“They Want The Swede”, AKA the time Boston offered Washington the 37th and 5th overall picks for the 4th overall pick, and the Caps pretended to consider it but were actually already making a wedding registry for Backstrom and Ovechkin.
[George McPhee: (after being offered the picks) Okay, so, who do you want?
Jeff Gorton: The Swede.
George McPhee: Let me ask, let me run it by these guys. (walks back to the Capitals table, sits down.) They want the Swede. (waits) They want the Swede. (turns to Ross Mahoney) So, what do you want to do? (winks) (inaudible discussion) Huh? Yeah, I know. I’m just trying to make it look like we’re doing something here. Yeah. (more inaudible discussion) Did I tell you that you look marvelous?]
So, Michele, how obsessed with Emil would you say you are?
Emil Nekola? He's just a friend of mine, I'm not obsessed at all. I mean,- *trips* *hundreds of photos of Emil spill from his pockets* Those aren’t mine, I swear; I’m just holding them for an acquaintance. *desperately gathering up photos* No, I'm serious, he's only my friend- *thousands more photos scatter across the floor* fuck hang on a second. juST LISTEN
CastielXReader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester
Word Count: 1627
A/N: One-shot written
for @casbabydontgoineedyou / Katie’s 1K Writing Challenge / prompt #18 - The
last time you made dinner, you caught the kitchen on fire. NSFW/18+
readers/adult content – oral sex, female receiving (come on, who doesn’t
fantasize about this angel between their thighs?).
adorable, eager-to-please-you Castiel likes the way you look in his white
button down shirt the morning after a night of incredible sex. So much so, he
wants to make you breakfast.
(not my GIF)
daily newspaper tucked under one arm, paperboard Gas ‘N Sip coffee cup clasped
in hand, whistling low to the classic rock tune of Smoke on the Water, Dean Winchester leisurely rambled by the bunker’s
kitchen threshold. Several paces beyond the door, he stopped up short, coffee
sloshing from the ill-fitting plastic lid to splatter his leather shoes, brow furrowing,
brain incrementally registering the odd sight presented to his peripheral vision. Gravitating
backward, he craned his neck, peering into the kitchen, calmly confirming with
a bob of his head that Castiel was indeed situated at the counter attempting to
assuage an angrily beeping coffee maker into producing a fresh pot while
wearing nothing but crinkled white boxer shorts. Dean scanned up and down the empty
hall and around the otherwise unoccupied room before clearing his throat to
announce his presence.
Cas snapped shut the top of the ornery contraption, effectively
silencing it. Angling to regard his friend, he cordially nodded in greeting,
“Good morning, Dean.”
Dean stepped through the door, an amused smirk overtaking
his features, “Uh, Cas, look man, it’s great to see you finally making yourself
at home, but where the hell are your clothes?”