#Letterkenny Imagine

[beautifultypewriter]

Can you please write an imagine with Wayne from Letterkenny finding out the reader is pregnant and how protective and sweet he is?

Aww this is so cute! I’m gonna do some quick headcanons for this. Hope you like them!

Being pregnant with Wayne’s baby:

Okay, so obviously when you first found out you were a bit nervous about telling Wayne. Everyone knows his feelings about children. Deep down you knew that he was gonna be there for you no matter what decision you made, but there was still a certain level of anxiety.

Being blunt with Wayne was the best way to go, so you drove over to his place and basically pulled him from his lawn chair and dragged him into the house.

He had no idea what was going on, but he let you pull him and then he waited patiently as you paced in front of him, chewing on your bottom lip. You could feel his eyes following you and that was not helping your nerves at all.

Finally, you just turn to him and blurt out, “I’m pregnant.”

Wayne was quiet as he stared at you for a few minutes. You chewed on your lip as you waited for him to say something. Finally he asked what you wanted to do.

When you tell him that you want to keep the baby, he nods and suggests that you move into the house. It’ll just make things so much easier and he’ll be able to help you better if the two of you are living in the same place. “And a family should all be living in one place.”

You nod, tears forming in yours eyes that you try to quickly wipe away, but Wayne sees them. He pulls you into his chest quickly and kisses the top of your head before he leads you out to the truck.

He drives over to your place and the two of you start packing up your stuff. When he said you should move in with him, he meant right away apparently.

It takes a couple of days, but you have everything together and Wayne comes by with Darry to pack it all into the truck and bring it to his your guys’ house.

Anytime you try to lift a box to carry out to the truck, Wayne takes it from your arms. He doesn’t say anything, but you get the hint after the third time and decide to go out and supervise the two as they stack the boxes up.

Once you get to the house, it’s the same story, Wayne doesn’t let you carry any of the boxes, so you sit in a lawn chair next to Katy. The two of you talk and she tells you to get used to it.

And she’s right because for the rest of your pregnancy, Wayne doesn’t let you lift anything he deems as too heavy. Which is a lot of things, but you go with it because you know he’s just looking out for you and the baby.

Wayne and Katy both make sure your favorite snacks are always in stock at the house. And if something is missing then you know Wayne is going out to get it for you.

As you get further along in your pregnancy, Wayne is helping you in and out of the lawn chairs. You don’t even have to say anything, he’s always right there, ready to help you up.

Anytime you make a noise of discomfort, Wayne’s attention is on you. His head turns so fast in your direction, you’re afraid he’s gonna hurt his neck. If you wave him off the he won’t press the matter, but he’s glancing at you every few minutes just to make sure.

If the baby is kicking a lot then Wayne will bend down to be eye level with your belly. He’ll press his hand against your stomach and tell the kid to knock it off and stop bothering their mother. Katy rolls her eyes, but you laugh.

If you’re ever standing for a long period of time, Wayne will slide his hand under your belly and pull it up ever so gently to release some of the strain on your back.

Wayne is a steady, supportive presence for the entire pregnancy. He’s quiet, but he’s always there for whatever you need and no request is too steep for him.

[hermankopusortizorsumshite]

Hi sweet babies! Y’all are always sooooooo patient with me and mad antics! But listen

•S•H•O•R•E•S•Y•

Please tell me you’d read Shoresy, cause Wayne is hot all fist fights and brute strength BUT SHORE??? Good god bless Jared Keeso, he’s an absolute beauty. A real legend. He’s so good to us.

Anyways, if anyone is up for Shoresy also, I’ll be writing for both Wayne and Shoresy, 😂❤️ much love!

[headcanonthings]

Darry, in a high voice, holding Barbie: Hey Ken! I was thinking about going back to school and starting a career!

Katy, in a deep voice, holding Ken: Nonsense, Barbie. You’re staying home and having my kids.

Wayne: What the hell are you two doing?

Katy: Playing systemic oppression

[best-fictional-band-poll]

The winner of this poll will go through to round 2!

[theunluckyclover]

Be bisexual, call that Dick von Dyke

[hannahssimblr]

“Is that everything?” Mom’s car idles as I haul my last suitcase out of the boot and onto the pavement. The wind is frigid, slicing through the tunnel of concrete and asphalt at departures, and whipping my clothes about my body like sails.

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s it now.”

“Alright,” she says, and pauses, her face halfway turned, so I see her in profile from my place by the open boot, her sharp cheekbone silhouetted by the sunrays through the open floors of a car park.

“Right, well.”

“Yes. I better go.”

“Thanks for the lift.”

She hesitates, her chest rising and falling with a sharp breath. “I- It’s a shame you have to go,” she says eventually. “But it’s for the best.”

“Yes.”

“Call me when you land.”

“I’ll text.”

“That’s fine.”

I slam the boot shut, and she pulls away from the curb with a roar of her engine. 

“Would all passengers travelling to Berlin on flight DLH-3478 please have your boarding passes and passports ready for boarding? Flight DLH-3478 now boarding at gate 41.” 

“Welcome on board,” says a peppy flight attendant. “Can I help you find your seat?”

“No.”

I shuffle down the aisle to the sounds of sleepy murmuring from the other passengers. A combination of English and German. I find my seat and shove my bag into the overhead compartment. 

As luck would have it, I was randomly assigned a window seat. I squeeze in, my knees bent and nudging the seat in front of me. 

Next to me, an older lady, in her sixties maybe, struggles in. “Oh, goodness’ sake,” she says, in this lilting, Donegal brogue. “These seats weren’t made for tall fellas like you, were they?”

“Suppose not.” I turn my face to stare at the asphalt out the window. 

She settles in, hauling a heavy purse onto her lap, from which she unloads her reading glasses, a book with a WHSmith sticker on the cover, a BLT sandwich and a knitting project, still on the needles. 

I breathe slowly from my nose. 

“Terrible early flight, isn’t it?” She says, wiggling into her seat. 

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“I came all the way from Letterkenny. I had to get a bus at midnight. Imagine that. Took three hours overall. It’s desperate.”

“Mm.”

“Where are you coming from?”

“Clontarf. It’s like, fifteen minutes away.”

“Oh, lucky you!” She pulls down the table, but soon has to fix it back in place when the flight attendant coming to close the overhead lockers asks her to. The handbag is repacked and squeezed under the seat in front. 

She happily talks over the safety announcement. “I’m excited about this,” she whispers as the attendant demonstrates how to blow up the life vest. “I’m visiting my sister. She’s lived over in Berlin for years and years. She’s got a German husband. Gerhard, and I’d say the last time I visited, well, we were trying to figure it out together when I was on the phone with her. Was it eight years? When was… No, it was 2001…”

When the engines roar to life, and the plane begins its slow taxi across the runway, she produces a bag of sweets from her cardigan pocket. “For your ears?” she says. 

“I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?” She rustles the bag, and I look. They’re lemon bonbons. I like those. 

“Yeah, actually, thanks,” I say, and pluck one from the packet. I haven’t yet decided if I can eat it while my stomach is so knotted up and queasy. Maybe I’ll just hold it.

“What’s bringing you to Berlin?” She says, as the plane rounds a wide corner to reveal the expanse of sky over the flat of north Dublin. 

“I’m moving, actually.”

“Oh! Wow, isn’t that exciting?”

“Yeah, I suppose it is.”

“What has you going to Germany?”

“College,” I say, because it’s all I think I can say. Something is happening behind my face. I clench my fist around the lemon bonbon, sticky in my hot palm. 

“All on your own?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, well, it’s a big change, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is.”

“You’ll miss your family and friends, won’t you? It’s not far, but you know how these things are. It’s never easy leaving home for the first time.”

“No.”

“You’re very brave.”

A murmuration of starlings cuts through the blue. “Mm. I suppose. I-” I break off as my voice catches. No. I think. Not here. So I blink, hard, but it can’t stop the tears coming, because they’ve been waiting, as though building behind a dam, and now at last, in the most inconvenient location on the planet, something has given. “I… um…”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she produces a tissue and I take it, pinching it against the bridge of my nose while tears spill over and snot flows, my teeth bared. I can’t bear to look at her as she fusses over me, her hand stroking my sleeve. I sniff, and it’s loud, and thick, and humiliating. 

“Darling, you’ll be alright, c’mere, now, you can just let it all out.”

“Sorry.”

“No need.”

Like a mother, she murmurs vague, comforting sentiments as the tears pour, and build, and flood my vision until the view of Dublin blurs like wet paint. I sob until I think I’ll retch. The plane speeds along the runway, and lifts, and takes off into the sky, and I leave my little green island behind. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[filmnoirsbian]

Things read in May

Essays & Articles:

Ursula K. Le Guin on Being A Man

Investigating parents of transgender youth has agency on ‘brink of collapse,’ staff warns

Five Indigenous Speculative Fiction Authors You Should Be Reading

DECOLONIZING SCIENCE FICTION AND IMAGINING FUTURES: AN INDIGENOUS FUTURISMS ROUNDTABLE

Using Dogs As A Tool of Racial Oppression

Rings of Power: The new hobbits are filthy, hungry simpletons with stage-Irish accents. That’s $1bn well spent

First case of HIV cure in a woman after stem cell transplantation reported at CROI-2022

The Trees That Miss The Mammoths

NOPE’S SCIENCE CONSULTANT REVEALS THE NAME AND INSPIRATION FOR THE MOVIE’S ALIEN

Reflections on the Poetry of Eavan Boland

The dire state of trans healthcare in Ireland

How Letterkenny Got Indigenous Representation So Right

Einstein's Parable of Quantum Insanity

Surgical amputation of a limb 31,000 years ago in Borneo

Most Transgender Children Stick With Gender Identity 5 Years Later: Study

Were you a ‘parentified child’? What happens when children have to behave like adults

Fear of a Black Hobbit

It’s a ‘Full-Contact’ Haunted House. What Could Go Wrong?

The Craft: How a Teenage Weirdo Based on a Real Person Became an Icon

Remember When Multiplayer Gaming Needed Envelopes and Stamps?

‘We’ll Never Make That Kind of Movie Again’ An oral history of The Emperor’s New Groove, a raucous Disney animated film that almost never happened.

5 Incredible Sagas of Fandom Scams and Deception

I Used to Love British Period Dramas. Now I See Them as Colonial Propaganda

Why gender essentialism is a white supremacist ideology

Liberating Our Homes From the Real Estate–Industrial Complex

You Don’t Have To Be Pretty – On YA Fiction And Beauty As A Priority

Ten Years Later, There’s Still Nothing Like Tarsem Singh’s The Fall

Tolerance is not a moral precept

Scottish Poet and Publisher Derick Thomson 'Transformed' Gaelic Poetry

Poetry:

The Universe, as in One Last Song for the Lonely Hearts by Michelle Hulan

An Ordinary Evening in New Haven by Wallace Stevens

Heaven by George Herbert

Return from Death by Derick Thomson

Coffins by Derick Thomson

Chemin De Fer by Elizabeth Bishop

Yes, It Was The Mountain Echo by William Wordsworth

The Man and the Echo by William Butler Yeats

The Most of It by Robert Frost

Eros Turannos by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Books:

The Dark Yule by R. M. Callahan

The Invasion by K. A. Applegate

The Whisper by Aaron Starmer

House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski

Miss Iceland by Auður Ava Ólafsdóttir

[jerseyshoresy]

Hello Everyone! This is a new blog dedicated to Shoresy and Letterkenny fanfics.

There is an extreme lack of stories revolving these characters and I want to try to fill the gap a bit! This is a secondary blog and I don’t foresee myself dedicating my entire life to writing on here, but I’m hoping to entertain some of you on occasion. Thanks for reading and I’ll leave you with some new reader insert content below!

Warnings: cursing

Imagine…

Going to a Bulldog’s practice and chirping Shoresy from the stands

“If you don’t stop looking at me instead of focusing, I won’t be mad if the puck knocks out the rest of your teeth.”

The man in the 69 sweater had been sparing you glances the entire hour of practice, his head obviously not in the game. He kept messing up simple maneuvers, his mind running wild with fantasies of the two of you, both wholesome and not so much. You certainly didn’t mind the attention but you knew how important winning was to Shoresy—the team couldn’t afford to lose again.

“You’re just so fucking pretty, I can’t help it. You know I would treat you so good,” Shoresy said, a shine in his eyes.

You raised an eyebrow. “Treat me good? If you can’t even touch a puck, how are you supposed to know how to touch me?”

Shoresy couldn’t have been more fired up at your chirp.

“God, I would treat you so good. I would take my clothes off and slide on this ice naked for a chance to open the car door for you. I would take a puck to the face every day if it meant I could do your laundry.”

“If you just stop skating slower than a person being dragged under a zamboni then maybe we can work something out.”

“You’re such a fuckin’ beauty,” Shoresy replied before skating back to his teammates, ready to keep practicing and hopefully getting your number later.

[aachria]

sooooooo lemme get this straight, coin has had ***SEX*** with THE KING OF THE **FUCKING** PIRATES AND HIS *FIRST* **FUCKING** MATE?! sigh... coin you actually slut/nm also, I personal head cannon of mine that I'd thought I'd share bc Im IGNORING CANON is that boa doesnt see Luffy as a love interest BUT INSTEAD AS HER SON, so she would try and make him like 'prince of the pirates'. I did see a post on Tumblr once that was like this but idk who the user is. ALSO ANOTHER HEAD CANON that will fucking ruin everyone's perception... ever since it was revealed that coin and Ed were Canadian, I did not hear them as like scott pilgrim Canadian. NO I MEAN FULL ON 'oh! good day to you oh, nice weather oh, here take 10 quid for your travels oh!' IM TALKING MOTHER FUCKING APOLOGIZING FOR EVERYTHING AND AND SAYING 'eh, oh, right'!! >:D

Look me dead in the eyes and tell me you wouldn't jump both of their bones if you spent every day confined to the same ship with those fine ass men. And don't you DARE lie to me.

The Boa seeing Luffy as her son take is interesting, and I definitely know which post you're talking about (I am NOT going and looking for it I do NOT have the time rn), idk if I will stray down that path tho.

I don't think I've ever had someone use Scott Pilgrim as their stereotypical Canadian accent example. Like yeah ik it's set in Toronto and Michael Cera is from Ontario so it's absolutely correct (and now that I think of it totally how I talk isn't it) but that's never been someone's go-to in any conversations I've had. (Might just be a me thing tho tbh. It's probs a lot of people's go-to.)

And babe. The sentence you just used. What the fuck was that. I expected some level of 'oh hey there bud, nice weather eh, wanna hit the Timmies? Ten minute walk I've got the toonies, no worries' ofc but good day to you? Quid??? Why are there so many oh's?????? Please what Canadians are you talking to???

To be fair, we already have the eh's and the right's and the sorry's with Ed because I write them how I talk even if you don't super pick up on it. Even the leaving the first word out of some sentences, like saying 'you ok?" instead of 'are you ok?' is an accent thing I Did Not Know I did until I was writing dialogue how I fucking speak. Wild.

Counter suggestion: just imagine them talking like Shoresy. The sheer incomprehensibility of them speaking like they're right outta Letterkenny.

(This is a joke and Ed does have a more Toronto-y accent but how much worse will you feel if I say Coin absolutely has Québécois family and that's just something you'll have to live with.)

[superiorgoobus]

Batfam as shit my friends say/do

Tim: if I was running on ice, I'd wear grippy socks

Jason: yeah it would make sense that you have grippy socks

Tim: .... fuck you

-

Jason: *trying to send a text* goddamn I can't type shit, my fingers are so cold

Steph: sounds like a you problem bud

Jason: it's gonna be a you problem when I throw your ass in a snowbank

-

Dick: haha that looks like a dildo

Duke: must you say that about every cylindrical rubber object you see?

Dick: yes.

-

Steph: hey, did I mention I hate that guy?

Cass: only fifteen times today.

-

Tim, sleep deprived: it would appear as though I have holes in my pants.

Damian: tt. those are ripped jeans. You bought them that way.

-

Dick: that guys phone is really long... and thin... just like a penis...

Duke: I am going to end you.

-

Harper: *at a Gotham knights game* IM BLIND! IM DEAF! I WANNA BE A REF!

-

Jason: I still can't fucking type...

Steph: you know what that is?

Jason: if you say-

Steph: that's a you problem bud

Jason: every time you say that it makes me more and more pissed off.

Steph: if it makes you feel better, I once said that to a guy who said if I broke up with him he's kill himself. I also told him I didn't give a shit if he died.

Jason: that is hilarious.

-

Bruce: dear god I don't want to go outside.

Clark: we're at a hockey game. You had to go outside to get here.

Bruce: well I don't want to do it again.

-

Steph: I can't believe it's -25 out, and some people showed up to class wearing just sweatshirt and jeans. This is Gotham University, no one thinks you're cool, just a dumbass.

-

Tim: *starts an argument with Kon over yikyak despite the fact they're sitting on the same couch*

-

Steph: so then my girlfriend at the time said-

Tim: you know, I probably wouldn't have hooked up with you if I knew you were a lesbian.

Steph: ... I'm not a lesbian. I'm bisexual.

Tim: oh.

-

Damian: where is my knife... I can't find my knife...

Dick: you know scissors would be way more affective for what you're trying to do, right?

Damian: yes but for aesthetic purposes I want to use a knife.

-

Tim: *mixing an alcoholic drink with blue in it*

Bernard: damn, Tim trynna kill with windex over here

-

Dick: I can't believe no one told me there was a new season of Letterkenny out!!!

Jason: hey guess what?

Dick: what

Jason: there's a new season of letterkenny out

Dick: fuck you

-

Steph: hey, zip tie my hands so I can try to get out.

Cass: no, why would I-

Harper: oh fuck yeah

Steph: *cuts her hand trying to escape the zip ties* oh, dude, look! Now I look cool!

-

Cass: *is wearing a sport bra while exercising*

Steph: Cass!!! Stop being naked every time I see you!!

Cass: ???

-

Tim: *sends Bernard a Snapchat using the peach emoji filter*

Bernard: oh my god... the booty emoji...

-

Kate: *has a sign on her office wall that says "all things are possible through sarcasm and profanity." *

-

Tim: *snaps Steph a picture of a drink with an ingredient he's allergic to in it* the urge to drink this to see if it kills me it outrageous

-

Jason: would you like a cake pop?

Damian: a cake... a what?

Jason: a cake pop?

Damian: what on earth is a cake pop?

Jason: DICK NEVER BOUGHT YOU A CAKEPOP? We are resolving this problem today. Get in the Batmobile, we're going to Starbucks and buying you a dozen cake pops.

Damian: you still haven't told me what a cake pop is.

Jason: imagine a lollipop, but cake. And spherical.

Damian: spherical cake?

Jason: yes, spherical cake.

Damian: ... how...

Jason: get your ass in the car and I'll show you how.

[fiddles-ifs]

Merry Shitscram everyone !! have backstory

Kaylen's nose is especially oily today; you can see her pores working overtime to clear the sweat out, hair clinging to her forehead from the new choppy pixie cut. It makes her look like a dance mom at fifteen.

"You're so fucking sad I get a charity tax break just for hanging out with you," she says, smacking your roller blades to get you to break. Doesn't work. Never will. And there's no ref to break it up, so she just stops, fingers tightening on her own stick.

The ands -- Kaylen, Aiden, Dylan, and some other douchebag teen from your grade -- like to fight dirty, but their chirps could use some work.

"Nice Letterkenny reference, dipshit," you say. "Are you going to play or not?"

You're barely out of face-off when Aiden comes from left and shoves his bulk up against your shoulder, trying to wrestle the puck away. He's not very fast, but he's pushy, and big. Sandwiched between him and Kaylen -- who is fast, but an opportunistic vulture -- is a disaster until someone from your team manages to help you out of the hole.

But Dylan has his legs wide open, staring dazedly at the powerlines overhead. You do some mental math, just as Aiden and Kaylen get distracted by shoving matches from your side. You're alone in the vast expanse of concrete and sky. You might have just enough time. You wind up, stick blade parallel to the high wires.

The slapshot you punish him with comes in front of a thunderously loud crack, composite hitting asphalt; the puck looks like a bullet. You worry you might has misjudged the angle -- it'll put a dent right in his shin, and you can't deal with that right now, not with parole chilling the sweat on the nape of your neck. But then it zips right between his knee guards, into the net, ripping a hole through the beat up rope. It's fine -- the goal is battle scarred with pockmarks from years of abuse.

And you win.

And that's all that matters.

Your whole team freaks the fuck out, slapping the top of your head, jostling you for good luck. They almost knock you off your skates.

"Fuck you, Robin!"

"You kiss your mother with that mouth, Dylan?" You have to shout to be heard over the sound of teenagers still raging. "Probably not, because she looks like a dog's shaved asshole. Doesn't stop me, though!"

You stick your tongue out and glide back down the pavement -- you'd snow him if there was snow, but alas. You'll make do with kicking a little grit onto his shoes.

"Dick," you hear him mumble, just as Aiden skates up by him to try and balm the wound.

"Yeah, that's probably why their parents dumped them on the side of the road."

Everyone freezes -- except for the ands, who just laugh, the four of them tittering by the net like fucking hyenas.

"What did you say?" Your voice is cold. Sharp. Violence hiding in it. Someone puts a hand on your shoulder -- you don't give a shit who. It doesn't matter. It never matters.

"Ignore him," they say, trying to sand the edges down so you don't get in trouble. Looking out for you. (In your mind's eye, in the present, you try and imagine what Bautista looked like as a teenager with her hand on your shoulder.) "He's stupid."

And they keep laughing, even when you shake off the hands trying to keep you contained.

Nobody's laughing when you break your hockey stick in half over Aiden's head. There's a lot of screaming, actually.

(You look back on it now with a sort of numb-feeling shame, clinically picking the scene apart. Aiden was lucky you didn't seriously hurt him. You had a lot less control in those days.)

Parents come rushing out of apartments, pulling kids apart. Someone has a t-shirt pressed to Aiden's head. Someone else has their arms around you, pinning your hands to your sides while you kick and scream.

"If your little trailer trash foster mutt ever comes near my kid again, I'll call the fucking cops!"

"I am the fucking cops, lady!"

You're only a little bit calmer when your dad sits you down with a long-suffering sigh, hands on your arms like you might lash out again.

"What the hell was that about?"

You keep your head bowed, heavy with shame — your dad doesn’t ever yell like he did outside. Doesn’t like doing it. Says it makes him feel like an ass; and that’s about the one thing you’re embarrassed over. Cracking your stick over Aiden’s dome was darkly satisfying.

You explain, agonizingly stilted, what Aiden said to you.

Dad lets that settle for a bit. Then, he sighs, hangs his head, and gives your arms a gentle squeeze before he looks up again. His glasses are perched right on the tip of his nose, now.

“I’m sorry, kiddo.”

“He’s a douche.”

“I know — but now he’s going to keep coming back.”

“Why?” You don’t mean to sound so wounded.

“Because he’s a douchey teenager, and as long as he thinks he can win, he’s going to keep coming for you. The best thing you can do is walk away.”

(You loved your dad — but he was wrong. The best thing you can do isn’t walk away.

The best thing is to make sure they know they will never win.)

[fruitcoops]

Hey eve! Saw someone do this a while ago and thought it was a lovely idea: I thought I'd request a sequel of whatever fic you'd like! I love when you do sequels/series b/c then I have an excuse to reread MULTIPLE fics in a row like a mini novel :) Have a great day and I hope you get some ice cream (or whatever sweet treat of your choice) in your future! -aj (Also letterkenny is fantastic and always makes me think of these LADS)

Of course! Sequel to the end of this fic for the lovely AJ <3 Coops credit goes to @lumosinlove!

Sirius Black: Notorious Liar?

Black-Lupin Wedding…Faked? See Page 7 for Full Story.

Runaway Grooms of Pro Hockey!

Why the Lie, Cap? Speculation Around Sirius Black’s Supposed Gay Wedding.

--

“You drive these poor people insane.”

Sirius tucked his feet beneath Remus’ thigh and cackled.

“They are running themselves in circles—”

“They are minding other people’s business,” Sirius interrupted, eyes glittering with maniacal glee. “And getting what was coming to them.”

Remus shook his head and turned back to his phone. “I can’t believe you.”

“Yes, you can.”

He refused to dignify that with a response. Sirius looked far too pleased with himself in Remus’ periphery already.

“Hey.”

Remus bit the inside of his cheek.

“Hey.” A toe poked his hamstring. “Yes, you can believe I would do this.”

What an utterly impossible man he had married.

“Re.” Sirius dragged himself upright and stretched his way into Remus’ lap—they toppled to the other side of the couch in an undignified lump. Despite Remus’ protests, his phone was plucked away and set aside so Sirius could make himself comfortable across his body. His eyes were bright and happy as he settled his chin on Remus’ sternum. “Say it.”

Remus arched a brow.

“Say you can believe I would lie to those very, very annoying people.”

“Your knee is digging into my thigh.”

Sirius squeezed his thighs together, effectively paralyzing Remus from the waist down, and kissed his chest. “I would make a great massage therapist. Now say it.”

Remus huffed.

“I think it’s funny,” Sirius continued, kissing the edge of his shirt. His mouth trailed over the faint slope of Remus’ collarbone in a lazy path. “I think I’m doing what everybody always wants to do. So, if you think about it, I’m being so brave and funny and you love me so much.”

Fuck, he really did. “You said ‘think’, like, seven times there.”

Sirius’ groan vibrated against his ribs; Remus laughed and pushed a hand through his hair. “You can’t give me this one thing?” Sirius complained. When Remus ran a thumb over his half-smile, he turned to kiss the pad. “I did this for us, you know.”

“That’s true.” Remus pretended to consider it, tipping his head back and forth on the couch cushions under Sirius’ soft attention. The thing was, it had been pretty fucking hilarious. He still wasn’t sure how Sirius managed to think up a real wedding venue on the spot like that, nor how he kept his (entirely fake) story straight for three and a half months. It was an impressive display of commitment to the bit, which was, of course, wildly attractive.

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “I know you. I know you thought it was funny.”

“…how many people fell for it, again?”

He loved how mischief looked on Sirius’ face. “Five media teams, thirty-four fans, and a news van.”

“Oh my god,” Remus laughed.

“There it is!” Sirius crowed, burrowing his arms further under Remus.

“A news van?”

Sirius’ grin was sweet-sharp, like spiked lemonade. “Ouais.”

“Talk about a wild goose chase.” Remus pinched the bridge of his nose as another laugh bubbled out of him. “God. I really should feel bad for them, but I so don’t.”

“They were nosy and rude.” Sirius’ mouth found the edge of his jaw. “They deserved it. Can you imagine how awful it would have been to have them there if I told the truth? News people? At our wedding?”

“…you were very brave and very funny.”

“And you love me so much.”

His chest felt pressurized, as if it had been stretched like a balloon beneath Sirius’ comfortable weight. Whatever filled it was light as air and twice as warm. Sirius went happily when he pulled him up to kiss his forehead. “I love you so much.”

“Moi aussi.” Sirius shifted and heaved a long, happy sigh. “Pour toujours.”

“You could do better,” Remus whispered through his smile. Sirius shook his head. Silk-satin ink slipped between his fingers. “No?”

“Non,” Sirius murmured back. “Not even a little.”

[hermankopusortizorsumshite]

If He’s Got a Problem with You, He’s Got a Problem With Me.

TW: suggestion of domestic abuse, fighting, Wayne🤣💋 I do own the photo or the characters except the OC.❤️🎀 Enjoy!

She didn’t know where to go. She hadn’t known who to go to. Hiccups catch in her throat as another sob racks her small frame. Only back in letterkenny for an hour, her home town, the place she always ran when her heart was broken. This time it wasn’t just broken, she was scared.

Taking a deep breath, she raises her hand, and gives a soft rap on the door. Gnawing on her lip, she reaches up to knock again and the door cracks open a little and Katy’s sleepy face greets her with shock.

“Finna?” She asks softly, her voice a hoarse whisper. Clearing her throat she opens the door and waves her in.

“Hi, Katy.” She sniffles, tipping her head down and swiping her tears.

“You okay?”

“No.” She whimpers. Soft footfalls hit the stairs behind her and she turns to see Wayne standing at the foot of the stairs in his pajamas. He flips on the hall light and sees her face wet and puffy.

“Guppy, how are ya now?” He coos.

“Bad, ‘n you?” She hiccups.

“Well not so bad. Good to see ya, but not like this.” He babbles, pulling out a chair and offering her a seat.

“I’m sorry to wake you guys up. It’s just— I didn’t have anywhere else to go.” She whispers, glancing at Katy.

She and Katy had been best friends for their whole lives, and she always had a soft spot for Wayne. He was kind to her, and he always told her how nice she looked. There was a point in time when she doted on Wayne, when he the most handsome boy in Letterkenny to her. She and Katy were about three years younger than him, but she crushed hard on high school Wayne.

“Get her some blankets, Katy. She sleeps here tonight. I’ll deal with the rest of this tomorrow.” He announces, scooting away from the table heading to bed.

She and Wayne are the first two up.

“Morning, Guppy.” He smiles, hooking an arm around her shoulders.

“Morning, Wayne.” She replies, smiling slightly up at him as he looks down at her.

“You know if he’s got a problem with you he’s got a problem with me, and I suggest he lets that one marinate.” He threatens, his eyes searching hers for something and he finds something so soft and sad in hers. A couple of loud bangs echo from the front door and she screeches in fear, burrowing into Wayne’s strong arms. He hugs her tight to himself.

“I think he followed me.” She whispers, her voice quivering with every word. He holds her at arm’s length and gives her a gentle smile.

“I’ll be right back, yeah?” He assures, patting her shoulders. He goes to the door, opens it, and finds a scrawny man, gangly and rather ugly.

“Go away, Jared!” She cries, shoving at his chest.

“No! Who’s this guy?”

“What’s it matter?” She shouts back, shoving him again as he steps closer to Wayne.

“We get into one disagreement and you run to some other guy’s house?” He tells in her face. He reaches for her, his hand gripping her shoulder like a vice. A small whimper escapes her. She steels herself for the slap that follows, but it never does. When she opens her eyes, Wayne’s hand is around his throat, constricting his airway. Drawing back a heavy fist, Wayne hits him so hard the man drops to wooden porch with a low thud.

“We don’t hit pretty girls.” Wayne nips at the unconscious man, toeing him with his boot. “That wasn’t even a fight.” He laughs, “Let’s go get breakfast.” He offers, hooking his arm around her shoulders once more and heading inside.

“Do you think I’m pretty?” She asks, looking up at him for a moment. His cheeks turn a light shade of pink.

“I—“ she stops their walking. Wayne looks down at her, his eyes flick to her lips and he shifts from foot to foot. “Yeah. I think you’re really pretty, Guppy. And you deserve the whole world.” He offers, looking a his boots. When he glance at her, she’s dazing right back at him and he dips down, kissing her soft pink lips.

[antigone-ks]

Lantern of Evil

It's been almost 5 years since I posted this on AO3, so I thought it was time to clean up some typos and put it onto Tumblr.

MASTERLIST

Summary:

“You’re in a good mood today,” Natasha commented, holding the phone steady as Tony and Sam devolved into a slap fight. “Haven’t seen you smile this much since, y’know.”

“This is quality entertainment,” Steve said. “You don’t get this every day.”

“No you do not.” She turned the phone toward Bucky, who whistled as he sprinkled sea salt over the meat. He looked up, winked directly at her, then tossed the rest of the seasoning like a long-haired Salt Bae.

“But you seemed pretty chipper when you snuck back in before the show started.”

***

Or, Steve gets de-serumed and falls in love over art, old movies, and taxi dances.

Rating: E for Explicity, Eventually

Tags: Steve Rogers/Reader; Plus Size Reader; Natasha Romanov (Marvel); Tony Stark; Sam Wilson (Marvel); James "Bucky" Barnes; background Bucky/Nat - Freeform; Skinny Steve Rogers; Pre-Serum Steve Rogers; Post-Serum Steve Rogers; De-Serumed Steve Rogers; all of the combinations of serums and Steves; Slow Burn; Awkward Flirting; Awkward reader; Awkward Steve Rogers; neither of these goobers know what they're doing; shameless Letterkenny reference; False Identity; horrible misunderstandings; love in art galleries; love on bridges; love on front porches; will earn rating in later chapters; I hope; inappropriate use of a history degree; Short Reader; Profanity; Fluff; Angst; Fluff and Angst; Smut; Oral Sex; Vaginal Fingering; Making Out; definitely third base; not all-the-way parking but pretty close; Biting; Cunnilingus; Fellatio; Vaginal Sex; Steve wants to be clear that this isn't fucking; Making Love

Chapter One: The Greens of June

And all the greens of June/ Come blowing through the door/ They make me want to live/ Like I never have before

____________________

You settled onto the bench, bag on the floor. The museum had barely opened – a bad sign; it meant you were either blocked or stir-crazy. Or both. Both was bad. You’d had the museum on your list of things-to-do-if-you-had-time, but when you’d first come to town you’d expected that there would never be time. You were getting the change of scenery and relief from responsibilities that you’d always wanted, so of course you never imagined that the same old problems would plague you.

Namely, writer’s block. Imposter Syndrome. “Every word I write is trash and I should sleep in the dumpster”-itis.

You’d gotten this amazing opportunity to take a sabbatical, move half a continent away, and just research the hell out of your magnum opus, a stroke of historical genius. Or what would be your magnum opus, if you could get the damn thing off the ground. Right now it was stuck at brevi opus.

Opus minimis.

You had piles of research, and a good starting point, but you either got stuck on the writing of it or spent days on end organizing the data until the sun coming in the curtains made you feel like a Morlock crawling out of its hole.

So you’d hit the museum.

It’d actually been working pretty well for you, the last few weeks, and you’d started making it part of your routine. Rather than wait for the Bad Times to force you out of the house, you’d come down every two or three days and just . . . pick something. A painting, a sculpture, whatever caught your eye, and you’d study it until your mind felt clear. Sometimes your mind would wander far enough afield that it circled back to your work, and you’d excitedly jot down a new avenue to explore or a turn of phrase you liked. Sometimes you got nothing but a peaceful feeling. Either way, it was good for you, and the initial guilt you’d felt at not being Productive At All Times had faded.

It sort of was productive, anyway. You told yourself so.

For the last couple of visits, you’d sat with Hamilton’s Joan of Arc and the Furies. It was Shakespeare’s Joan, about to be captured by the English and burned for heresy. It’s not . . . good . . . you think, you don’t like it, but there’s something about it. It’s like two different paintings in one, dark and bright, overbearing and reticent.

There aren’t many people around yet, no kiddie camp visits today, so you’re alone in this part of the gallery. The docents are used to you by now, and don’t bother eagle-eyeing you. You lean your chin on your hand and stare hard at Joan, at her Merveilleuse gown, which, like, didn’t Hamilton know she wore pants? Like, famously? But anyway.

“You know,” a deep voice said, “I’ve always wondered what’s going on with the light down by that first fury. What does it symbolize?”

You look over your shoulder at the speaker, a slightly-built blond man with a sketchbook under his arm. He’d shown up a couple of times before, wandering around with more purpose than the average tourist, like he knew which pieces he liked and why. He had a delicate face and serious eyes with just ridiculous lashes. You smiled uncertainly.

“Like, where even is it coming from? Under her skirt?” you ask, and he looks down at you and whoa nelly those are very blue eyes and chuckles.

“Is it the lantern of justice?” he says, quirking an eyebrow.

“Probably not in Shakespeare. Maybe a lantern of evil.”

“She keeps a lantern of evil in her skirt?” He’s smiling openly at you now, and it’s a really nice smile, and that’s the only excuse you have for what comes out of your mouth next.

“Lantern of evil – in my pants!” you chirp, grinning.

His eyebrows shot up and he gave an incredulous hah.

“Like, like the game?” you say hurriedly. “Where you add ‘in my pants’ to a quote, or a movie title?” You can hear your voice rising nervously and fiddle with your glasses to avoid looking at him. “One ring to rule them . . . in my pants?”

He’s laughing now – probably more at you than at the joke – but it’s enough to relax you a little bit.

“I have never played that game,” he said, eyes dancing. “But I know just the person to try it with. I’ve seen you here before,” he went on, glancing back at the painting. The tips of his ears went very pink.

“Yeah, this is turning into my happy place when work’s not going so well.” You look at Joan again and clear your throat. “I think I saw you, too . . . maybe Sunday?” Not that I noticed you. I’m not a creeper. I notice nothing. I can barely see.

He nodded and shrugged. “Probably, yeah. I’ve been here a lot over the past week.”

“Work got you down, too?” you ask. He kind of purses his lips and nods. Taking a breath, you gesture to the empty half of the bench. “Want to share Joan with me? She’ll take your mind off it.”

His smile is a slow, gentle thing, and even though you say nothing more until it’s time to leave, you feel warmer for sitting near him.

***

“Because they’ll clog up the drain.” Tony’s voice is clipped.

“They get rid of odors,” Natasha points out.

“So it was you.”

“You think I drink that light roast nonsense?” She looks up as Steve enters, the light of battle in her eyes. Well, the light of annoying Tony. It’s not hard. “Weak.”

“Now you’re a coffee snob, Romanoff? You – “ Tony points a pair of tongs at Steve “ – do some reconnaissance, rally the troops, whatever it is you do, and catch this villain.”

Steve clucks his tongue and fails to hide a grin. “Coffee grounds again? You know, we could just get a Keurig and solve that problem easily.” He ducks as both Tony and Natasha turn on him, allied in outrage.

“Just for that,” Tony says, “you get whichever steak I overcook.”

Steve eyes the barstools at the island. He can get into them now, but it involves just enough scrambling that it hurts his dignity. No one said anything the first time he did it, not even Tony, and that was somehow worse than teasing would have been. He’s not broken, for God’s sake. He’s a man of temporarily reduced stature. It’ll be fixed in no time, Bruce and Tony and Helen have promised, but . . .

He’d read a book once that described a gnome as a person whose ‘belligerence was compressed into a body six-inches high and, like many things when they are compressed, had an inclination to explode.’[1] Steve didn’t consider himself belligerent – although he had the urge to cross himself in penance and hope that Bucky was in a different building when he thought it – but he did feel like every human emotion was currently packed into a body too small to hold it all. This body didn’t fit, except that it did, and Steve honestly wasn’t sure which feeling was worse.

He leaned against the counter with – he hoped – an insouciant air and nodded at Tony. “’s long as I can gnaw through it.”

“Are you impugning my grilling skills, Rogers?”

“Wait, you’re gonna grill those?” Sam and Bucky entered the kitchen, apparently fresh off a sparring match. Sam’s skin glistened with sweat, and Bucky wasn’t much better off. Sam might not have super serum in his veins, but he wasn’t a pushover in the ring.

“How else d’you cook ‘em?” Bucky asked, wrinkling his nose at Sam.

“You sear ‘em on the stovetop in a cast-iron skillet,” Sam said, holding up one finger, “finish ‘em in the oven,” two fingers, “serve with a garlic-herb butter.” Three fingers, waved in Bucky’s face.

Natasha leaned on the counter next to Steve and pointed her phone toward the argument. “Every time,” she whispered, hitting "record."

“Every time,” Steve answered.

“In the oven? Cook like a man, Sam!”

“Grill makes ‘em too dry,” Sam insisted.

“Hey!” Tony snapped his tongs at Bucky. “My meat. My rules.” He straightened his shoulders under Sam’s withering look. “On the grill, flip once a minute for the good grill marks.”

“That’s overhandling.” Sam’s tone suggested he was heading straight to church to light all of the candles for Tony’s soul.

“Wait – everyone, wait,” Steve broke in. Natasha quirked her lip at him, annoyed that he was ruining the show. He winked at her. “The real issue here is, aren’t you gonna season those things?”

“Yeah, where’s the salt and pepper, bud?” Bucky asked.

“Don’t start with me,” Tony warned.

“Where’s the steak spice,” Sam asked, rummaging through the cupboards. “I made you a steak spice months ago. My own blend, Tony. I gifted it to you. I’m not eating one of your bland-ass steaks again.” Tony abandoned the meat in favor of bodily hauling Sam away from the cupboards, giving Bucky time to grind at least a little peppercorn on each of the steaks.

“ – my steaks alone!” “ – killing the flavor, man. Killing the flavor!” “ – oversalting!” “ – can’t cook ‘em right, you leave it to someone who can!”

“You’re in a good mood today,” Natasha commented, holding the phone steady as Tony and Sam devolved into a slap fight. “Haven’t seen you smile this much since, y’know.”

“This is quality entertainment,” Steve said. “You don’t get this every day.”

“No you do not.” She turned the phone toward Bucky, who whistled as he sprinkled sea salt over the meat. He looked up, winked directly at her, then tossed the rest of the seasoning like a long-haired Salt Bae.

“But you already seemed pretty chipper when you snuck back in before the show started.”

Steve’s eyes were wide with injured innocence. “Snuck? Back in? I –“

“Can it. I don’t care – probably no one will recognize you – but if Tony finds out he’s going to turn into Chicken Little about security.”

“Tony can go lay an egg,” Steve said firmly, making Natasha snort with real laughter.

She sighed. “As hilarious as this is, I’m getting hungry." her voice carried across the kitchen. "Knock it off of or I’m calling Rhodey in.”

Tony straightened, Sam’s arm still around his neck. “Betrayal, Romanoff. I feel betrayed.”

“Yeah, no calling in the brass,” Sam complained. “We can settle this on our own.”

“Better settle that meat on the grill before the others get here,” Steve said. “Want help?”

“Excuse me,” Tony said, affronted. “I can handle the meat.”

The words left Steve’s mouth before he could stop them “ – in my pants?”

Natasha dropped the phone.

____________________

[1] Terry Pratchett, The Fifth Elephant

case/lang/viers – “Greens of June”

And all the greens of June/ Come blowing through the door/ They make me want to live/ Like I never have before

Read Chapter Two

[best-fictional-band-poll]

The top FOUR bands from this poll will go through! Good luck!

[mouseymilkovich]

meet mouse !

picrew one | picrew two | dividers used here (except my mdni banner) all by cafekitsune

hi !! my name is mouse (you can also call me em or elsie)

✮ i'm nonbinary, i use they/them & she/her pronouns (see below for boundaries regarding gendered terms) ✮ pansexual + currently single ✮ i'm 25 years old, my birthday is 06/19 ✮ gemini ☀️ ⋆ virgo 🌙 ⋆ scorpio ↥ ✮ canadian & jewish ✮ i have dyslexia, and i've been told by nearly every person i know that i'm autistic lmao ✮ i've been writing since i was like 11 but still consider myself an amateur ✮ tip the mouse ✮ my pinterest ✮ my emoji anons

gendered terms (green = okay, blue = maybe, orange = friends only, red = no)

sis or sister ⋆ bro or brother ⋆ sibling ⋆ mom ⋆ dad ⋆ parent ⋆ dude ⋆ gf or girlfriend ⋆ bf or boyfriend ⋆ wife or wifey ⋆ husband or hubby ⋆ girl ⋆ boy ⋆ woman ⋆ man ⋆ princess ⋆ prince ⋆ queen ⋆ king ⋆ hero ⋆ heroine ⋆ lady ⋆ lord ⋆ gentleman ⋆ miss/ms or ma'am ⋆ mr/mister or sir ⋆ mx ⋆ m'theydy ⋆ fem compliments ⋆ masc compliments ⋆ (my) dear ⋆ (my) darling ⋆ (my) love ⋆ (my) angel

my tags

#mouse talks ⋆ #mouse writes ⋆ #ask mouse ⋆ #mouse recs ⋆ #mouse's ocs ⋆ #polls with mouse ⋆ #mootie patooties 🫶

specific rec tags → #the good shit [fics] ⋆ #short n sweet [blurbs] ⋆ #use our imagination [au's]

more things i like btc !!

everything is in alphabetical order (bold = fave)

shows

a series of unfortunate events ⋆ andi mack ⋆ boy meets world ⋆ cheers ⋆ degrassi (all iterations) ⋆ euphoria ⋆ family ties ⋆ frasier ⋆ ginny & georgia ⋆ girl meets world ⋆ gossip girl ⋆ gotham ⋆ gravity falls ⋆ king of the hill ⋆ letterkenny ⋆ shameless (us) ⋆ south park ⋆ steven universe ⋆ stranger things ⋆ that 70s show ⋆ that 90s show ⋆ the bear ⋆ three’s company

movies

are you there, god? it’s me, margaret ⋆ austin powers trilogy ⋆ barbie ⋆ barbie animated movies ⋆ bodies bodies bodies ⋆ bottoms ⋆ do revenge ⋆ doctor sleep ⋆ encanto ⋆ fear street trilogy ⋆ fighting with my family ⋆ five nights at freddy’s ⋆ halloweentown (all 4) ⋆ hocus pocus (both) ⋆ honey bee ⋆ it (both chapters) ⋆ lisa frankenstein ⋆ maxxxine ⋆ midsommar ⋆ pearl ⋆ shiva baby ⋆ tangled ⋆ the hunger games series ⋆ the iron claw ⋆ the mcu (generally) ⋆ the shining ⋆ the wolf of wall street ⋆ x

music

as it is ⋆ badflower ⋆ billie eilish ⋆ charli xcx ⋆ dodie ⋆ fall out boy ⋆ halsey ⋆ jessie paege ⋆ marina ⋆ olivia rodrigo ⋆ sabrina carpenter ⋆ state champs ⋆ the last dinner party ⋆ troye sivan ⋆ waterparks

podcasts

distractible