What happens when the missus is really horny and in the mood how does she kinda let him know
Kisses his neck, squeezes him, settles herself in his lap. Or they’ll have a bath and one thing will lead to another. Puts her hand down his pants while he’s pouring their after dinner wine or putting the dinner dishes in the dishwasher. Or whisper in his ear that she doesn’t have any knickers on. But sometimes it’s just a good make out in bed that gets it going! xx.
For the Anonymous request for “I would really like a fic about a night of pure romance and sex with Gabriel.”
Word Count: about 900
Warnings: just some smut
“Come on Gabe,” you giggled, “Can’t I just see where we’re going?”
“Well that would hardly be a surprise then, Y/N. Goodness, has anyone ever told you that you complain a lot?” he joked back to you. His tug on your hand to guide you had stopped and you bumped into his chest. Your chin automatically raised so that if you had been able to see, you’d be gazing into his eyes. His lips brushed against yours gently.
“Ready?” he asked softly.
You nodded in response, anticipation building. You had been blindfolded since you were in yours and Gabriel’s apartment in New York but you knew he had transported you to at least a few different places before you had walked a few minutes the rest of the way to wherever you were.
The soft fabric slid off your face as your angel’s hands carefully unknotted and pulled it away.
You took in the scene in front of you – there was a wall of glass right in front of you, floor to ceiling, outside of which you could see the spread of a mountain range and a crystal-clear sky with more stars than you had ever seen before twinkling at you. Tears welled up in your eyes and you folded into Gabriel’s embrace. “Thank you.” you whispered into him.
I had a good day talking to friends, eating good food. Krystal sent me home with groceries & a bottle of wine after making me dinner & giving Lana like 3 treats lol. I’m pretty mentally exhausted, I feel like I processed a lot in a short amount of time & that is very taxing. I drank a cup of coffee & immediately napped in the middle of the day, I was so worn out. But now my muscles aren’t tense, I’m not nearly so on-edge. I’m just tired, & raw, & soft–& that is pretty nice, honestly.
Our backyard, this evening after I got home from work.
Still not feeling 100%. But I had a bit of wine after dinner, and listened to some vintage Queen. Freddie always makes me feel better. It’s like I can hear him talking. “Just sit back, dahling, and have a good time.” I can’t believe it took me until my thirties to really discover him (knowing Bohemian Rhapsody growing up doesn’t count).
Re-read parts of a few chapters of Winter. Really hoping to tackle that this weekend…and maybe something else. 😉
Now I’m off to bed, hoping another good night’s sleep will help to clear up the rest of this cold. Good night, all.
Prompt if you are interested: Fenris buys himself pastry. But has to psyche himself up to eat it because slave conditioning means that is "master's food" and he can be punished if he eats without permission . Hawke cheers him on to eat but is careful not to be the Master substitute... I hope that makes sense.
OOOH I REALLY LIKE THIS PROMPT ANON, I HOPE I DID IT JUSTICE! Gonna slap a little warning on this fic for, essentially, past mentions of slavery and Danarius-related douchery (this takes place in Act 2 probably, before they get together).
The pastry rests in the folds of waxed paper on the small table before the fire, as Fenris stares, and wills himself to eat.
The last time Fenris tried to do something like this, it tasted like ashes in his mouth; guilt, anger at his own guilt, frustration at his weakness, until eventually he’d taken the small cake he’d bought for himself and thrown it into a fire.
He’s never known why food seems to be so much harder to adapt to in his new life of freedom over drink; he feels defiance, sipping fine wine by his fire at night, regulating his own portions like a person. Danarius used to control his intoxication - either a sip of his master’s wine at dinner (after another, less valuable slave had checked for poison first), or enough to leave his memory in painful tatters the next morning. Drink was used as a weapon, and now Fenris has the handle of that particular dagger clenched tight in his own fist, and he feels stronger for it.
If Paige Turco was your girlfriend, her hair would always be bouncy and
perfect even in 100% humidity and she would let you run your fingers
through it and pet her like a cat when she flat-ironed it and turned it
magically silky smooth.
If Paige Turco was your girlfriend, she would
have a wardrobe of flawless coats that rivaled Olivia Pope’s and all her
lingerie would be from La Perla and she would let you borrow her
Ferragamo boots on special occasions.
If Paige Turco was your
girlfriend, Henry Ian Cusick would come over on Wednesdays to drink wine on your couch and and he and Paige would tell you
all their best stories about goofing off on the set of The 100.
Paige would tell you that Ian is the funniest and Ian would politely
deny it but he totally knows it’s true. After three glasses of Malbec,
Ian will let you pet his hair too.
If Paige Turco was your girlfriend,
she would take you out for Sunday brunch at her favorite chic little
hole-in-the-wall French restaurant and make goofy jokes
about how she couldn’t even decipher the menu until she’d had her
coffee, which would arrive immediately because Paige is a regular here.
If Paige Turco was your girlfriend, she would practice all her Zoe
Morgan “come hither” facial expressions on you when you helped her run
lines in bed.
If Paige Turco was your girlfriend, you would learn to appreciate ballet, because her years of dance training made her kind of an adorable ballet nerd and she’d take you to see Swan Lake and lean over and whisper when something important was happening, and even though it all kind of looks the same to you and you had no idea when you bought the tickets for her birthday that it was four hours long, Paige is so cute when she’s excited that it’s impossible not to enjoy yourself.
If Paige Turco was your girlfriend, you would walk down to that wine bar you like after dinner, arm in arm, and everyone around you would stare and whisper because you are the foxiest pair of power lesbians they’ve literally ever seen.
If Paige Turco was your girlfriend, it would take you until the tenth
date to confess that the first thing you ever saw her in was that second
live-action Ninja Turtles movie, the one with the Ninja Rap, and she
would laugh and laugh and be a totally great sport about it and would be FULL of crazy stories about working with Vanilla Ice.
If Paige Turco was your girlfriend, your family would be a tiny bit weird at first, because of the age thing, but then she would show up at Thanksgiving with surprise presents for everybody - nothing big or showy, just perfect thoughtful little things like the exact right book for your brother and a scarf that looks perfect on your mom - and two absolutely flawless homemade pies, and her charm would be so irresistible that by the end of the weekend as you’re packing up to leave your parents would pull you aside and tell you, “Make sure you bring her for Christmas.”
If Paige Turco was your girlfriend, you would tag along with her to Vancouver for filming and you’d become BFFs with the cast of The 100. After awhile they’d hardly even notice you. “Oh, that’s Paige’s girlfriend,” the crew would shrug when a guest director shot a curious glance in your direction, wondering who’s the person sitting in Paige’s chair. “She’s basically family.”
If Paige Turco was your girlfriend, your bills would get paid on time, you would never find a spider in your bedroom ever again, and your cat would never get sick. You would never accidentally lock your keys in the car or run face-first into a wall because you’re walking and texting at the same time. Those kinds of things do not happen in the orbit of perfect people like Paige Turco. Instead you would be a content, serene human with an endlessly satisfying sex life and a well-stocked wine cellar and a lengthy string of emoji texts from Henry Ian Cusick.
IF PAIGE TURCO WAS YOUR GIRLFRIEND, YOUR LIFE WOULD BE PERFECT.
I tell the girl with the long, red hair that I have to work before the sun rises because I don’t want to wake up with her in my bed. Amber. I had been fighting the urge to call her Amanda all night; all of the “A” names had somehow melted together inside of my brain, leaving one or the other impossible to distinguish. Eventually, I had simply avoided addressing her directly. Amber. I remember it as soon as the door closes on her back. For a fleeting moment, I feel guilty; certainly she had come with the pretense of staying over, after the wine, the dinner, the half-contrived conversation. Maybe even a little sad. The moment ends. I decide to shower, and lock the door.
When I pull back the rings of the curtain minute later, she is there, half-visible through the tendrils of steam rising up and away from the cold, wet floor tiles. For a moment, I think Amber has returned; was it possible she left something behind? The back of her head brushes against the mirror, leaving strands of clarity in the gray condensation. Her hair, indistinguishable in the thick, foggy air, is not red at all; it is blonde, unkempt, billowing with the steam. In the sticky heat of the bathroom I shiver, the follicles of my skin pointed up and away from the rest of my body, reaching out, reaching for her.
“Celine,” I say.
“Who was that?” She unfolds her long legs from beneath her, languidly stretching one perfect, tanned limb into the empty space between us. The skin of her biggest toe hovers inches from my waist, dangling, waiting to be touched.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, backing further away from her in the small space until the door knob collides with my back.
“It’s been a while,” she says, appraising me with ravenous, sad eyes. She slides off of the counter, walking past me long enough to leave me breaking beneath her heady perfume of woman and freesia. She turns the corner into the apartment on confident feet, following her own map of muscle memory and so many years. There was a time where she could navigate the space in the pitch black, wandering drunk, half-asleep in complete darkness in the early hours from our bed to the kitchen and back again without so much as touching a light switch. I foolishly would have thought that she’d lost that. “Aren’t you going to make me a drink?”
It stings. “Ha-ha.” I say over the torrential sound of my own failing heart. “Very funny.”
“What?” She asks, standing before the open liquor shelf, hungrily sizing up the jagged skyline of half-emptied bottles. “It’s not like it’s going to kill me.” It stings more.
My tongue rests too-swollen on the cusp of my lips. I taste all of the things I want to say on my teeth: I love you. I miss you. I hate you. I love you. I have never stopped loving you.
“Celine,” I say instead. “I think you should go.”
Her face contorts momentarily with pain, the beautiful features crumbling into something awful before smoothly re-arranging.
“But I just got here,” she says now, pulling the skin of her bottom teeth deliberately between her teeth. “You don’t want to see me, really?”
She did not just get here, this I know. There is always the presence of her lingering between the walls, sulking in corners, stinking up the place with the intoxicating scent of her absence. She’s only showed up in the flesh a handful of times since she left, all spaced out with months in between, but I don’t believe for a second that she’s ever truly been gone. Still, that she may have found it possible for me to not want to see her feels wholly unnatural, and the uncertain weight in my chest thickens. If she were to leave, then what? Would she really be gone? Forget her, I had heard so many times. Move on.
I sigh, look at the clock once, then to her, then back again. Even if I forced her out of the door and myself into a fitful sleep, she would still be there, too, a nightmarish figure torturing me from the shadows, forever evading my hands. It was choosing between the ghost of her and the haunting of her. I had been growing too familiar with the latter.
“What are you drinking?” I ask finally.
“You don’t remember?” She asks, a small, victorious smile rising to her lips.
“You still a gin girl?” Of course she was. Silly question.
“’Course,” she grins, strolling to the table and taking a seat at the head, her favorite spot. “God, it’s only been what, a year? Two years, now? Don’t be silly. Nothing’s changed, baby.”
Beneath the dim ceiling lights she could pass for an angel. Arms dangling loosely around her legs, silk dress bunched at the hips, hair falling wildly past her shoulders, she could have never left at all.
There are vast, canyon-like holes on the floor where her piles of unwashed laundry used to lie. The CDs she hoarded like gold are gone from the shelves, replaced instead with old photos of her cheshire-cat smile, chemically-recreated imprints of her teeth halfheartedly attempting to exist in the same space the real thing once ruled. Her long, blonde hair has vanished from the carpets, the sheets, the drains. Nothing’s changed, baby. When in reality, it all has. Every last thing.
I pull out two glasses, grab the limes, the tonic, the ice, surprised even at myself for still having the necessary tools. I had grown partial to whiskey in her absence; I found it a much more efficient means to the same end. There must have been days where I threw the tonic in with my toothpaste and canned soup at the supermarket, auto-piloting my way through a life on the other side of her. A shiver runs through me.
At the helm of the table Celine twirls an empty wineglass in her fingers, appraising the pale halo of red pressed against the rim. I think about the lips who left marks there, and for not the first time feel a slither of resentment at the fact that they were not hers. She slides her finger along the shape of it, rubbing the pigment between her thin fingers. She had been a painter, before, and our apartment still bore the bruises of it: spills of blue on the white carpeting, mugs and glasses permanently hazy with the remnants of gray water, illustrations of bodies and fruits etched into TV guides and corner tables. There was no way of telling if this had changed about her; her clothes were clean, her skin free of skidded paint, and the shadows of long, late nights no longer bruised the undersides of her eyes. The thought that something so vital to her could have changed cuts into the core of me, and I fight the urge to ask.
“Pretty,” she says now, peering at the pinkening tips of her fingers in the dim light.
“Thanks,” I say, before realizing the response is inappropriate.
Her mouth, stupidly beautiful, folds into a timid smile. She stifles her laughter at first, and, seeming to realize it is an indulgence she is still allowed to, throws her head back and cackles abruptly. The sound fills the small space, bursting open in the corners of the room and dripping down the walls around us. I wonder, in this moment, if I am waking from a fever dream, if the sharp pangs of her phantom laughter might give way to the bleating pangs of an alarm clock, dragging me from whatever chamber in my mind is still dominated by her and back into reality.
“So, who is she?” She asks again, allowing no time for pleasantries or the illusion that there might be something at all worth catching up on.
“Who?” I ask, because as far as I’m concerned, no one else has ever existed besides herself.
“Oh, shut up. Your woman. Your ginger. The owner of this lovely, charming, drug store shade of fuchsia. Tell me about her. What’s her name?”
My words remain almost impossible to collect. Each time she appears it is just as difficult to absorb as the last. I spend every moment just following her exits forcing myself to forget her all over again, to avoid the irrational, impossible blooming hope for her return. Every time must be the last. Otherwise, when it truly is, I think it might destroy me all over again.
She pours her drink directly into the wine glass, even though it is most certainly not designed for that type of drinking. She presses a long kiss to the spot where Amber’s lipstick remains, sipping deeply from the rim. She watches me, smiling to herself, incessantly proud of her own jokes.
“C’mon. Please? You’re really not going to tell me?”
“Why does it matter?” I ask, sitting on the farthest end of the table, praying the agitated burn of my hands will quell. “She’s nobody, it’s not a big deal.”
Celine frowns, and rests her chin in the crook of her palms. “She seems sweet. A little young, though. What is she, still in college? You have to be so careful with those girls. One moment they’re quoting Proust, the next they’re vomiting half-naked into a solo cup. I mean it, honey. You better watch yourself.” She takes a steady sip, drains half the glass.
“Yes, please continue to lecture me on the dangers of binge drinking, Ce,” I say, pouring myself a full glass. “I really believe you could be an enlightening source of information.”
“Don’t be rude just because you weren’t expecting me,” she pouts. “If you don’t want me to come around anymore, then I won’t.”
I want to beg her to stop. I want to tell her to go, please leave, I am burning without you but I am dying with you, go someplace else, away from here. I think about the possibility of never finding her around some unexpected corner, sitting where she no longer belongs, smiling where she has no right to exist.
“No,” I say. “That’s not it. I just… I don’t think it’s funny, you showing up just to dick around with me. I never know how I’m supposed to handle it.”
The table is empty between us. When she lived here it was practically unusable, constantly buried beneath a mountain of accumulated nothings. She had always littered it with paperback books, empty matchbooks, fast food receipts, business cards. Empty liquor bottles. When I look around the space we used to share I realized how effectively I have purged her from it, when compared to how we once used to live. To see her here you would have to close your eyes and picture another life, thinking hard, until your head might feel like it will burst. The surface of the table reflects the spinning overhead fan, the sharp glare of the light. Without the evidence of her, the bread-crumbed proof of her ownership to these walls, the distance between where we sit feels insurmountable.
She stands and glides over to my end, sitting in the seat next to me, like maybe she’s read my thoughts. Has she? It’s impossible to know, now. “If you let one of them stay the night some time, maybe I wouldn’t show up,” she says.
“What, did you come all the way out here just to lecture me?”
She purses her lips, then takes a guilty sip from her glass, looking away from me.
“Oh, Christ,” I say, and the glow of her presence dims.
“Come on, darling, you didn’t think I was here just for fun, did you?” She asks, extending her feet and resting them in my lap. “That’s not how this works.”
“I don’t know what I thought,” I murmur, rotating my glass in my hands to watch the ice cubes collide and spin with each other.
“Be serious,” she says after a moment, fidgeting nervously with her hands. “You’re a smart guy. You have to know that I wouldn’t, couldn’t, be here unless it was something important, right?”
“Well, on with it,” I say, instinctively grabbing one of her feet in my hands and massaging the bottom of it. As long as she was here, I might as well pretend it was forever ago, forever.
“I just wish that for once you could get another woman to stay in this apartment for longer than a painfully uncomfortable one and a half hour dinner,” she begins, pausing to refill her drink. “None of them even seem nearly as horrible as I might have imagined. There’s real promise here. Well, maybe not with the redhead. But that’s a preference thing.” She smiles at me, brushing her hair behind her shoulder. “Still won’t bring back any blondes, though.”
“Are you stalking me?” I ask, even though I think I already know the answer.
She shrugs. “Not much to do anymore, now, is there?”
“That’s wholly inappropriate.”
“Because,” I say, sliding her feet off of my lap, hating myself for it, “if you want me to move on, which is what it sounds like you’re insinuating, I am literally never going to do that if you keep showing up in our home, unannounced, acting like nothing ever happened.”
She pauses, considering this for a moment. She sucks an ice cube into her mouth, rolling it around on her tongue and musically bumping it against her porcelain teeth.
“It sure is fun, though, isn’t it?” She asks, smiling, waiting.
Isn’t it? In reality, no, it isn’t. In the moment it feels like the sun might fall out of the sky, or that I might die, or that every awful thing that has happened was a series of long, agonizing nightmares. The wound of her festers, after so much time, always picked at, never fully healing. Her presence is a nail under the flesh, a disturbance in the scar tissue, only to be felt fully in a dark room as the skin struggles once more to seal itself.
“Not particularly,” I admit.
Both of us fall silent for a long time. We are aware of it, us talking ourselves in circles just to hear the other’s voice. There are moments when she almost flickers away on the outskirts of my line of sight, disappearing for quick, panicky moments that force me to look back to make sure she has not yet left. I want to reach out. I am afraid if I touch her she will vanish like smoke.
“I still miss you,” I tell her, because there’s nothing else to say.
She stares down at the table, swallowing over something in her throat. I keep my eyes fixed to the floor as she stands and floats from the room in my peripheral vision. A moment later, I hear her weight fall onto the bed.
I don’t think. I just follow.
I don’t bother turning the lights on when I come into the room. I collapse beside her, like she might be sleeping and I’m coming home from work too late and keep my shoes on to pull her to me and kiss the parts of her hair that still smell like alcohol and cigarettes. The city makes noise outside of our window. We stay silent.
“I miss you, too,” she says when the quiet has run out.
We lie together for a long time. We talk about the good. We skate over the bad. We avoid any admission that our time is temporary, recalling instead so many years together, so little time ago. Her hand falls into mine. Her hair falls into my face. The edges of the room ebb and flow with intoxicating excitement. When I want to cry, I laugh instead.
“Do you remember Halloween three years ago?” We ask. “Do you remember that waitress at the pancake house with the black eye? Do you remember getting our power bill shut off?” I’ve laughed since she’s been gone, I’m sure, but suddenly the sensation feels like something for the first time, like coming home.
“This is why I can’t keep people over,” I tell her in the darkness. “No one makes me laugh the way that you do.”
“Have you tried watching stand-up?” She asks, then snorts at herself. I bury my face in her neck. I am surprised to find it warm.
“There is no you out there. You were the last one.”
She grips my hand tighter, her nails pressing into the skin. I feel the ghost of that sensation on my back, where she used to draw blood, her fingers breaking skin between hot gasps of breath. I shiver everywhere.
“You don’t need to find another me, baby,” she says finally. “You just have to find someone else.”
“I don’t want someone else,” I tell her, sadness rising inside of me in an insurmountable wave. “It will never be as good as it was.”
“Oh, stop it!” she says, pushing herself away from me. “Listen to what you’re saying. That’s bullshit. You have over half of your life left, and you’re sitting here claiming that our relationship was the peak of it. Do you really want another us? Do you want to be drunk, fighting, all of the time? Resenting each other? Waiting until one of us is manic enough to say I love you again? ‘Remember the Christmas Party? Remember your mother?’ No. Remember kicking each other out? Remember losing all of our rent money on a bender? Remember lying there at night, in pain, wondering if this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you, this feeling of giving so much of a shit about each other that we were willing to throw everything else away? Don’t pretend you never felt it, because I know for a fact that you did. You were always a vicious drunk, and so was I. You harp and harp on this idea that our relationship was perfect, but that’s just because it never had the chance to ruin itself. I never had the chance to hurt you in the way that normal people hurt each other. You glorify it so much that I don’t even know if you recognize it anymore. It makes me sick. It makes me so, so sick.” When she breathes in, it rattles.
The fighting is comfortable. We slip back into it more naturally than anything else.
“Don’t you dare sit here and tell me that you didn’t hurt me, Ce, because that’s bullshit. Fucking look at me. Are you kidding?” The agony of her swells again, over and over, beating like a vein. “This is all so fucking easy for you to say. You didn’t have to deal with the after. You got to escape. You can sit here and talk about moving on all you want, and how easy it is to find someone else, when in reality, you’re a fucking martyr and I’m the basket case with the dead fiancé. You want to talk about hurting people? You left me. You perma-left me. You fucking died, Celine. I’m still here, picking up all of the wreckage, living in the aftermath, and you just get to come do your charity work here whenever you feel like it, when its convenient for you to absolve your conscience of some of the blame. I’m sick of you showing up here and criticizing me for moving on as best as I can. God dammit, you’re a fucking plague.”
“You’re right!” She yells, her voice impossibly loud in the room, supernatural in magnitude. “You just said it yourself, what I did was awful. I carry that with me, all of the time.” Her voice breaks, every hint of humor, of lightness disappearing. “Why do you think I’m still here? Do you think I can make it anywhere else, knowing what I’m leaving behind?”
I think we are both crying now. We are not looking at each other, so it is impossible to be sure.
“You deserve better than this, darling,” she says. “You deserve better than someone you love loving themselves more.”
I read between the lines, because she is still scared to say it out loud: You deserve better than someone who would drive drunk into a tree. You deserve better. You deserve better. And I know she is right.
“I’m trying,” I say eventually. “You’ve seen it, then. You know I’ve tried moving on. But I can’t help it if nothing works out. It’s not my fault I haven’t found another person who makes me feel the way that I did when I was with you.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” she says, voice calm again, soothing, almost silencing the hammering of my heart. “Stop. Stop trying to find the same thing. You will never find it, if that’s what you’re looking for. Just because something is different doesn’t mean it’s worse. You have to try harder. This,” she waves her hand into the empty room, “sleeping alone in the same bed that we used to share together, not putting my pictures away, living in an absolute mausoleum of our relationship, this is not trying hard enough. This is refusal to let go.”
“I hate that you’re right,” I tell her. She usually is.
“So does this mean you’re not coming back?” I ask, when I feel brave enough to know the answer.
“I don’t want to have to. I want to come back, but I want things to be different when I do, if I do, whenever that is.”
I think about the barren feeling in my chest. It would be foolish to pretend that it has nothing to do with her, that the only time the emptiness feels like a pain its when she is somehow involved. And I know, too, that for as much of me that doesn’t want to let go there is so much more that wants to feel more than this.
“Just promise me you’ll try,” she whispers, the audible sound of the fight draining out of her. “Don’t compare the next one against me. Let her stick around a while longer.”
“Okay.” I hope that I mean it.
She lets me fall asleep before she disappears again. I wake into the middle of the night, alone in the darkness of our house. It’s only after she’s left again that I feel crippled by childlike fear, that the knowledge of her existence the way it is now takes on a malicious sensation.
Most nights when I fall asleep it is on the thought of her. Tonight I succumb to the anger, the way her leaving yet again punches a hole through the core of me, how I can feel the ragged bits throbbing in exposed air. I think of every awful thing she has done. I think of the times I left her for a night, maybe two, each time hoping to have the strength to make it the last. I remember in movie-like quality how much ugly there was contained in the space that we shared, how much of it I threw away on the other side of her, just to preserve her as something worth suffering over. I fall asleep again without her, and and think that this is how it is now, even when it’s hard, even when, like tonight, it’s not. I think about taking down the pictures. I think about selling the apartment. I think, guilty, about how brilliant a life without this pain might be. I think about moving away. I think of all of the places she can’t follow me to, all of the people she can’t be.
There is a certain power in letting go; I’ve seen it on other people, even in myself, on occasion. I have chosen to be weak for far too long. But if I could summon her back I would still say it all: I love you, I hate you, I love you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate what you’ve done to me. I love you. I will never stop loving you.
MPREG!Blaine. Kurt and Blaine are hittin’ their 40s and have three (mostly grown) kids. Not long after their oldest goes off to college, they find out that sometimes life likes to hand out little surprises.
Kurt closed his eyes, breathing in deep as he took a look around the mostly empty bedroom that once belonged to his oldest child. It was something that he did almost every single day: wake up, make some coffee, and then wander into Paisley’s room while everyone else was still in bed. He’d lean against her dresser and look around the place, sighing heavily as the memories of her birth and of her growing up played through his thoughts like old home movies. It was hard to believe that she was eighteen now and a college freshman off on the other side of the country. Yeah, she had her Uncle Coop to watch out for her, but it was still odd being all the way in New York while his baby was away in California starting her life and blossoming into a beautiful young woman.
Another sigh escaped from his lips as he stepped out of Paisley’s room and shut the door behind him, creeping down the darkened hallway towards the kitchen where he was sure he’d find Blaine sitting at the table with the paper and whatever he deemed edible that day. Instead, he was met with the sight of his other two kids bumbling around the room, pots and pans clanging while they struggled to make themselves a proper breakfast.
“You two are up early…”
“Yeah, well it’s hard to sleep when dad’s puking his guts out in the bathroom next to you.”
At age six, Mother taught me to look both ways before crossing the road and to wash my hands before supper because dirt isn’t a spice. Bloods stains are far worse than dirt, soak them in a quart of cold water and a tablespoon of ammonia, she’d say, lips pressed together firm. Splinters cause infections when they aren’t taken care of properly and too much of a good thing becomes bad, like sunlight and too much red wine after dinner. Mother taught me that home isn’t a place with four walls and a ceiling, it’s a feeling in your chest, tucked safely below your heart and just past your twenty-fourth rib.
But what she never taught me was that ivy wasn’t the only kind of poison, that nightshade and poison oak and your lips do more than just numb. My heart has stopped beating and I still haven’t learned out how to get it to beat again.
She says I am no longer allowed to eat honey out of milky palms or dead fruit just past the orchid or fall asleep in blank forts pass midnight. What happened to pillow fights and tubs full of ice cream? Then the only pain I knew then was teeth rot, now there’s a whole in my chest and no amount of filling can make it whole again. There is no more innocence in these eyes for I have seen the light at the end of the tunnel and It isn’t the sun. It is a poorly kindled flame, awaiting it’s prey.
AN: First Request I’ve ever written. YAY! This one was surprisingly fun to write and turned out WAY (!!!) longer than I expected. I’m definitely not able to make every request that long lol
I went for the obvious thing here :P hope you like it. ____________________________________________________
CAN WE PUT YOU ON THE GAMING CHANNEL?
You are invited to Dan and Phil’s place for a night of food and movies. You haven’t known them for very long so when they invited you to come over after you bumped into them at the shopping centre you were quite nervous. That nervousness soon faded with each new glass of wine Phil poured and after dinner Dan had the brilliant idea to put every alcoholic drink they own onto the table along with a few juices and sirup and play Who Makes The Nicest Drinks. You had so much fun with the cocktails and messing about that none of you was in the mood for sitting down and watching a movie. In fact you had so much fun you forgot to pay attention to the amount of drinks you’ve had and if it wasn’t for Phil who decided that it’s time to take a break you would have gotten entirely wasted. So you sit down in the living room and Phil brings in coke for everyone so you’d have something none alcoholic for a change.
Bellamy had called for this meeting after learning that Dorian had met with some of the urchins. It was a curious move and he wanted to know more about it, and he wanted to personally greet the man he’d hired to head his PR department. Or at least assist with it. They were already getting some pretty good PR. So they went to dinner, joked and did small talk and when the table was cleared, they were able to really chat.
“Dorian,” he said, sitting back in his seat, sipping his after dinner wine. “Did anything other than the money bring you to Aisling?”
The first toothbrush was not patented until 1857. Obviously from accounts in history of even the wealthiest and most royal of people having brown teeth, that most people didn’t get them all too clean. That was probably because of the methods that were used.
Medieval * Rinsing mouth with water to remove gunk from mouth. * Rubbing teeth with a clean cloth to wipe tartar buildup and left over food particles from the teeth. * Chewing herbs to freshen breath, mint, cloves, cinnamon, sage * Using “toothpicks” to clean out the teeth. * Mint and vinegar mixture, used to rinse out the mouth. * Bay leaves soaked in orange flower water and mixed with musk. * “Barbers” would also be used as dentists and would extract teeth that were rotting or bothering a person profusely. They sometimes were able to muck out the junk in teeth and create a filling of sorts.
Elizabethan * Rubbing teeth with the ashes of burnt rosemary. * Powdered sage rub used to whiten teeth. * Vinegar, wine and alum mouthwash * After dinner comfits were eaten to freshen breath
Renaissance * The same practices for cleaning were in use, but the “barbers” aka dentists had begun to learn more about dentistry. * The first dentures, gold crowns, and porcelain teeth, were constructed in the 1700’s. * 1790 brought about the dental foot engine, similar to the foot pedal of a spinning wheel, it rotated a drill for cleaning out cavaties. * The first dental chair was made in the late 1700’s.
Regency * They again used the same methods. * A letter from Lord Chesterfield to his son urges the use of a sponge and warm water to scrub the teeth each morning. * The recommendation of using one’s own urine in France was widely flouted by Fouchard, the French dentist. * Gunpowder and alum were also recommended.
ok but give me a verse where muse a and muse b’s parents are best friends but the muses don’t get along!! they’ll meet up for dinner once a week and it’s always tense and they’ll mutter snide remarks across the table and then one day it gets really heated and muse a ends up storming off to their room and muse b’s parents force them to go check on muse a so they roll their eyes and do it and then they get into an argument and muse b wants muse a to just shut the hell up so they kiss which leads to really angry sex and muse b has to cover muse a’s mouth to keep them quiet!! and then it becomes a weekly thing like they end up excusing themselves while their parents have wine after dinner and have really really great sex and eventually muse b will hang out in muse a’s bed for a little bit longer every time and they both know they’re developing feelings they just don’t want to so muse b asks their parents if they can stop going to dinner bc they’re an “adult and shouldn’t have to” so they stop talking and then muse a gets a boyfriend/girlfriend the same week that muse b decides they miss muse a and it comes up at dinner and muse b is a wreck even though it’s all their fault!! bonus points if muse a cheats on their s/o after!
So….I was gonna planning to post something tonight but that’s not gonna happen. Instead, I leave you all with this random blurb thing. Please accept with my apologies.
“Hey Oliver, wanna go get frozen yogurt?”
Oliver tries not to groan when he lifts his head off the couch. They’d just finished dinner and he’d had been looking forward to the rest of the night being quiet. A veg out to a Top Chef marathon night. A do-nothing night. A have an extra glass or two of wine after dinner and go to bed early kind of night.
This week is getting to him and it’s only Tuesday.
He opens his mouth to begin some terribly lame excuse when he sees the concern in Connor’s eyes.
Connor knows how hard Oliver’s been working, has seen the fatigue Oliver never seems to shake, and worries. Thirty is too young to look so worn out.
“Please, Oliver. Can we go?”
And with that Oliver knows he’s gone. Connor rarely says please so sincerely. He’s cajole and insist, poke and prod when he really wants something. But it’s occasion few and far between when Connor actually humbles himself enough to plainly ask for what he wants.
// i’m going to start including canada with the allies since he is technically apart of the allies. this is the only permanent exception to my 5 character only limit ʕ•ω•ʔ also i’m unsure what kind of scenario you want, anon, so i’ll just do headcanons- if that’s not what you wanted, please do message me with what you wanted- //
France / Francis Bonnefoy
He finds ways to keep the romance alive in he and his S/O’s relationship. He may take them on dates every once in a while, or just do special things around the house for them.
He always takes his S/O on very special trips on their anniversary. He may take them to a country they’ve always wanted to go to, or just take them on a tour around his country.
On date nights, he’d rather not go out. Instead, he treats them to a nice homemade meal and some fine wine. After the dinner, he would have a trail of rose petals leading to the bedroom in hopes of a little something more that night. ;)
He’ll wake his S/O up by covering their face in light kisses and snuggling his face into their neck.
He’ll propose to his S/O by taking them on a hot air balloon ride and popping the question (if they’re not afraid of heights). If they are afraid of heights, he’ll propose the them in the comforts of their own home with a candlelit dinner.
America / Alfred F. Jones
He’s very playful around the house. His S/O could be cooking dinner or doing something productive and he will randomly come up behind them and throw him over his shoulder or something. He’d make sure they didn’t have anything dangerous in their hand, like a knife or something, beforehand though.
His S/O will have to literally drag him out of bed to get him up in the morning. It’s rare that he’s awake before 2:00.
He’d probably propose to his S/O using a meme or he’d do it in the most romantic way possible. There would be no in-between.
He would take his S/O out on date nights at least once a month to keep things romantic in their newly married lives. The date nights would consist of going dancing or going to an amusement park. Maybe both on some occasions.
Having children would be all up to his S/O. He would be happy either way. If his S/O decided against children, he would just get them a puppy and treat it like their child.
Canada / Matthew Williams
He’s very helpful around the house. He and his S/O will clean together, cook together, and wash dishes together. Everything will be done together.
For the first few months of their marriage, he won’t bring up the subject of children unless his S/O does first. He’s scared that they wouldn’t ready for kids, or that they won’t even want kids. Instead, the couple could just treat Kumajirou like their child.
He’ll wake his S/O up with forehead kisses and freshly made pancakes almost every morning. He’s a very loving and doting husband.
He’s very concerned in his S/O’s well-being every time they’re away from him. He loved this person enough to go through the human ritual of marriage with them, of course he’s going to be worried about them every time they’re apart.
He would be nervous while proposing to his S/O and would use note cards to make sure he didn’t mess up. It would be an adorable sight for his S/O, to see this Canadian bab all flustered and shakily holding his note cards tightly to his chest.
England / Arthur Kirkland
It would take a lot of convincing to have him commit to marriage. Marriage is a big thing alone for a normal human, but for a country, it’d be them devoting themselves to someone until they died. That would take a lot out of someone and he wouldn’t be sure if he could handle it.
If he is convinced to marry his S/O, he would make sure the proposal is nothing less than perfect. He would have a candlelit dinner with his S/O and would, reluctantly, allow France to cook the main course. However, he would be the one to cook dessert. He may even hide the ring inside whatever he thought to make for dessert.
He always makes sure his S/O gets up happy and ready to start the day. He usually wakes them up with a chaste kiss on the lips. If he has to leave before they wake up, he’ll leave them a nice note on the bedside table.
Date nights are rare with him. He hardly finds the time to schedule one, but when he does, he makes sure it is absolutely perfect in every way possible.
He gets incredibly worried if he and his S/O have to be separated for a long amount of time, but he hides it easily. He’s worried something will happen to them and he won’t be there to help them in whatever way he can.
Russia / Ivan Braginski
He’d be a very attached husband, but not annoyingly attached. He’d help out his S/O around the house and make sure they were always doing okay. He’d probably try to tag-along with them to the store or wherever they went, but it’s only because the baby cares a lot.
He would spend his evenings with his S/O by the fire and cuddle them.
He would propose to his S/O in his own home. He’d take them by surprise by randomly popping the question at the awkwardest time. It wouldn’t be that romantic, but it would be very sincere.
He would want to start thinking about kids right away, if his S/O was comfortable with it. If they didn’t want kids, he would be a bit crestfallen, but then he’d by a cat and feel better.
His S/O will wake up with him nearly on top of them every morning. It may be a bit uncomfortable for a while, but they’ll get used to it.
China / Yao Wang
Just like England, he would have the same worries and concerns about marriage. He’s been around a while and has managed not to get too attached to any human in particular. Having an S/O come around and make him rethink his thoughts about relationships and marriage would freak him out a bit.
His proposal would be pretty simple. He’d casually slip them the question in a conversation as if it were nothing.
He cares a lot for his S/O and shows it to them by cooking things for them and such.
He’s incredibly worried about his S/O a majority of the time, whether they’re with each other or apart. He’s worried something may happen to them and tries to watch out for them as much as possible.
He’s actually a pretty silly partner. Throughout the day, he’ll make jokes about his age to his S/O and tease them quite a bit. He may try to pick them up at random points in the day, only to have his back give out and the two of them fall over.
You and Luke were celebrating Christmas at your family’s house. It was the first Christmas you guys were spending together and it was bliss. Your whole family, all 25 of them, was over and that meant making a lot of food. While you were helping your mum with the dessert Luke was outside playing with your little cousins. You could see them squealing as he picked them up and twirled them around.
“You and Luke must be getting pretty close if you brang him for our Christmas dinner,” your mum said, smiling as she rolled out the dough.
“He’s a lovely boy,” Aunt Margret chimed in.
“Yeah, I thought it was time he met the family,” you smiled.
“Well all the little ones seem to adore him,” your cousin said, as she took a sip from her wine glass.
After dinner was over your mum urged you to go spend time with Luke instead of helping to clear the table. So there you guys were cuddling together on the couch under the AC (because it’s hot as hell in AUS).
“So this Christmas dinner, do you guys do this every year?” Luke whispered, as he rested his head on your shoulder.
“Yep, it’s always so much fun. Everyone comes over for breakfast then we decorate the house and make food for the dinner,” you smiled, remembering how the tradition started.
“It’s been fun. Watching your uncles get drunk is pretty funny,” he chuckled. You laughed as you could hear them singing and possibly dancing outside.
“Thanks for bringing me (y/n),” he said as his lip met with yours. You kissed back and you felt his tongue trace your bottom lip. You smiled and granted permission. As things started to get heated you heard someone clear their throat. You guys broke apart and saw your family standing behind you with your cousins having their eyes covered.
“We were gonna open presents,” your dad said, awkwardly motioning to the tree.
“Oh sorry,” you blushed. From the corner of your eye you could see Luke shuffling his feet.
“Hang on, I’ll go get Luke his present,” your brother said, running down the halls. There was an awkwardly silence as you waited for your brother to return. Soon he came back, hiding something behind his back.
“Okay, I’m sure everyone is gonna stand behind this present and agree you guys need this,” your brother said.
You had a puzzled expression as your cousin held in a laugh. Your brother threw the present at you guys. It was wrapped in paper held by sticky tape. Luke cautiously unwrapped it and went red as he saw what it was. You took the present out of his hand and threw them away as soon as you realised what they were. Your whole family laughed as you started to hide your face in your hands.
“You guys, whyyyy?,” you groaned.
“Don’t use all the condoms at once,” your aunt laughed. You groaned and hid into Luke’s chest as he awkwardly patted your back.
“But use the bible because ya’ll need Jesus,” your brother laughed.
Imagine your OTP at a dinner party hosted by one of their bosses. One of them is nervous and the other one is bored so they both have a little too much wine. After dinner, everyone starts to mingle and they decide to find some alone time in the huge mansion.
However, the first room they stumble upon is a sex dungeon, full of harnesses, whips, and an honest to goodness sex swing. Person A is mortified, but person B stands in the sex swing and starts singing Chandelier by Sia (or Wrecking Ball by Miley Cyrus) to the top of their lungs.