) them :) up
  • *
  • Cas: why are your socks all over the floor AGAIN?
  • Dean: i think they fell out of the drawer
  • Cas: the closed drawer? is that the drawer you mean?
  • Dean: yes
  • Cas:
  • Dean: maybe it was a ghost
  • Cas: well we're dead then because you forgot to go grocery shopping again and we have no salt

You can literally read their faces as this:

Lydia: Honey get in the picture.
Stiles: No I’m not done ranting about the Supernatural.
Scott: Oh but you will be.
Malia: Awww he thinks he has a choice.
Lydia: HONEY YOU ARE GOING TO SIT YOUR CUTE ASS DOWN RIGHT NEXT TO ME AND TAKE THIS GROUP PICTURE NOW OR YOU WILL NOT BE ALIVE TO SEE TOMORROW!
Stiles: Ughhhhh fine.
Lydia: Thank you, see that wasn’t that hard.

youtube

Supernatural HousCon 2017: J2 Gold - What’s the point of this?

Their old married couple type of bickering gives me life! 😂

Deck The Halls, Darling

For my darling Alexia - here you go, I always keep my promises and I always lie ;) for Sarah too, my plotting-devilish-fella!

@the-notsoevil-queen @ginaandrobbie

OQ | 1k | ff.net


When the door closes behind him, he’s hit by a wave of heat, all of a sudden. It’s weird, he thinks, because outside, yes, it’s freezing, but he doesn’t consider it so serious that it could lead to their home as a literal oven. There must be something like 25 degrees, inside, and he immediately starts sweating.

“Honey? I’m home,” he calls, – no answer, only silence. He shakes off the snow from his boots, a creeping sensation of dread he can’t avoid starts running through his spine. “Regina?”

What.”

It’s a low voice, annoyed or hurt, or both, and he rushes towards the source of that voice, throwing the groceries on a chair.

When he gets into the living room, his eyes widen, when they meet that unusual sight. And that sight would be his very pregnant wife sitting in the middle of the room, on the carpet, surrounded – no, engulfed – by Christmas lights. And it’s a mess, because she’s somehow managed to tangle herself on the inside, in her clear, useless effort to untie them.

His primordial need to laugh is immediately suffocated by her deadly glare – he immediately gets an expression which would be easy to find on his face during an occasion such as watching over a dead beloved. “Regina, ahem,” he coughs, scoffs, and her eyes narrow, and damn, if he doesn’t get a grip, he’ll most likely join that dead beloved. “What’s happening?”

“What do you think?” she barks, pulling onto a wire and trying to disentangle it. “It was about time you got home.”

“I’m sorry, it was crazy at the shop – apparently, the dwarves are very fond of strawberries, of all things, so I had a bit of a fight over the last box…”

She stares at him, and the words die in his throat. She lets out a shaky breath – an exhausted, small thing, her hand splayed on her swollen stomach. With his supreme horror, he spies a tear rolling down her cheek. And his amusement transforms into concern.

He goes kneel next to her, taking a solitary wire between his fingers and pulling it down. It was a simple move, and she watches as a good part of her arm and forearm is freed. She has somehow recollected the wires around one arm, to roll them up, and in doing so… created even more of a mess.

He places his hand on her shoulder, his other hand going up to wipe away the tear. “What is it? Talk to me, we’ll fix it.”

She sniffs, his love, before meeting his eyes in a sheepish look. “I miss magic,” she murmurs.

Ah. Now he gets it – well, he doesn’t, really, but he imagines. The frustration of having a problem, and not being able to magic her way out of it, as normal people do. And then, probably, she feels guilty for blaming their daughter – health reasons, Whale called them, Madam Mayor, better not to overtire the body with any kind of magic, especially if you’re sure the baby has magic too.

“Of course you do miss it, Regina, it’s a part of you,” he tries to soothe, but there’s no use. She avoids his eyes again, her gaze skimming over the light bulbs piled on her legs.

“I just wanted to do something, for once,” she says. “Something on my own, but as always, I’ve worsened the situation…”

He sighs deeply, and places a kiss on her forehead. “You do more than enough, my love,” he assures her. “And this – this happens, and it’s easily fixable, okay?”

She nods, not quite convinced, but anyway lets him work on the lights. His fingers brush on her skin on more than one occasion, she just stays still, watching him, and she still looks sad. After a while – tireless and exhausting work for sure, but stupid and time-wasting – he gives up.

“Okay,” he whispers, menacingly, staring daggers at those stupid lights. He’s up on his feet, in the kitchen and back in the living room before she can even mutter “Robin?”

As he approaches her and kneels again, when she catches sight of what he has in his hand, a small puff of laughter leaves her lips. “What happened to easily fixable?” she mocks him, and he’s never been happier to hear that quirk of teasing in her voice.

“It went lost into this living hell,” he answers, holding his breath in concentration as he positions the scissors on the wires. “Who put these lights back in the box last year?”

“I believe it was Roland, dear,” she lifts her eyes to the ceiling, amused, knowing every protest will fade now.

When he snaps the scissors closed for the third time, the lights fall, all at once, and she’s free. He takes her hands, to help her up, the damned black wires falling on the ground in a tangled mess. “Better?” he asks, relieved when she nods, staring down at the carpet with a frown.

“You know Peanut will be heartbroken without lights,” she muses.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I guess I have to go retrieve some more, uh?”

“Mm,” she confirms. “Not yet, though – stay here a bit, first?”

“Of course,” he agrees, a smile tugging his lips up. “I’ll even make you hot cocoa, if you go sit on the sofa and stay still,” he mocks her. She tugs at his arm, throwing him a glare, but complies, and it’s absolutely adorable, the way she has to sit and cross her arms with a pout – well, he finds it adorable, but maybe it’s because he’s used to find adorable her gazes which promise a quick death.

He shakes his head, and goes into the kitchen – Henry’s made sure he mastered the art of hot chocolate, just like mom takes it, and he’s nearly finished with the whipped cream she eats in man-sized portions, when he hears noises from the living room.

He takes the mugs – already prepared to find another complicated situation, but he sighs in relief, because it’s not that bad. She’s standing up, holds the sparkling garlands which usually go above the mirror on the fireplace, and she’s so cute – on her tiptoes, eyes glancing back at him.

“Help me out, will you?” she asks. He places the mugs on the table, nears her, but instead of taking the garland, he surrounds her from behind, placing a kiss on her hair.

“Not tall enough?” he scoffs, with a perfectly audible whisper. He oofs loudly, though, when her elbow hits his stomach.

“Shut up and help me,” she hisses, frustrated. He lifts the garland, places it easily above the mirror and then going to continue on the nearest painting.

“Here you go, Your Majesty,” he bows, gaining himself another stare. “Your cocoa is getting cold.” She rolls her eyes, but finally sits on the sofa and takes the still-fuming cup.

“Oh, Robin?” she says. She takes one sip, and lowers the mug, with a mischievous smile. “When Your Tallest Highness will be finished here, there’s snow to take off from the porch,” she says, looking angelic and devilish at once.

He shakes his head, ignoring her completely as he goes to sit next to her. “There’s some snow to take off from your lips, here,” he says smugly, and finally, she cracks up in a smile, meeting his lips halfway, and okay, as long as he kisses her like that, at least she won’t get in trouble with some deadly decorations – as long as she kisses him like that, the snow can wait…

“Bernie says that he didn’t really think drivers are very intelligent, they can’t really spell and all that; let’s see if we can walk, talk and find people to talk to. Are you up for that?”
“Hundred percent mate, let’s nail it.”
“On three: one, two, three…”

David Coulthard & Mark Webber, 2016 Bahrain Grand Prix.