#cracked tooth London

[smilecliniclondon]

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[dilemmaontwolegs]

Idk if you watched the movie Were the Millers?? But can you do imagine where reader never had a first kiss and charles and lando give her her first kiss ?? Like the scene with Jenn Anniston, will poulter, and Emma roberts ???

Grounded || LN4 & CL16

AN: Been a while since I watched it but this was fun to write ☺️ virgin!fem!reader

The backseat to Lando’s Range Rover was spacious and you stretched your legs out to settle in for the drive. A snow storm had grounded the planes in London and Lando had offered to put you both up for the night. As Charles assistant you had tried your best to find a hotel but with Christmas right around the corner everything decent was booked out.

Lando had said to call him if you ever needed anything, but you hadn’t been brave enough to use it until now.

“Are you sure it’s okay to drive in the snow?”

“It’s 4 wheel drive,” Lando replied as he looked at you in the rear view mirror and reassured you with a smile. “We’ll be fine, but if we get stuck at least we can huddle for warmth.”

Your eyes widened at the departing wink in the mirror and your cheeks could have melted all the snow within the greater London area. It would have been a service to the city worth a damehood by the King himself.

“Stop teasing my assistant, Lando,” Charles said with a laugh. “She accidentally deleted my calendar the last time you flirted with her.”

You wanted to argue but he had left you so frazzled you hit the wrong buttons on your iPad. It had been mortifying and the fact your boss was bringing it up again only made you slink lower in the leather seat. It was hard enough to work with such a handsome man, but the fact that his friends that he competed against were just as handsome made your life much harder. At least Charles paid you so there was a line of employee/employer relationship that kept things professional, but there was still the occasional comment that crossed that line - and you never knew how to handle it. Mostly, your brain just shut down.

Shoving your AirPods in, you started to open Spotify to find a distraction from your embarrassment and they both noticed it.

“I can’t help it, you cannot tell me that you don’t find the innocent vibe hot?”

Your fingers froze over the song you were about to play and realised they thought you were already listening to something.

“She’s my assistant.”

“That’s not a denial.” Lando was grinning from ear to ear. “I bet she’s still a virgin.”

You spluttered indignantly and both men looked at you, Charles over his shoulder and Lando in the mirror. Tugging the AirPods out you narrowed your eyes and lied, “I am not a vir-” you couldn’t even bring yourself to say it but you swallowed and took another attempt, “virgin.”

The weak lie caused a crack in the press of lips, until both men laughed outright. Huffing, you crossed your arms and looked out the window. “Does it really even matter?”

“Aren’t you even curious?” Lando shot back.

“I know all about sex, for Christ’s sake, I do read.”

“I’m not sure reading is quite the same as doing in this case,” Charles said, remembering the many times he caught you slamming a book closed at his entrance. He was even more intrigued about those thick volumes now.

“Reading doesn’t threaten to leave me disappointed as I have heard men tend to do.”

Lando scoffed and shook his head. “I haven’t had that complaint. Charles?”

“No, no complaints either.”

“I’m sure it’s less romantic than the books describe too, like kissing. What is so good about possibly chipping a tooth, or sharing saliva?”

The SUV screeched to a halt into a rest stop and Lando turned in his seat. “Wait. You’re telling me you’ve never been kissed?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Charles asked, before he turned and saw the telltales signs of your discomfort. “No, really? How? You are beautiful.”

Your mind went to that place of thoughtlessness, where every neurotransmitter misfired and your heart seemed to find itself beating in two places. “Uh…” you scrambled for an answer that they patiently waited for. “I don’t have any time to date so it just hasn’t come about.”

Charles certainly utilised your availability to be on call 24/7 but he hadn’t thought about the personal cost that took on you. He assumed you didn’t have or want a social life, not that he was the cause for it. Maybe that was why he next words slipped out without censoring, or so he told himself. “I will kiss you, right now.”

“Or I can, and I’m not your boss so there wouldn’t be anything wrong with it,” Lando countered, already unbuckling his seatbelt. “Everyone deserves a perfect first kiss.”

You gripped the seatbelt across your chest as you tried to understand why they were both unbuckled and opening their doors. Cold air rushed in as both backdoors opened and they slipped in beside you, mist billowing from their breath before the warmth was sealed inside once more.

Your lips felt dry and they watched as the tip of your tongue peeked out between to wet them. Your fingers were gently pried off the belt until each hand was laced with theirs but you still stared ahead at the unhappy quiet road. “What if I don’t want to be kissed?”

Lando scoffed but Charles turned you to face him with one curled finger under your chin and a look that made breathing impossible. “Then tell me you don’t want to be kissed,” he whispered as his lips drew nearer, his breath fanning your cheek. The touch of his lips were chaste at best, a caress on cheek before trailing closer to the place where words failed. Your toes clenched in your boots and you trembled with anticipation until the air burst back into your burning lungs. Your lips parted with the intake and he struck.

Your stomach that had been knotted suddenly erupted in the explicable feeling you had only read about. Butterflies, chaotic and energetic, fluttered joyously around your insides and a foreign sound escaped your lips that danced with his.

“I think she likes that, Charles.” A hand on your throat stole you from the taste that you certainly wanted more of and when you opened your eyes you found the pair change from green to blue. “My turn, gorgeous.”

Lando didn’t tease. His hand squeezed and you gasped in response, a sound so similar to what Charles had drawn from you. He took the opening you gave him and devoured you with the hunger of a starving man. His tongue dominated yours as he tipped your head back and deepened the kiss further until you were certain you were going to be consumed by him.

You welcomed it.

You weren’t adept enough after two kisses to know whose was better, both left you yearning for more. But they were parked on the side of the road and you were all too well aware that losing your virginity in the back seat of a Ranger was not what you wanted. Even if your body screamed yes.

“How do you feel?” Charles asked as he eyed your swollen lips and your dilated pupils between your flustered blinks with pride.

“Uh…” You told yourself to think but it was nearly impossible, and the men chuckled with the knowledge they had kissed you stupid.

“Just think of what other ‘firsts’ we could be,” Lando offered as he ran a thumb along your bottom lip, wanting another taste. “We could be snowed in for a while.”

“Wait, what?” They cut through your mental haze with clarity and you sat up straighter. “No, the airport said tomorrow…”

Charles shrugged and your brows pinched. “The storm’s worsening, it might be a few days until the planes can take off.”

“It’s okay,” Lando assured you with a kiss to your cheek. “I’ll look after you.”

[mykneeshurt]

Heyy!

How would 141 + Rudy and Alejandro react to the Reader that haves a tongue piercing?

TONGUE BAR SUPREMACY ON THIS PAGE! I recently bought a new bar for mine hehe. Found out my husband used to have his tongue pierced but took it out. He won’t put it back in. The wanker.

Warnings - allusions to smut, smut themes, piercings, gender neutral reader

Price 🥃

The first time Price saw your tongue piercing was when you were helping him with his reports. When you concentrate you had a cute habit of sticking your tongue out slightly. He loved it when your tongue grazed your top lip, as you desperately tried to concentrate on the task at hand.

He noticed a small black ball in your mouth which peaked his interest. ‘What’s that?’ He asked nodding towards your mouth. ‘This?’ You asked opening your mouth, your tongue piercing now in full view. ‘I didn’t know you had that.’

You smiled. ‘Yeah, don’t normally advertise it, like to see how long it takes people to notice.’ Price swallowed, hard. All he could think about was how it would feel grazing along the shaft of his cock. ‘Why’d you get it?’ He asked, trying to reposition himself in his chair subtly. Dropping the papers you walked around the desk, standing above him you ran your tongue along your teeth.

‘How about I show you instead?’

Soap 🧼

Soap hadn’t noticed you piercing until he felt it run along his tongue during a heavy make out session. He felt the small metal ball run along his tongue as he swiped his inside your mouth.

He pulled back ‘you’ve got your tongue pierced?!’ He almost sounded excited. You nodded, partly confused. ‘I used to have mine pierced! Took it out a long time ago though. Might have to put it back in.’

‘Oh cool! Will it go back in?’ You asked partly agitated, you wanted to go back to kissing. ‘I dunno maybe you can help me?’

You stroked his face, ‘maybe. But if you don’t start kissing me again I’m going to punch you.’ Taking that as his cue he placed his lips on yours once again, satisfying your hunger for him.

Ghost 💀

Ghost first saw your tongue bar when you poked your tongue out at him one day. You’d been sparring and he managed to get you in the floor. Flat on your back, completely at his mercy under his body. ‘Gotta be quicker than that to catch me’ he quipped. Rolling your eyes you stuck your tongue out.

Noticing the silver ball embedded in your tongue he took a double take. ‘Didn’t realise you had it pierced’ he said, somewhat surprised. You shrugged, still underneath him. He hummed to himself as he lifted his mask, sticking his tongue out you saw he had his pierced too.

‘I fuckin knew it!’ You shrieked in excitement. He allowed himself a small laugh ‘oh?’

‘Yeah, call it my super power. I can normally tell when people have it done.’

‘What gave me away’ he asked lowering himself closer to your face. ‘I can hear you playing with it for one. Two. You just look the type.’

‘Not much of a super power if you ask me.’

‘Wasn’t aware I was asking you’ you smiled. Your lips were dangerously close to one another’s now. Little did you know but Ghost couldn’t have been more turned on than he was right now.

Gaz 🇬🇧

You were out on a date with Gaz, at your favourite Italian in London. He was finally home from deployment, he’d promised you a proper date when he got back.

You were tucking into your pasta dish when you accidentally bit into the ball of your piercing. ‘Aw shit’ you muttered to your self, checking to see if you’d cracked your tooth.

‘You alright?’ Gaz asked peeking over the rim of the wine glass. ‘Yeah, just bit my tongue bar is all. So annoying when that happens.’ Gaz did a double take, eyebrows furrowed. ‘You’ve got your tongue pierced?’ His mind instantly took him to the dirtiest of places, he placed his hand over his mouth to hide is smirk.

Scoffing into your wine glass you smoked ‘play your cards right and maybe I’ll let you know what it feels like.’

Alejandro 🌹

Alejandro noticed your tongue bar straight away, he always watched your lips when you spoke. Wanting to kiss them, make them his own.

He’d never kissed anyone with a tongue bar before, he wanted to know what it felt like. If he could even feel it at all. He day dreamed about kissing you all the time he just had to plan to make his move.

Rudy ❤️

Rudy first saw your tongue bar when you had all gone out for ice cream. It was a team building day and due to how hot it was, you all went to the local ice cream parlour.

You sat opposite him, ice cream in hand and as you swiped at your frozen treat with your tongue he noticed the small metal ball. The tongue bar left a small divet in the soft cream. A small drop of the vanilla ice cream fell from the corner of your mouth.

Boring your gaze into Rudy you licked at the stray drop causing him to flinch in the chair. Licking again at the ice cream you slowed your pace dawn, this time making sure he got a full view of your tongue bar. Biting your lip you winked at him before sauntering off to the toilet. Hoping he’d take the hint to follow you.

[angryschnauzer]

January 11th 2024

Yeah its been a while since i updated. I haven't had the energy to if i'm honest, but here we go.

Hubby had his brain surgery end of November '23. The tumour they took out was a nasty one, somewhere between the size of a golf ball and a kiwi fruit. The wound has healed well with little to no side affects apart from some double vision, but he was checked out for that and it is a common after affect of brain trauma and was remedied with an eyepatch for a few weeks.

We met with the Neuro Oncology team at Royal Marsden Hospital in London. They are one of the best (if not the best) cancer treatment centres in the whole country, and we worked through a treatment plan.

Just before Christmas hubby was also cleared to have shoulder reconstructive surgery (he broke his shoulder bone in the original seizures back at the end of October '23). There was a really small window of time between it being enough time after the brain surgery that he could go back under general anaesthetic, but also enough time to mostly heal before he started Radiotherapy and Chemo, so just 5 days before Christmas hubby was in and out of our local hospital in a single day to have that surgery.

Christmas was a quiet and subdued affair. I also herniated a disk in my back the day Hubby had surgery (i was clearing the deep freeze out ready for grocery delivery), so it meant both he and I were dosed up to our eyeballs on strong painkillers for most of the holiday, and Little Dude spent the majority of the break either playing video games or building his new lego sets.

Two days before Christmas i also had to have emergency dental work (i had been grinding my teeth and had previously cracked a tooth) and whilst i was in the dentists office some utter idiot crashed into my car. That was the last thing i needed but i simply handed it all over to my insurance company (who are aware of my husbands situation) and they arranged a hire vehicle and sorted repairs.

Onto the start of 2024. This is the first week of Radiotherapy and Chemo for Hubby. He is getting very tired and fatigued already from the Radiotherapy, but thankfully no nausea from the chemo as yet, but that could change over time. He is scheduled for a full schedule of 6 weeks of this dual treatment, where we are having to visit Royal Marsden every day Mon - Fri for the six weeks, and then he also takes the chemo 7 days a week for the six weeks.

He'll then have 4 to 6 weeks 'off' treatment for his body to relax and recuperate, but will have scans and MRI's during that time to gauge what further treatment will be, but its likely to be just chemo but a stronger dose, but no radiotherapy. The chemo is to be 3 weeks off one week on, so a 4 weekly cycle.

The one thing we have discovered isn't done is prognosis's. When we first got to Royal Marsden we were shocked as they started talking about years, and explained that although it was a really nasty tumour, it was found very early and whilst it was still relatively small for its kind. They've discussed things like 'this years treatment plan then we'll look at next years', and also for a while Hubby was being considered for a clinical trial which candidates who have prognosis's of 12 months+ are only considered for. In the end he didn't meet the criteria (his cholesterol was too high). The Macmillian Nurses also have been talking to us about Mobility Car assistance schemes where you can get govt assistance financially and get an adapted vehicle on a 2 year rolling lease. All these timings are reassuring in one way, but worrying in another - we have no idea what the future holds and it really does cement in stone that our time is limited and could end any moment, and makes it very difficult to make any long term plans. You don't realise how much of your life is preplanned until you end up in this situation and aren't sure if you can book your kid onto the school residential trip in 5 months time.

Should anyone want the mundane daily day-to-day life updates you can follow me on my personal instagram @simone_with_an_e its generally a load of utter boring bollocks, but i try to keep it updated daily with updates when i can as its a lot easier to do 1 short paragraph than a big update.

For me my mental health is a little better now that i've had time to process Hubby's diagnosis and that he is getting treatment. There are still days or hours when i fall apart, and it could be something as simple as listening to a song on the radio as i drive back from dropping Little Dude at school and i realise the song would be lovely at his funeral. I end up having to pull over and have a cry whilst switching the radio off. I'm loosing weight and aging quickly, my hair is turning grey from stress and i realised i've aged about 15 years in the last 3 from stress. My appetite comes and goes, and things like red meat now turn my stomach and i can't digest it. But i also haven't drunk alcohol since the day before Hubby had his seizure back in October. I feel like i need to stay 'alert' in case i need to rush him to the hospital for something. I don't miss it as such, but I miss the ability to fully relax. Its hard to describe but i feel like at the moment i've lost myself and am just functioning to care for those around me, going through the motions as such.

Anyway, this has been a long update. I do still lurk here, you may see me pop up in notifications liking something, but at the moment i don't feel its right to start putting fandom stuff back on here yet. I do hope to get back to writing at some point. I miss it and the unfinished stories plague my mind as i have such lovely plans for story arc's and really want to finish them.

Take care all,

Schnauz

xxx

[inkwolvesandcoffee]

Breakfast in Margate (Alfie Solomons x Reader)

Genre: Romance, Fluff, Modern AU

Pairing: Alfie Solomons x Fem!Reader

Word count: 3.2K

Warnings: A grumpy Papa Solomons (yes, that is a warning) and a whole lot of tooth-rotting domestic fluff

Summary:

Mornings aren’t always easy. For example, it’s terribly difficult to not be caught making breakfast for your fiancé, a workaholic who always takes the task upon himself.

However, what makes it harder today is the fact he loathes food made with recipes found online. Fortunately for you, though, Alfie isn’t the only one who’s good at playing games when he wants to push his own agenda.

Especially those that concern a sweet reward.

Author’s note: I've kept Alfie's adherence to his Jewish heritage quite loose. Nevertheless, I hope that the aspects I did incorporate in this work have been done so properly. If not, let me know and please don't hesitate to educate me (in a polite and respectful manner) because I love learning about different cultures and religions.

Tag List: @potter-solomons @zablife @wandawiccan60 @dreamlandcreations @liliac-dreamer @buttercupsandboys @vir-tual @rose-like-the-phoenix @hoodeddreams13 @mollybegger-blog @solomons-finest-rum @hecatemoon87 @babaohhhriley

TH Masterlist

Mornings like this are rare, these quiet moments unbroken by the usual ruckus in the kitchen. Now, it’s solely my bare feet on the wooden floor and the waves crashing onto the shore. No clanging of metal, no muttered curses in Yiddish or Russian, nor the scent of freshly brewed coffee. 

In the living room, Cyril lays in front of the hearth. The first rays of sunshine fall over him like a warm natural blanket, highlighting the ginger undertone in his fur. One of the many features he shares with his owner. 

As soon as I pass by, he lifts his head, tilts it in wonder, and lets out a low bark. After all, it’s Alfie who’s more often than not the first one to wander around the house at the crack of dawn. That is, if he’s slept at all. However, recently he’s started properly adhering to the Shabbat. Although, as much as he allows himself to because if Alfie Solomons is one thing, it’s mighty stubborn. Moreover, he’s an incurable workaholic. As hard as he works at The Old Rum House Bakery to let the business flourish and maintain his position as the fearsome Mad Baker of Camden, just as much effort does he put into our relationship. In fact, it’s not only towards Cyril and I his attention goes, but also to the house.

Our home.

Alfie has become a lot more domestic since we started dating, shortly after meeting one another on a train to London. Disregarding his tendency to walk around naked, he cooks and cleans, assuring me time and again I don’t have to help. When we go out for our weekly grocery trip, no matter how tired he is, he carries the bags to the car so that I don’t have to. Neither do I have to put away what we got, more often than not shipped off to the luxurious red sofa in the living room with a cup of coffee or tea to pair with whatever he’s baked at night. 

Nevertheless, regardless of the otherwise very loose relationship with his heritage, Ollie and I are glad he’s at least taking a day off in the week to rest up. The bakery has recently started taking its toll thanks to an influx in customers, which means extra stock as well as staff is needed. In turn, this means more part-timers to train and more admin work. In other words, everyone has to pick up the pace to meet the current demand. Such is the power of marketing, especially on social media. Alfie is loath to admit it, but Ollie and I can tell he’s secretly grateful we managed to convince him to let us handle the bakery’s socials.

We don’t get cinnamon buns on Monday anymore, though.

I stop in my tracks, turn to Cyril, and put a finger to my lips. “I know, love, but Papa is still sleeping. It’s finally Mama’s turn to make breakfast again.”

Seldom do I get the chance to experiment in the kitchen, let alone try a recipe I’ve found online. Or worse, via Youtube or Instagram. Now, that’s usually enough to make Alfie bristle. Nevertheless, mention the word ‘viral’ and a scowl will twist his lips.

Sometimes I wonder whether or not Alfie and Cyril are the same person because he lowers his head onto his paws and lets out a deep sigh that sounds like sarcastic resignation.

Thanks for the faith, buddy.

“It’s gonna be okay. No fire in the pan this time, I promise. How about we go stretch our legs after brekkie, hm? That sound good?”

Cyril huffs in agreement and closes his eyes, back to enjoying his luxurious pillow. 

We bought it for him when we went antique shop hopping in London last week. Although, perhaps it’s better to say I bought it after convincing my grumpy companion we should occasionally pamper our adopted four-legged child and I couldn’t fix his old pillow anymore. Of course I could, but I was more than done with constantly needing to fix the seams and re-stuff the thing.

Borough Market has become a regular stop on our weekly grocery trip, mostly because I used the splendidly efficient strategy of batting my lashes and pouting. Artisan goods and fresh produce can be luxuries, something to only occasionally splurge on. After all, why spend a fortune when there is a cheaper alternative that’s just as good? 

Nonetheless, Alfie developed a taste for supporting local businesses soon after our first visit. To some he has proposed contracts, offering them a position as a supplier to his bakery. Granted their goods are kosher, of course.

Yesterday, we got some wonderful fresh bright yellow bananas, eggs from a local farm, and oat flour from a mill a little ways away from London. Alfie thought little of it when I plonked them triumphantly in our grocery bag, having occupied himself with the fresh stock one of the florists was setting out. I glance at the colourful bouquet of wildflowers on the table and for a moment I’m back to him holding out to me, face full of the warm tenderness that stands in stark contrast to the stern and unpredictable persona he portrays when I’m not there. 

Right then and there, he wasn’t The Mad Baker of Camden, the fearsome King who rules the borough.

He was a sweet and caring gentleman.

Simply Alfie Solomons.

Nevertheless, in spite of these small moments of tenderness, he can still be awfully grumpy.

Especially if he hasn’t had his coffee.

“Mornin’, dove.” Two big warm hands glide over my hips towards my lower stomach. Those very same palms pull me flush against a naked chest grown soft with neglected muscle, slightly clammy with the remainder of last night’s late summer heat. Alfie presses his lips to the side of my neck and hums, tightening the embrace as he does so. The sonorous trill in his voice sends a shiver down my spine and rekindles a familiar heat. Nonetheless, the way he leans on me betrays he isn’t entirely awake yet. The slight slur in his words serve to confirm the lingering drowsiness, sounding like they’ve been pulled out of bed only moments before too. “That shirt looks good on you.”

“I’m glad you think so because you’re not getting it back any time soon.” I briefly stop mixing the batter to scratch his beard. He closes his eyes and leans into the touch as a content sigh escapes him. “You slept in.”

“Still woke up to an empty spot, though. If you want me to sleep more, yeah, which you know I find a terrible waste of time, I’ll need my wife to ‘old.”

I pat his hands to placate him. The thin gold band inlaid with a modest diamond around my ring finger matches his. I had thought Alfie would pick something elaborate for himself, but instead he chose a simple thick gold ring and got it engraved. It says: Ani l’dodi, v’dodi li; I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine. “Don’t get hasty. We aren’t married yet.”

“Let’s just go to the courthouse today.’’ He slips his hands beneath the fabric of the shirt I stole from him, letting them rest on my stomach after a brief caress. It’s a gesture he often makes nowadays. ‘‘Sign the paper, right, and be done with it so the desk eaters are ‘appy. We can always celebrate it later. Throw a party as big as the whole of bloody Camden, like a proper coronation ceremony to celebrate our union.”

“Tempting as it is, I’ll have to refuse. Besides, it's Shabbat today and you need to take a break. I promise I can wait a little while longer to officially become Mrs Solomons.”

“You ‘ave been from the start, Y/N. I don’t need a ring to call you my wife. ‘Sides, you well know ‘ow I am. Which reminds me, breakfast is my job, innit?” A wary tone creeps into his voice as he leans away to check what’s in the mixing bowl. “Is that edible?”

“It will be,” I say, continuing to mix the ingredients until they’re well combined.

“I’m not eatin’ that goo. Looks fucking awful, that stuff.”

“It’s healthy goo! Uses the bananas, eggs, and flour we got yesterday.”

Nose scrunched, Alfie peers at me. “Oh, so yesterday was all a little scam to get me to eat whatever this is?”

“You aren’t the only one who can lie. Although, it’s not really a lie, is it? More like a half-truth.’’ I shrug. ‘‘I simply never told you my plan. Would ruin the surprise.”

“Which is?”

“Baked oats that taste like cake. They just haven’t been baked yet.”

“Where’d you get the recipe?”

“YouTube…”

He groans, wide awake now that the conversation has taken a turn towards a point of absolute irritation. “Fucking ‘ell, dove, ‘ow many times ‘aven’t I told you not every recipe on social media-’’

“Don’t judge before you’ve tried it.” I put the spatula down, turn around in his embrace and steal a kiss off of his lips. “Said so yourself, didn’t you?”

“Don’t use my words against me.”

“Oh, I will. If only to keep things fair. Have a little faith in me. It’ll be fine.”

I hope.

A warning finger raised and pointed at me, he leans in until our faces are mere inches apart. “Fine. But I’m gonna make us coffee, right, so we’ll at least ‘ave something to get us fucking started.”

I can’t suppress a chuckle at the grumpy gesture. “Sure.”

The threat turns into tenderness when he cups my cheek. His palm has grown rough with the hours spent at the bakery, proof of his hard work. Tenderly, he presses his lips to mine. “Ikh hab dir lib.”

“I know.” To show I accept his usual indirect apology for his bad mood and avoid coming across as being cross with me, I run my fingers along his jaw. “I love you too.”

Resting his forehead against mine, he nudges my nose with his. “Mhm.”

“Why don’t you take Cyril for a brief walk, eh? The oats have to bake for twenty-five minutes anyway.”

“We can take ‘im on a walk later together. I’ll go set the table.”

“First put on a pair of knickers.”

“No.”

“You know the rules, Alfie. No buns on the chairs during summer.”

“I ain’t sweating.”

“Not yet.”

“Maybe you’re the one who isn’t.”

I cock an eyebrow, fighting the smug smirk threatening to break out. “That so?”

“Yeah,” he drawls, “first we’ll ‘ave coffee, right, ‘cause otherwise neither of us functions. Now, ‘ow about after we’ve started the day proper I’ll fuck you like last night, hm?”

Until I black out. 

The prospect of it mixes with memories of last night. Sea blue eyes, usually so steady and full of hidden temperaments, barely able to refrain from going cross-eyed. The fight with the stutter in his hips, gradually growing closer to the edge of pleasure but also exhaustion. Big hands reminiscent of wolf paws gripping the headboard for support while I was already lost in a satisfied delirium. The absent-minded glance to the bruises on my thighs adds to the steadily growing heat between my legs, perversely longing for more.

For him.

Nevertheless, the haze clears in an instant with a single sharp thought. I take a step back, crossing my arms as I search his expression for confirmation. However, as usually is the case, Alfie keeps his true motifs to himself. And this time, behind a mask he tends to put on when he wants something from me in particular. “So you can make breakfast. That’s what you’re getting at, aren’t you?”

“No,” he purrs, stealing a kiss as soon as he has bridged the distance between us, “not at all, dove. I just want my wife. I wanna make love to you.” We softly start to sway, slowly making our way out of the kitchen. “Let me make love to you.”

We come to a halt on the threshold. “Later. After you put on a pair of knickers and we’ve eaten.”

He blinks, the cheeky smile grown stiff. I can feel his muscles tense, unconsciously causing him to grip me a bit tighter than before. “But-’’

“Knickers, Alfie.”

“One round.”

“Alfred Solomons Jr, knickers. Right now.”

The use of his full name provokes a menacing snarl, the kind which is usually preserved for those who cross him. “Those oats better be fucking worth it, yeah, ‘cause otherwise you’re payin’ for lunch.”

I trace his cock, the skin hot and hardening beneath my fingertips with every sharp intake of breath. Perhaps this game won’t go on for as long as it usually does before he loses control. “Somehow I don’t think I will.”

He roughly grips my face, the thrill of every low-voiced word against my lips travelling throughout my body. “I ought to do somethin’ ‘bout that attitude of yours. Big fucks small, Y/N, always.”

Game over.

Except for the one card I have left to play.

“I know,” I wrap my hand around him, barely able to grip him properly, “but first some knickers. Please, Papa?”

“Clever bird, ain’t ya?” He growls into the kiss when I lightly squeeze him and let go. “Maybe I should carry out my own personal form of stigmata later. Add to those pretty bruises.”

Like snow in the spring sun, his attitude melts and changes. Alfie gently nudges my cheek and makes for the bedroom. A few moments later, he returns and starts setting the table while I pour the batter in the ramekins and plop them in the oven.

Despite the promise to make coffee, I reach for the cupboard to grab a mug. After all, old habits die hard.

Nevertheless, I find myself cut off by a hand that gently lowers mine, away from the handle.

“I said I’ll make us coffee,” Alfie grumbles. “Let Papa Solomons do ‘is job, yeah. Go sit in the livin’ room. I’ll be there shortly.”

I nod at the baking aftermath in the sink. “I got some washing up to do.”

“Nah, that can wait. Coffee and, ‘opefully, food first.” He places his hands on my shoulders and kindly coerces me out of the kitchen. “Go on.”

I let him guide me, feigning defiance by pouting. Yet, the act quickly falls apart with a lighthearted giggle. I suppose I still have a lot to learn from him concerning the art of masks. “Alright.”

Soon after he joins me on the porch, where I’ve settled down with Cyril to enjoy the salt air. The beach across the street is still empty, devoid of the plethora of towels. The breeze is silent, not yet filled with the chatter of tourists and locals alike.

These hours are ours.

This is our Margate.

“'Ere you go, love.” Alfie hands me a steaming mug of cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso, the milk soft and foamy, before he sits down next to me. I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes as I take a sip. “Nice, innit?”

“Mhm.”

Thus we sit in comfortable silence, enjoying the view and each other’s company. Cyril has started to doze off, although he tries in vain to keep his eyes open. One glance to the side tells of Alfie fighting the same battle. Occasionally he pulls a face or lifts his hand to stifle a yawn. It’s strangely funny to watch him continue to take a sip afterwards, a small gesture of hope. Surely he should be readily awake before his cup is empty.

Because sleeping isn’t an option.

He’s tired of the nightmares.

The faint sound of the oven going off disturbs the domestic bliss.

Alfie groans as struggles to get up, glad to have my arm to use as support while he pulls himself to his feet. I say nothing, knowing full well how his sciatica influences his mood.

And it’s already rotten enough in the morning.

As Alfie washes his hands, I get the baked oats out of the oven and place them on the plates. Meanwhile, Alfie warms up a few slices of babka and the challah bread we made together yesterday. “Just so we ‘ave somethin’.”

He sits down while I wash my hands. From the corner of my eye, I see him poke the oats with his fork. “It’s kosher?”

“It is,” I say, drying my hands before I sit down across from him. “Shall I go first?”

“Very funny.” He scoops a bit of the oats onto his fork and puts it in his mouth. His brows knit together, contemplating the taste.

“And? Do you like it?” 

Remaining silent and gaze fixed on the ramekin, he pokes his oats again. 

I swallow hard, my excitement crushed under the stones of dread. A nagging voice in the back of my head feeds into the fear of his judgement. Funny how one connects their self worth to food. Then again, it was that which started our relationship. A cup of coffee, a slice of babka, and a slice of plant-based carrot cake. Back then, though, my stomach didn’t quiver this badly nor did my ribs feel like they were caged in a very tight-strung corset. “You don’t.”

“Dove,” he begins, but doesn’t continue. 

Not until after he’s had another bite. “It’s good.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or simply trying to appease me.”

“I’m serious.”

“You are?”

“I am,’’ he says, raising his voice ever so slightly in spite of the effort to keep it even. Alfie finally meets my gaze and I can tell he’s being sincere regardless of the way he accusingly waves his fork at me. ‘‘But I still don’t like 'ow you got this off of the internet. ‘Ow many times ‘aven’t I told you, hm? You should know better by now.”

I chuckle as I at last taste the baked oats myself. They’re chocolatey with a subtle banana undertone, which is warmed by the cinnamon. “I gotta find new recipes somehow.”

“There are cookbooks.”

“Too limited and they take up too much space.” While nibbling on a piece of challah bread, I take a sip of coffee. “Can I make this more often?”

“It does taste like cake,” he reluctantly admits, spooning up another bite. “Yes, you can.”

“Why do you make it sound like there’s a condition?”

“You can make these oats, yeah, if I get to serve you something sweet in return.”

Something not to be had in the kitchen.

‘‘Deal,’’ I lean in, biting my lip as I play my final card, ‘‘Papa.’’

Alfie clenches his fork upon hearing his favourite nickname, the title he is secretly proud of. A dark haze clouds his eyes, the gloss in them highlighted by the morning sun. The smirk on his lips has evened out, his jaw tightened with the effort to practise self-restraint. 

Game over.

I won.

And the prize is something sweet with lots of cream.

[starstruckmoony]

02:14.

masterlist

pairing - james potter x muggleborn!reader

summary - james decides to pay you a visit in the middle of the night. and then you cuddle.

trope/tags - tooth-rotting fluff

word count - 1.2k

warnings - sexual jokes, boob? praising? (not in a kinky sense though)

your eyes shot open when an odd sound of tapping echoed through your room and woke you up from a deep slumber. being slightly unnerved by the sudden noise in the quiet of the night, you groggily sat up in your bed, waiting for your eyes to adjust to the darkness.

with a displeased groan, you shifted in your spot, darting your gaze towards the clock your nightstand once your vision cleared up.

02:14.

you furrowed your eyebrows in confusion, and then you heard it again. it appeared to have been coming from the direction of your window. you let out a noise of disproval realizing who the culprit was, though you couldn't ignore the blissful relief that washed over you once it clicked that it wasn't some mental creep on the loose who happened to be lurking around with a skinning knife.

it took you a few seconds to push yourself out of bed. you hissed when your feet touched the cold floorboards. the door of your room was thankfully already shut. it meant one frustration less, as you didn't have to worry about your parents hearing suspicious shuffling and then putting two and two together. you stumbled over to the window instead and yanked it open.

and there he was, james potter, your boyfriend, with sparkling eyes and an innocent smile displayed on his face. it vanished the moment he noticed how dissatisfied his presence seemed to have made you.

"you don't look too happy to see me," he pointed out in a rather unhappy tone, only making you roll your eyes. you weren't exactly feeling sympathetic (or enthusiastic, for the matter) after being woken up so suddenly.

"it's two in the bloody morning," you deadpanned.

"so?" he said it as if he wasn't totally aware that the time slot in which he chose to visit you wasn't very convenient. yes, you loved your beautiful, wonderful boyfriend who made you feel pretty and would send you into hysterics by cracking idiotic jokes nobody else found funny, but you didn't really want him in your room in the middle of the night. uninvited, that is.

"so? you think i'd be happy seeing anyone at this hour? i'm trying to make up for the lost hours of sleep, you know," you stated the obvious.

"i wonder who's fault that is," james snorted.

"i'm looking at him right now," you crossed your arms, smiling mockingly.

"you're not gonna chase me away, are you?" he grunted, slightly struggling to hold himself up.

"now that you've brought it up, i'm seriously considering it," you said blandly. the expression on your face was unreadable.

"i flew all the way here for you." he pouted at your lack of enthusiasm to his spontaneous visit, and much to your dismay, your heart melted like ice cream in the burning sun on a hot summer day. you latched onto his arm to help him climb inside.

he took a seat on the edge of your bed, then threw himself back on the soft mattress and landed with a light bounce, his body sinking into the foam. he made a funny sound of satisfaction.

"i cannot stress the fact that you find muggle london so incredibly interesting that you'll wake up in the middle of the night and just fly here." you rambled as you searched around your room for some pajama bottoms.

james watched you move around frantically and took the opportunity to throw in a terrible pick-up line, "whatever you're looking for, you don't need it." james sat up, "you've got me." he grinned proudly.

"oh, piss off." you mumbled with a huff of laughter. should have thought twice before getting too close to your bed. "come here." james snuck an arm around your waist, pulling you off your feet and onto the mattress. you let out a quiet squeal in surprise.

"you're mental." you snorted as you tried to find a comfortable position. james was the worst person to share a bed with, since he'd either hog the sheets or manage to tangle both you and himself into them. sometimes, he'd even fall off at an ungodly hour.

you had expected your summer to be boring and dull, given that you wouldn't get to see your friends very often or get up to all sorts of ridiculous stuff like you usually did. however, your boyfriend had different plans. and this was definitely not the first time he took a late night flight to your house or simply apparated in your bedroom for dramatic effect. james couldn't really go too long without seeing you, and as startling as his spontaneous visits may have been, you loved them with your whole heart either way.

"should've known that you just wanted to cuddle." you sighed in fake disappointment.

"what'd you think i wanted do?" he quirked an eyebrow. you cleared your throat as your face reddened, and he chuckled in response, snuggling his face into your chest.

"your boobs are so soft," you covered your mouth when a laugh slipped past your lips, remembering that your parents were in the room right next to yours and they certainly would not be overjoyed to find a boy in your bed. yeah, they liked james enough not to send him dirty looks whenever he stepped through the front door, or flew in through the window, or randomly apparated to your living room - but you did not want to risk getting caught and having to spend the remaining two months of summer receiving disappointed glares.

"i like your boobs." he continued with his improvised but very affective display of affection for that specific part of your body. you kicked him playfully and bit the inside of your cheek as you thought of a silly remark you could throw out there to match his energy.

he lifted his head from your chest to observe your face. he was sort of a little bit crazy about the expressions you'd make whenever you were concentrating, and the way you always teased him, and your contagious laughter, and everything and anything about you.

"i like," you trailed off, making eye contact with him before looking up at the ceiling again, "your bum."

"my bum?!" he spoke out in surprise before dissolving into quiet laughter.

"what's wrong with that?" you argued back, lighthearted. 

"my bloody bum?!" he whisper-yelled.

"james, have you seen yourself in those black jeans you snatched from sirius' closet months ago? you've got me down on my knees." you chuckled at the sheer amusement on his face. he was so blissfully unaware of his own good looks sometimes despite being the cockiest person alive. maybe someone needed to slap some sense into him. remus would probably do the job.

"on your knees, huh?" he smirked, getting so close to your face that your noses were touching.

"bugger off!" you shoved him away playfully with a huff of laughter. he giggled quietly, pecked your lips and then returned to his previous position, once again resting his head on your chest as you played with his soft hair.

hours went by as you lied together, embracing one another tightly, whispering sweet nothings. the moonlight shone through the window, illuminating your room just enough so that you could see his face. the prettiest face you knew. he kissed you again and again and again and if stopping time for a little bit longer than forever was possible, you would have done it without hesitation.

[rekas-writes]

Valorant Agents and Their Fast Food Sins

Pair: Implied! Individual Agent (Neon, Killjoy, Raze, Jett, Chamber, Harbor, Sage, Reyna, Viper, Phoenix, Yoru)/GN! Reader - more so Individual HCs Source: Valorant

Type: Headcanons/Bulletpoints - 652 words Genre: Comedy/Fluff/Crack Perspective: Second-Person (You/Your)

TW: None

A/N: Hi! It's been a while! I hope you've had a wonderful New Year and a fantastic winter holiday/winter in general, my lovely customers! I'll be wrapping up some orders before diving back into my October series! ❤️

Further A/N: It was my birthday on the 31st December and I've just come back from the Philippines. I was dealing with a couple things but I'm hoping to get back into writing! This was just a fun, little thing I thought of while out in London. There was a Wendy's and a Taco Bell and those things are hard to come by here in the UK, haha- and so naturally it evolved into fast food habits nobody asked for.

Of course if you do any of these combos, more power to you! This is all in jest and I just wanted to write a light-hearted comedy/joke piece :D

. . . . . ╰──╮꒰ 🍡 ꒱ ╭──╯ . . . . .

Neon: Cuts a donut in half and then sandwiches her McDonald's apple pie with it. It helps with her sweet tooth and she swears it's the perfect dessert combo. Will also make you one in an effort to get you to appreciate this sugary goodness as much as she does. She might also wink and say it's not as sweet as you... and then cover her face with a hand because she can't believe she just said that

Killjoy: Puts chicken nuggets in her chicken sandwich and if you tell her that's too much chicken for the bread to filling ratio, she'll just add more out of amusement. If you encourage her? She'll get you to help her put as much chicken as possible in there

Raze: Mixes all the sauces together. All of them. And then she will ask you to grab more sauces/your leftover sauces. Sauces are boring on their own apparently. If you ever raise an eyebrow at that, she'll just shrug and tell you not to bash it ‘till you try it. Somehow it doesn't taste bad at all

Jett: Puts chicken nuggets and other random fillings from different fast food joints on pizza and then folds it like a calzone. Has and will defend this to the end of time. If you ask her why she doesn't just make her own custom pizza/calzone, she says it doesn't taste the same

Chamber: Puts onion rings and fries in his burger. It's not really a sin, but he genuinely thinks this is a weird combination/thing to do so he never does it in front of people. He'll wait for you to go to the bathroom or something, and then add them in. Might steal your onion rings and/or fries too while you're gone. I'll cut him some slack, only because he doesn't really eat enough fast food to know the common food 'hacks'.

Harbor: Eats the fillet-o-fish and a random other burger/sandwich combined. If you give him a look, he will take another bite slowly and chew obnoxiously with a smug look. He does the exaggerated "mmm" too and closes his eyes just to hear you laugh and roll your eyes

Sage: Likes the good ol' fries in the milkshake and pineapple on pizza. She really likes the salty-sweet combos and has more of a sweet tooth than she'd like to admit. She also thinks the fruit/shakes help(s) make fast food feel less greasy

Reyna: Uses human blood as ketchup She mixes coffee and soda together to feel something. You don't even question her, mostly because she refuses to explain herself and doesn't feel the need to. She'll just shrug, smile and then offer you a taste- saying it's like devouring a soul. It tastes like battery acid

Viper: Doesn’t commit food sins but she did try to poison someone’s fast food. She just wanted to test out a weaker poison she had on hand, and decided her target would be that one person who wouldn't take a hint and leave you alone. Never leave your food unattended around her, especially if you're going to blatantly annoy her S/O.

Phoenix: Puts popcorn chicken in his munchkin donuts. He claims to be a food connoisseur every time you question it, and that it'll catch on as a food trend one day. You tried it once and didn't know how to feel about the fact you didn't hate it. He gets really excited every time he gets this particular combo and you can't help but smile at his childlike giddiness

Yoru: Probably puts salt in his cheap coffee, it tastes awful but he does it anyway- maybe out of spite. He got the salt from the tears of his enemies. He never stopped to consider that just because he could, maybe he shouldn't. You don't say anything because the last time you did, he drank it faster and then got another

[whenyoucallmelover]

everything i read this month, all wrapped up

under 10k words.

 ☁️ darling (adj.), @daydreaming-sunflower (1k) tags; tooth-rotting fluff, comfort/safe spaces, established relationship

☁️ His and Hers, @hellolovers13 (1.8k) tags; trans harry, matching blankets, fluff, light angst

☁️ Rainy Days, New Adventures, @greenblueish (1.3k) tags; meet cute, harry has a cat, fluff

☁️ Do You See What I See, @allwaswell16 (2k) tags; veterinarian louis, crack/humor, awkwardness, misunderstandings

☁️ Just a little taste, @lunarheslwt (3k) tags; vampire harry/human louis, paranormal elements, emotional hurt/comfort, biting, tw: blood/gore

☁️ Changing Weather (For Worse or For Better), @haztobegood (3k) tags; 5+1, vignettes, established relationship, domestic fluff, light arguing

☁️ Things Unsaid, @londonfoginacup (4k) tags; soulmates, soulmate tattoos, meet cute, london underground, bookstore, strangers to lovers

☁️ I Remember (The Distances We Covered), @lululawrence (5k) tags; famous louis/non famous harry, meet cute, single parent harry, older harry, footballer louis, music teacher harry, fluff

☁️ when we get intimate, @rainblou/@alphalouis (6k) tags; a/b/o, asexual harry, insecure louis, college/university, nesting, argument

☁️ Court Wine, @enchantedlandcoffee, @red-pandaaa (7k) tags; a/b/o, courting, idiots in love, friends to lovers, college/university, misunderstandings

☁️ one glance and the avalanche drops, @wankerville (8k) tags; christmas, tree deliverer harry, student louis, fluff, strangers to lovers

☁️ Find Me in the Kitchen, @neondiamond (9k) tags; a/b/o, chef harry, cooking lessons, louis can’t cook, fluff and smut

over 10k words.

☁️ Wish You Would, @pocketsunshineharry (12k) tags; strangers to friends to lovers, soulmates, soulmate tattoos, language of flowers, plants, miscommunications

☁️ Every heart but mine, @rainblou/@alphalouis (17k) tags; non-traditional a/b/o dynamics, secondary-gender trans character, workplace relationship, soulmates, soulmarks, tw: mentions of transphobia

☁️ just tell me you love me (that's all i need to hear), @finelinelarents (21k) tags; friends to lovers, girl direction, pining, jealousy, slow burn, angst and smut, tw: slight dubious consent/touching

multi-part.

☁️ snapshots of moments, @onlythebravest (13k, 11/11) tags; drabble collection, canon compliant, sad moments, happy moments, fluff, angst…all the tags!

☁️ We've Been Stealing Moments, Feelings, @builtyouahousefromabrokenhome (28k, 5/27) tags; angst with a happy ending, labor unions, not actually unrequited love, slow burn, tw: bullying, workplace abuse, mentions of suicide, homophobia *as this fic is not finished, i don’t know the intensity/in depth-ness of all of the triggers, so please do read the warnings for yourself :)

☁️ Ghost Note Symphony, whoknows (96k, 3/3) tags; proximity curse, supernatural elements, angst, ??? to lovers, tw: blood/gore, tw: medical talk *i feel like i betrayed my own morals reading this… i hate that this fic was so good that i had to overlook the exclusive bottom louis. it was a struggle but it was worth it; i think this story will be one of those ones that sticks with me for a long time. 

smut

☁️ outside in the summertime, @greeneyesfriedrice (2k) tags; pwp, beard burn, face fucking, slight exhibitionism, tw: mentions of recreational drug use

☁️ Pace Yourself, @kenniewen (3k) tags; topping for the first time, virginity kink, sub top/dom bottom, sub harry/dom louis, praise, collars, cockrings, daddy kink

☁️ stop the world ('cause i wanna get off with you), @thedevilinmybrain (12k) tags; 5+1, canon compliant, being walked in on, fluff and smut, established relationship

☁️ High heels on, 'm feeling alive, @thebreadvansstuff (14k) tags; porn with plot, strangers to lovers, exhibitionism, semi public sex, dirty talk, harry in heels

don’t forget to leave a comment and kudos for the authors & reblog their fic posts! ･ﾟ*｡･

[lipstickstainedreid]

Jet nap, Spencer Reid oneshot

First oneshot i wrote, I also just got my wisdom tooth taken out so I might be delirious rn

fluffy oneshot, no cw, sfw

1429 words

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a long couple of days figuring out the last case. Finally, you are in the comfortable seats of the jet. You sit down on the grey couch and stretch your legs. Jawing you realise just how tired you are. 

Morgan, Prentis and JJ are already deep in conversation sitting at the table. 

Hotch and Rossi swiftly follow. Rossi quickly sits down to scribble something in his notebook while Hotch goes to tell the pilot to take off. 

Reid comes in last, he seems deep in thought. His eyes snap up to yours. You give him a small smile. His long legs clad in dark brown pants stride the short distance across the plane. 

“May I?” He points to the empty seat on the couch beside you. 

You nod stifling another jawn. 

As he sits down you notice the small distance between you. The soft brush of his knee against yours sends small tingles down your spine. 

Reid bends down to rummage through his leather bag. A red paperback is fished from the satchel. He scooches a little to get comfortable and opens the book. 

You can practically feel the heat from his body with how close he is sitting. He has to be doing this on purpose you think to yourself. Of course, he could just not be noticing it. But a guy like Spence? who is so aware of germs and won’t let anybody share his drink. It is almost suspicious. 

“Whatcha reading?” 

“Hm?” The boy next to you furrows his brown turning to you. 

“Sign Of Four from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”

You reach out your hand. He marks the page before passing you the book. You look at the cover and read the back. 

“Looks cool.”

He gives you a little nod. Usually, you guys can talk for hours about anything and everything but there is a blanket of tiredness falling over the entire jet now that you’ve taken off. Even the trio at the table is simmering down. 

Reid opens the book again, but, you interrupt. “Spence, can I read with you? I didn’t bring anything.” You smile apologetically. 

He gives you a little confused look. 

You practically melt at how sweet he looks. His hazel eyes studying your face, trying to find out if you’re serious.

He is a colleague, you have to find a way to get rid of this crush. Ever since you started at the BAU the tall man caught your attention. Sure, it was awkward at first. He barely talked to you. Over time you slowly warmed up to you and you now consider him one of your best friends. 

Still, he is your coworker and you can’t have a crush on him. Especially not when you work with the best profilers in the country. How nobody mentioned it to you yet is a wonder. 

Reid seems to have made up his mind. 

“Yeah of course.” His voice slightly cracks near the end of his sentence. He gulps and moves as close as possible without actually touching you. He moves his arms so the book is now held between you two. 

“Thanks!” You smile gratefully at him and you are sure a small blush is creeping up his face that wasn’t there before. 

You turn back to face the book. 

Just before you can read a full sentence the page gets turned. You quickly pick up reading but before you’re even halfway through the page Spencer does it again.

“Spence…” You sigh “Can you please wait a little before turning the page?”

“But I finished reading it?”

“Yeah I know but, I need a little bit longer. Not everybody is a super genius” You joke. 

Both of you start to read the next page and you can tell Reid is waiting longer for you to finish. You give him a little hum of acknowledgement so that he can turn the page.

You two keep reading about the adventures of Sherlock Homes. 

Your eyes start feeling heavy. You lazily keep reading the words while slumping a little into the couch. 

Detective Holmes is running around the streets of London, looking for clues. The sound of his dress shoes echoing in the small alleyway. You halt mid-alley when the man in front of you does too. Sherlock bends down to pick something up. 

“Is she asleep?”

You hear the voice clear as day, except the mouth of the detective didn’t move.

“I…” 

You look around trying to figure out who’s talking.

“I think so, she just put her head down.”

Wait, you know that voice. That’s Reid. 

You slowly open your eyes, blinking against the light. 

“Pretty boy getting some action.” Morgans's voice taunts the young doctor.

You lift your head, rubbing your eyes. 

“Hey,”  Spence softly says next to you, “we just landed.”

Once you fully sit up with your eyes open you can see Derek making kissing faces at Reid while he walks out. 

Everybody seemed to have already left. It is just you and Reid on the jet.

“Did I fall asleep?” You ask

Spencer chuckles a little, trying to put his hair behind his ear. “Yeah after about five minutes you passed out on my shoulder.”

Oh no, it was already bad enough that you couldn’t stop staring at Spencer, but this set in stone that you are way more into him than you should be as colleagues. Everybody on the plane saw it as well. You could already hear Derek bullying you. 

And poor Spence, he must’ve been so uncomfortable having you all against him. 

You can feel your entire body flushing red.

“Spencer, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” 

The man’s gaze softens.  “y/n it’s okay, you were tired.”

“I know, but still, I know how you don’t like people touching you.” You quickly start packing your stuff to leave. 

“Really y/n I didn’t mind,” He looks away nervously “Some people I like having closer than others.” 

“That’s sweet Spence.” You smile at him when he looks back at you. 

You both get up to leave the jet. Even though Spencer was okay with everything. You still couldn’t really ignore what Derek was saying. Why was he making kissing noises at you? 

it probably would be best to let it be, still, some insecurities came up. 

“What was Morgan talking about?” You ask while making your way to the bullpen to get your last stuff. 

Spencer looks like he saw a ghost. 

“Oh..erm,” He starts fixing his clothes. “Nothing really… he was making a joke.”

His nervousness gives you a little hope. Maybe you can push him a little further.

“What about?”

You see the man next to you gulp. “About someone, he knows I like, but we don’t need to talk about it it’s not like she would like me anyway and even if she did it wouldn’t be responsible because…” He starts to ramble.

“Spence,” you chuckle a little while you grab his arm. He stops walking in the middle of a hallway. The taller man is looking everywhere except at you. His cheeks and ears flushed red. 

Could this really be, you think to yourself, the doctor Spencer Reid has a crush on you, Y/n Y/l/n?

You’re stomach is doing flips, but you need to be sure before you not only put your friendship but also potentially your job on the line.

“Why wouldn’t it be responsible?” You coo, eyes fluttering up at him.

“Well, according to FBI regulations, two agents can only be in a relationship if they share the same position. So, that results in not being able to get promoted. That is not even considering what would happen to the team if you didn’t like me back. 

Your chest erupts into butterflies when you hear the last sentence. Reids' eyes widen when he realises what he said. He is about to start to ramble again. 

You stand on your tiptoes and grab his shirt to pull him down a little. You press your lips on him to shut him up. 

His hands slowly make their way to your waist. It’s a little awkward and sweet. Just like Spencer. Fireworks erupt in your chest. You pull away a little.

“I like you too Spence.” You murmur against his lips. You feel him smile against your lips as he kisses you again. 

You didn’t expect your first kiss with Spencer to be in the middle of a hallway in the FBI building, but with him it’s perfect.

[aquilathefighter]

Fluffbruary 5: Pigeon

Having to play a little catch up due to a birthday celebration Saturday night! Enjoy my "Dream loves birds as much as I do" agenda.

Find my @fluffbruary ficlet collection on AO3 here!

Fandom: The Sandman (2022)

Relationship: Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling

When Hob wakes, the other side of the bed is cold. He panics, just for a moment, then sits up, blinking blearily at the rays of sun shining into his eyes. Planting his feet on the ground, he stands and walks toward the living room.

“Dream?” he groans, “Where’d you go, love? Want some tea?” He looks around, husband nowhere to be found in the tiny flat above the New Inn. As Hob crosses to the kitchen, busying himself with preparing the tea, he feels a breeze from the sliding glass door leading to the balcony. He turns the kettle on and goes to poke his head out the door.

The door is only open a crack but what Hob sees makes him pause. He finds Dream, but he also finds a truly absurd number of pigeons alongside him. There are birds everywhere. Sitting on the railing, flitting around on the concrete of the balcony, digging through the seed bucket Dream has unsurprisingly forgotten to close. And only once Hob has taken in the dozens of pigeons on the balcony does he look at his husband. Dream is sitting with his eyes closed, both palms out and filled with millet. There are two pigeons perched on each hand, picking over the tiny seeds. Another bird is perched atop Dream’s head, preening his eternally messy hair. Four are set upon his thighs, in various states of sleepiness.

Hob’s heart swells at the scene. Dream had confessed that he used to feed the pigeons when he wanted to mope, finding some joy in feeding them crumbs from a baguette. Hob had taken that evidence into consideration along with his messenger ravens and set up a bird feeding station at their flat. Even more feeders were hung in front of the various windows of the New Inn, bringing in lots of feathered friends to the delight of the daytime patrons. In fact, the inn had gotten a bit of a reputation with bird lovers, who would stop in after a long morning of chasing birds across London. Hob had invested way too much money into the venture, just to make his Dream happy. He didn’t care how much money he had to spend to help Dream cope with life, it was just a lucky strike that the birds were a hit. Hob smiled, taking in the sight of his Dream, finally content in this moment.

He heard the kettle shut off, interrupting his admiration of his love. He turns from the door and pours the hot water into their mugs. Dream’s has a drawing of a pigeon wearing sunglasses with text below reading, “Stay Coo” and his own reading, “World’s Okayest Professor,” a gift from one of his PhD students. He takes in the scent of the tea, growing richer every second it steeps. He adds sugar to each mug, pouring in three spoonfuls for Dream, then opens the fridge to produce the cream. Again, he adds a heavy dollop to his husband’s mug.

Who would’ve thought such a broody man would have such a sweet tooth? He thinks, shaking his head and smiling. Grabbing both of the mugs, he heads back toward the door. Sliding it open as slow as he can as to not disturb the birds, he slips out and shoos the birds from his chair. He sets the mugs down on the small table between the two chairs. Dream cracks an eye open, birds still pecking away at the seeds.

“Hello, Hob,”

“Good morning love,” Hob leans toward Dream to plant a kiss on his cheek. The birds are unbothered by this behavior, used to Hob’s need to shower his husband with kisses and touches. All of Dream’s regulars have names, though Hob still has a hard time telling them all apart. “Didn’t expect you’d be out with the birds this early.”

“I found myself in need of some peace and did not desire to wake you.”

“You know you can wake me any time, duck. No matter what,” Hob takes a sip of his tea. “But I’m glad the birds help too.”

“Indeed. Thank you for the tea, my love.” Dream lowers one hand, pigeons fluttering back to the railing. He reaches for the tea and takes a long draught. “Perfect as usual. I would not expect anything less.” Dream turns his head and smiles the smile only Hob has the privilege to see, his lips turning up slightly higher on the right. Hob just smiles and shakes his head.

“I love you, you know that?”

“Yes. As do I. Thank you for caring for me as you do.”

“Of course, dove, all I want is for you to be happy.” Hob reaches out to grab Dream’s hand and squeezes.

Dream looks around at the pigeons, then into Hob’s eyes.

“I am. And I know that if I am not, I will be again.” He leans in to press a kiss to Hob’s lips, scaring the pigeons still left on his head and legs off to the railing. “Let us go inside for breakfast.”

Hob rises, grabbing their mugs before Dream can, smiling all the way back to the table.

[teaspoonnebula]

The Speckled Band Part 2 - Thoughts!

"I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I have traced her. What has she been saying to you?"

"It is a little cold for the time of the year," said Holmes.

He's such a troll. Absolute legend. No time for abusive bullies in Baker Street.

The thing that perturbs him most about the encounter is that he is mistaken as having a close official association with the police.

"He seems a very amiable person," said Holmes, laughing. "I am not quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my grip was not much more feeble than his own." As he spoke he picked up the steel poker and, with a sudden effort, straightened it out again.

I love the absolute assuredness that he has that he will be able to unbend the poker.

I only trust that our little friend will not suffer from her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her.

Our little friend

I mean as a 5"3 woman if anyone calls me their 'little friend' I'd livid, but there is something charming about how immediately protective he is of Helen Stoner.

The total income, which at the time of the wife's death was little short of 1100 pounds, is now, through the fall in agricultural prices, not more than 750 pounds. Each daughter can claim an income of 250 pounds, in case of marriage.

It's always so hard to know how much salaries amount to in these stories - the benchmark I use is that in a later story we will meet someone who works a clerical position for the government, lives in rooms in central London and goes to a gentleman's club who Holmes says earns £450 a year, which he describes as a 'modest' income. We will also meet an academic who officially earns £700 a year - this is seen as enough to allowshim to live comfortably, but not extravagantly.

So if Roylott had been deprived of £500 through the daughters getting married, he would not have been able to continue his lifestyle at Stoke Moran - I guess he would have had to sell up, find a more modest place to live and start working again.

That and a tooth-brush are, I think all that we need."

Sherlockians love to debate whether Holmes' implication here is that he and Watson share a toothbrush. Personally, I like to think he meant a toothbrush each. Because... eww.

You will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself as to this floor." He threw himself down upon his face with his lens in his hand and crawled swiftly backward and forward, examining minutely the cracks between the boards.

This is a hilarious mental image.

"There isn't a cat in it, for example?"

"No. What a strange idea!"

Few people know that Sherlock Holmes invented Schrodinger's cat before Schrodinger did.

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[tour-de-pants]

Guys, I did a thing...

Just a quick alt meet RPF of Watson and Holmes... You know I ship it, don't @ me! Let me know if I should do more :) -Pants

If he’d been paying any attention, Watson would’ve noticed the aggravated stare from the woman one table over. He’d been tapping a slim wooden stir stick against his mug for five minutes that must’ve felt to her like fifty. He wasn’t the sort to annoy strangers, or anyone, intentionally. Usually he didn’t even mind someone else running late to a meeting. But if Lestrade didn’t turn up soon he might just lose his mind.

Training diets were a hell he put himself through willingly, and after fifteen years, the strain was fairly easy to take. Without much of a sweet tooth to speak of, he had it better than many—especially poor Anderson, who harbored a desire for pain au chocolat to rival his want for a mountain win. Not a lot got to Watson anymore, but the smell of freshly roasted coffee beans in this place… damn if he wasn’t about to crack and down a massive hazelnut concoction worth half a day’s calories. 

“‘Ugh, honestly,”’ the woman one table over grunted, drawing Watson’s attention away from the door. He frowned as she met his eyes with a look of disgust. A lifetime in London wouldn’t be enough to understand these people. 

“‘Hey John, sorry ‘bout that. Perils of mass transport, you know how it goes.” ’Lestrade slid into the seat across the table, the bizarrely small size of which Watson was noticing for the first time. They really didn’t want folks to hang about, he guessed. 

“‘It’s alright, Coach,”’ Watson answered, gulping his unexpectedly still hot tea. 

“‘Aw, don’t you do that, mate. Makes me feel like an old man in charge of a bunch of teenagers.”’

“‘I know.” ’Watson smiled. Lestrade was a good guy—and a good coach. Maybe he was jumping the gun with this whole retirement thing. “‘So what are we doing here? Besides testing my resolve against the Kenyan roast of the day?”’

“‘Need to let you in on something before the Prologue, being team captain and all. I wish I could tell the whole group, but it’s a bit sensitive.”’ The clasping and unclasping of Lestrade’s fingers told Watson this wouldn’t be a time for jokes, regardless of what he was about to hear. Something distinctly non-chamomile turned in his stomach.

“‘What’s up? Is someone injured?”’ He leaned forward the few inches it took to bring their heads close. “‘Worse?”’ 

“‘Oh, no, no. Nothing like that, thank God. No, it’s…you’re getting…it’s a new teammate.”’

Watson leaned back in his chair. Of course it was a new teammate; it’d have to be, what with Sholto out. After that crash last year, the doctors said he would never mount a bike again. He’d managed to stay out of the media once he’d stabilized and been transferred to a rehabilitation facility. It’d been a big hit for the team in terms of the Tour and fears for their own safety out there. Few teams in recent years had been as cohesive as Speedy’s; the idea of bringing in someone new was hard enough, but—

“‘This close to the Prologue, though? Why can’t the other guys know? And why didn’t you just ring me about it?”’

“‘John, it’s…”’

Watson waited, stir stick tapping against his saucer now. He heard the woman next to him mutter a curse as she scooped up her laptop and walked off. Some people were just grumpy, he supposed. 

“‘John, it’s Sherlock Holmes.”’

It was Watson’s turn to curse under his breath. Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes who rode the Tour ten years ago? Sherlock Holmes who left the race and the cycling world in a cloud of cocaine use allegations and rumors about a tryst gone bad with his own teammate? Sherlock Holmes whom no one had heard from since?

“‘Sorry Greg.”’ Watson blinked hard in an attempt to make sense of the news. “‘I thought you said Sherlock Holmes.”’

“‘You can’t tell anyone, mate. And sorry for laying it on you like this. There are more things beyond my control than I’d like, but I can assure you he’ll be riding clean and is physically fit for the job. Listen, I hate surprises as much as the next guy, but my hands are really tied with this one. I’m letting you know now because I anticipate I’ll need your help.”’

Watson ran a hand through his hair, short and light despite it only being late June. He still couldn’t figure out why he’d had to come out all this way to hear about this, but Lestrade always had reasons for what he did and he was usually right.

“‘Ok. Yeah, alright. Thanks for the heads up. Whatever you need, I’ll back you.”’

“‘Great.”’ A relieved smile flashed across Lestrade’s face as he rapped his knuckles on the tabletop and stood to leave. “‘Now get yourself out of here before temptation wins the day.”’

“‘As if it ever could.”’ Watson nodded and returned the smile, waiting for the door to close behind Lestrade before moving to add his cup and saucer to the mounting pile of dirty china above the trash bin behind him.

“‘Ceramic,”’ intoned a deep voice behind him.

“‘Pardon?”’ Watson asked, furrowing his brow but not turning.

“‘The dining ware isn’t china. It’s ceramic.”’

Watson stepped toward the bin, tossing in his stir stick and paper napkin before precariously balancing his ceramic cup and saucer on the returns shelf. 

“‘Are you my conscience?” ’he asked, laughing lightly as his own joke and holding up pleading hands in front of his mug until he was fairly certain he wouldn’t be the one to send the whole lot tumbling to the floor.

“‘Unlikely. Though I suppose we’ll see how the early stages go.”’

Early stages? Watson turned slowly, eyebrows rising and jaw dropping as recognition dawned. Holy hell, you’re—

“‘Sherlock Holmes, yes. Kind of you to remember me, though perhaps the memory you’re recalling is not in itself so kind.”’

“‘What are you doing here?”’ Watson looked around suspiciously, feeling as though he ought to be paranoid though he didn’t know what he might be trying to spot. 

“‘Seeing as how it is a coffee shop, one might suppose I stopped in to purchase coffee. And as much as I do hate to be predictable, in this particular case, that supposition would be the correct one.”’

“‘Well yeah, ok, but I mean why are you here, in this coffee shop? Now?”’

“‘I take it an odd experience has befallen you in the past hour—no, half hour—and you haven’t yet processed whatever it is. News of some kind, I should imagine. However, blocking the bins with your jaw wagging like a goldfish, while apparently a natural choice for you, is in fact not typically the most productive one.”’

“‘Oh, sh—sorry, I’m very sorry,”’ Watson said to the miniature queue of patrons waiting to deposit their china.

“‘Ceramic,”’ Holmes noted impatiently. “‘Sit down at that set of chairs there. The place is emptying, I should return with my order in three minutes.”’ He cast a glance at the register. “‘Four, it’s the cashier’s first day.”’

Watson didn’t see him walk away, nor did he feel himself cross back to the small dining area and settle into a surprisingly uncomfortable armchair. It was impossible. Sherlock Holmes had been missing from the public eye, from the entire world as far as he knew, for nearly a decade. Now within minutes of being told the man had spontaneously resurrected to join Team Speedy’s/Sussex Honey, here he was in the flesh. Watson looked around the cafe. He didn’t believe in magic or kismet or any of those mystical type things. After forty years of life, he was sure he’d know by now if there were weird crystal-swinging forces at play. But what were the odds?

“Three thousand seven hundred and eighteen.” The tap of a paper cup on the low table by his elbow punctuated Holmes’s statement. “‘Of course that’s not the actual percentage chance of us encountering each other here and now, simply the approximate number of coffee shops available assuming we were both entering one at the same time.”’

“‘That’s one massive coincidence.”’ Watson eyed Holmes in the chair beside him, sipping slowly at his own paper cup’s contents. 

“‘The universe is rarely so lazy, or so Big Brother says.”’

“‘Big Brother?”’ Watson was now only ninety percent certain he wasn’t in a movie. Or a simulation. Or whatever the thing was you were supposedly inside of. 

“‘My big brother, Mycroft. Though if he had it his way, the capital letters would be spot on. The chances of us meeting here are slim indeed, but there’s something more…why is it you—oh. I see.”’

“‘You see?”’

“‘You’ve only just found out that we’re more than distant former colleagues of a sort. Quite the coincidence after all, then.”’ Holmes took another long sip of his drink. “‘Do make a start on that before it goes cold,”’ he instructed, pointing at Watson’s cup. “‘Wasting it would be a crime.”’

Heat radiated through Watson’s palm as he wrapped his hand around the cup. The scent of fresh coffee reached him halfway to his mouth, allowing him a moment to brace himself. He never was able to drink it black, but this was hardly the time to cause offense. He could almost hear Holmes smirking from a foot away. He can’t really read minds, I must have some rude look on my face. Wouldn’t have to if he’d only asked before he went ahead and ordered for me. Haven’t even properly introduced ourselves yet.

“‘You’ll have to trust me sometime. Might as well start with my impeccable taste in coffee.”’

“‘Right, yeah. Thanks. Cheers.”’ Watson took a careful sip. Then another. Whatever this was dancing across his tongue was like no coffee he’d ever tasted. He tipped his head back a moment, unsure whether he wanted to consume it all instantly or draw it out as long as it would last.

“‘You’re not being shipped to a desert island, it’s only the Tour de France. You can have another one of these in hand in a matter of weeks.”’

“‘This is the best coffee I’ve ever had in my life. This…what even is this?”’ He strained to see the board over his shoulder. “‘That Tanzania blend thing?”’

Holmes scoffed. “‘As if a blend of the day could produce such a depth of flavor. No, John—may I call you John?”’

Watson nodded. Day was already weird, why not. 

“‘No, John, this is not a blend. Look at the wall behind the baristas, over to the left.”’

“‘I didn’t even see that before,” ’Watson said, squinting at a large apparatus. 

“‘You do see, but you do not observe. That,”’ Holmes gestured with the cup in his hand, “‘produces this. Kyoto Slow, by name.”’

“‘How does all that even work?”’

“‘Perhaps if we both make it home from Paris,”’ Holmes said, sighing into another sip, “‘I’ll walk you through it.”’

------------- //irl author's note: Kyoto Slow is an awesome Mystrade fic, highly recommend. read on AO3.

[sourcreammachine]

Doctor Who episodes ranked let’s go

(o’th’ revived era. and eight’s movie because i’ve seen it)

and two-parters are counted as one, but i get to define what a ‘two-parter’ is. this is because i’m in charge not you

9.11 Heaven Sent aka the stars align and somehow Moffat manages to pull an incredible script out of his arse after being stuck up there for so long aka Capaldi is the new Atlas from carrying his entire era aka now you understand why i’m splitting up some two-parters and not others aka ahaha 9.11 lol

3.8/9 Human Nature / The Family of Blood

1.9/10 The Empty Child / The Doctor Dances

3.10 Blink

2.4 The Girl in the Fireplace

4.12/13 The Stolen Earth / Journey’s End

1.6 Dalek

6.i A Christmas Carol

3.11 Utopia

4.8/9 Silence in the Library / Forest of the Dead

7.v The Time of the Doctor okay hear me out first thing is i’m an absolute sucker second thing is why couldn’t season 7 have actually seeded any of this with actual thought and subtly rather than mystery-box hackery it literally makes me think of how much better his era could’ve been if Moffat wasn’t so up his own arse

2.8/9 The Impossible Planet / The Satan Pit

7.iv The Day of the Doctor

4.11 Turn Left

3.4 Girldick

1.12/13 Bad Wolf / The Parting of the Ways

7.iii The Night of The Doctor aka my boi Eight finally gets done justice

4.10 Midnight

4.6 The Doctor’s Daughter

3.2 The Shakespeare Code

3.i The Runaway Bride

2.12/13 Army of Ghosts / Doomsday

2.3 School Reunion

6.11 The God Complex

4.1 Partners in Crime

10.11/12 World Enough, and Time / The Doctor Falls (look, i’m a sucker i know, and i couldn’t give a shit about Gomez and Simm, but fuck you Moffat actually figured out how to write human emotions. Talalay’s finest hour. Lucas’ finest hour. Moffat did not deserve a swan song but he got himself one somehow)

5.2 The Beast Below

8.8 Mummy on the Orient Express (despite the awful, horrible ending, see below (very far below))

4.7 The Unicorn and the Wasp

4.2 The Fires of Pompeii

7.12 Neil Gaiman’s Good Episode

1.1 Rose

5.1 The Eleventh Hour

2.7 The Idiot’s Lantern

10.1 The Pilot

5.10 Vincent and the Doctor

4.i Voyage of the Damned

6.4 The Neil Gaiman Fanfic Hour

3.1 Smith and Jones

4.4 The Sontaran Stratagem / The Poison Sky

6.10 The Girl Who Waited

1.2 The End of The World

5.12/13 The Pandorica Opens / The Big Bang

2.i The Christmas Invasion

6.7 A Good Man Jumps The Shark

5.6 The Vampires of Venice

4.3 Planet of the Ood

7.ii The Snowmen

1.11 Boom Town

3.12 The Sound of Drums / Last of the Time Lords

1.7 The Long Game

7.7 The Rings of Akhaten

8.6 The Caretaker

5.7 Amy’s Choice

9.7/8 Zygons. you can basically hear Capaldi’s back cracking from him carrying it

4.v/vi The End of Time, Parts 1 & 2

10.6 Extremis, the most underrated episode fuck you

4.ii The Next Doctor

8.5 Time Heist

6.1/2 The Impossible Astronaut / Day of the Moon

2.1 New Earth

10.3 Twelve Decks a Racist

9.ii The Husbands of River Song (yeah i’m a sucker, the ending gets me)

6.3 Curse of the Black Pearl spot, fuck

11.1 The Woman Who Fell To Earth (based on how it made me feel in 2018, looking back yeah the warning signs were all there)

5.4/5 The Time of Angels / Flesh and Stone

5.11 The Lodger

1.3 The Unquiet Dead

7.4 The Power of Three aka Chris Chibnall Shits Himself on Live Television

2.5/6 Rise of the Cybermen / The Age of Steel

7.9 Hide

10.5 Oxygen aka La Problema Es Capitalismo

8.1 Deep Breath

2.2 Tooth and Nail claw, fuck

1.8 Father’s Day

11.3 Rosa (bring back Blackman as an episode writer, she wrote Noughts & Crosses, she can do it)

7.11 The Crimson ‘Orror

6.8 Let’s Kill Hitler

6.5/6 The Rebel Flesh / The Almost People

4.iv The Waters of Mars

7.6 oh no it’s clara

9.10 yaay clara’s dead

5.8/9 The Hungry Earth / Cold Blood

12.5 Fugitive of the Judoon (again, based on how i felt watching it for the first time. it was a good episode and an interesting mystery box, just one filled with shit)

1.4/5 Aliens of London / World War Three

7.5 The Angels Take amy lol

2.11 Fear Her

8.4 Listen, aka the first episode that Capaldi carries, despite Moffat being himself again

10.ii Twice Upon a Time (ugh we could’ve had a brilliant trilogy to see out Capaldi, but instead we get Moffat masturbating on live television for an hour. look, The Doctor could have had an actual character arc - they feel like they’re on borrowed time after their resurrection on Trenzalore, after the events on Gallifrey they feel like any sort of feelings of ‘duty’ as last of the time lords (as errant and fleeting as such feelings might’ve been) are resolved, and after failing their BIG MASSIVE SEASON 10 ARC with Missy and getting stabbed in the back, and BILL [redacted for spoilers], they’re happy to accept their death - and that’s where the season ends. yuletide 2017 could’ve ended this arc, they’re taught the love of the universe again, they see the goodness they bring to all life - Clara, i am a good man. and when they sit down to die, those words ‘maybe just one more go’ could’ve had the weight of the universe behind them, it could’ve been the greatest who line ever written, had that line actually had weight on its shoulders. Moffat is a hack. mystery-boxing is hacking, end of story. Capaldi, the finest actor ever in the role, was done dirty by scripts with no weight and planning. Grand Moff lives up his own arse - that power gives him the ability to write incredible episodes such as Heaven Sent and everything he ever touched under Davies - but it makes all series, arcs and continuity fall apart into a pile of shit. this episode is the finest example - a universe of potential, reduced to one hour of self-congratulatory masturbation)

6.9 Night Terrors

11.9 It Takes You Away (the one with the frog god)

7.10 Journey to the Centre of the TARDIS

9.12 Heaven Sent Part II: Whoops

8.9 Flatline

7.3 A Town Called Widowmaker

4.iii Planet of the Dead

9.1/2 The Magician’s Apprentice / The Witch’s Familiar

6.12 Closing Time

3.7 42

13.i Eve of the Daleks (the aisling bea one)

8.3 Robot of Sherwood

9.5/6 Maisie Williams

6.13 The Wedding of River Song

5.3 Victory of the Daleks

8.11/12 Dark Water / Death in Heaven aka i’m sorry Gomez but not even you can carry this

3.6 The Lazarus Experiment

11.i Resolution (…of the Daleks)

10.2 Emoji Robots

8.2 Into the Dalek

10.5 Knock Knock. Who’s There? Yer mum

7.13 The Name of the Doctor aka the Biggest Waste of Richard E. Grant until Rise of Skywalker

7.2 Dinosaurs on a Plane

10.8/9 The Pyramid at the End of the World / The Lie of the Land

Doctor Who: The Movie!

11.6 Demons of the Punjab

7.1 Asylum of the Daleks

7.8 Cold War aka i’m starting to think Mark Gatiss might be a bad writer actually

3.4/5 Daleks in Manhattan / Evolution of the Daleks

11.5 P’ting

9.3/4 Under the Lake / Before the Flood aka the Biggest Waste of Peter Serafinowicz since the Clone Wars didn’t bring him back. also a deaf person falling in love with their interpreter is the most toxic thing ever. and it’s 90 more minutes of season 9 tedium ugh

2.10 Love and Monsters. yeah this high up

8.7 The anti-abortion episode. and it’s not just for that fact alone nonono, The Doctor is such an unbelievable unforgivable cunt this time. at least Clara calls them out in that brilliant final-ish scene BUT they’re still unforgivable AND they get forgiven anyway next week?? literally they take the way Clara’s character arc was going and throw it all in the bin

8.10 In The Forest of the Shite

11.7 Kerblam!

10.9 Empress of Mars aka i’m starting to think Mark Gatiss might be a bad writer actually

9.i Last Christmas aka remember how they reset Clara’s character arc after Mummy for literally no reason???? THEY FUCKING DID IT AGAIN!! she’s literally put in limbo for an ENTIRE SEASON, after they gave her TWO good offramps and apparently chickened the fuck out from using them?? and expected me to care when she (spoiler)? also the episode’s like really boring. bonus points for the absolutely perfect casting of Nick Frost tho, very nominative determinism

10.i is my hatred of Doctor Mysterio unwarranted? probably. but i still hate it

12.8 The Haunting of Villa Diodati, the most overrated episode fuck you. no it is not ‘the only good episode of season 12’ - it’s just as bad as the rest. The Doctor is unnecessarily unlikeable. the villain boy is nonsense, uninteresting and unlikeable. and worst of all - i don’t want to have violent sex with any of the people in this villa

12.4 Nikola Tesla’s Tower of Terror

11.8 The Witchfinders

9.9 Sleep No More aka i’m starting to think Mark Gatiss might be a bad writer actually

13.2 Flux Part 2: War of the Sontarans (oh yeah like they don’t do war normally, that’s like saying the fucking ,, toasting of the toaster or something)

7.i The Doctor, the Widow, and the Wardrobe (it’s only Chibnall from here on out let’s goo)

12.1/2 Spyfall. literally how the FUCK do you waste both Stephen Fry AND Lenny fucking Henry how the fuck. also The Doctor basically committed a nazism right

12.3 Orphan 55, the second most underrated episode - a lot of people say it’s Chibnall’s worst but i think there’s worse

12.i Revolution of the Daleks (the priti patel one)

11.2 The Ghost Monument

13.4 Flux Part 4: Village of the Angels

11.10 The Battle of Rashhcjxjshog s Kjalapados

12.7 Can You Hear Me? (that was the one with the finger guy. no i don’t mean jonathan banks)

11.4 Spiders in Sheffield

12.6 Praxeus

12.9/10 how did they let chibnall get away with it. isn’t there supposed to be oversight. aren’t there supposed to be safeguards. how did they let him get away with it

13.1 Flux Part 1: The Halloween Apocalypse

13.ii Legend of the Sea Devils

13.3 Flux Part 3: Once, Upon Time

13.iii The Power of the Doctor aka thank fuck, it’s finally over

10.5 Flux Part 5: Survivors of the Flux

10.6 Flux Part 6: Fuck You Chibnall

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[inkwolvesandcoffee]

Claddagh (F!Irish Human Reader x Werewolf Antiquarian!James Delaney)

Genre: Fluff, Romance, Angst

Pairing: F!Irish Human Reader x James Delaney (M!Werewolf Antiquarian)

Word count: 2.2K

Warnings: Very light angst, allusion to smoking, past violence, and discrimination, tooth-rotting fluff

Summary: Infuriating is one way of describing London-based antiquarian James Delaney. Distant and cold with a tendency to cruelty is another. However, on a sunny day, he allows you to look beyond the darkness around him.

To see the one light he has allowed in.

You.

Author note:

Your modern filí is back! A round of applause for finally finding the motivation to finish and edit this piece, please!

Now, I know James Delaney is a character from Taboo (which is a splendid series, btw, so I highly recommend checking it out), but I have given my own spin on him by lowkey fusing him with Leo Demidov from Child 44 and Tommy Conlon from Warrior. Thus, he has become one of my OCs... this is totally not me trying to justify my decisions. Anyways, he’ll be tagged as one from now on.

Cracking on! Claddagh! What is it?

The Claddagh ring I have inspired this wee piece. It is a traditional Irish ring depicting a crowned heart that’s held by two hands. The heart represents love, the crown stands for loyalty, and the two clasped hands symbolize friendship.

According to Irish author Colin Murphy, the way the piece of jewellery conveys one’s relationship status and is worn with that intention. 

On the right hand with the point of the heart toward the fingertips: the wearer is single and might be looking for love.

On the right hand with the point of the heart toward the wrist: the wearer is in a relationship; someone "has captured their heart"

On the left ring finger with the point of the heart toward the fingertips: the wearer is engaged.

On the left ring finger with the point of the heart toward the wrist: the wearer is married.

(Also, it goes without saying I do not own the pictures used in the moodboard and that the credit for them goes to their respective owners)

Story masterlist

Summer days are made for reading and classical music, to be perfectly enjoyed from your balcony while the city lives on in the background. Slivers of conversations over the phone drift on the dry wind as people walk past, some of them seemingly talking to themselves thanks to their earphones or AirPods. If not holding a water bottle, they have a cup in their hands, fueling the ever on-going silent conflict between Costa, Starbucks, and Café Nero. The occasional jogger raises the question of how sane one actually is to go out running when a single minute outside will have your clothes sticking to your skin.

But days like these are also to continuously have the shadow of the man the whole city seems to condemn in the corner of your eye.

“You’re staring.”

“Mhm.”

“Am I really that interesting?” I ask without looking away from the page.

“Mhm,” comes the same gruff answer.

I clench my jaw at his usual lack of response, the rest of my body following suit by growing rigid. Nevertheless, the irritation is blatantly noticeable in the way my fingers briefly dig into the cover of the book, imagining it’s his throat.

Don’t kill him. You’re in this together. The bloody buffoon needs you as much as you need him. 

With an exaggerated sigh, I let out the breath I’ve been holding, slip a bookmark between the pages, and throw the novel into my lap. Arms crossed and chin held high, I lean back while keeping my eyes trained on the burly figure making his way over. Likely having missed the weather report yet unbothered by the summer heat, he has opted for the usual dark attire. To be fair, the antiquarian has marched to the beat of his own, admittedly righteous, drum since the moment we met at the auction in Mayfair. So it’s not surprising to see him dressed in a neat black shirt shirt, a matching waistcoat and long trousers. However, the rolled up sleeves are a subtle sign the weather is affecting him. All the same, I do have to give him credit for maintaining a consistent style.

I wish I could say the same for his actions.

“You could at least use words, James. D’you know how- what- what are you doing?”

The torrent of harsh words dancing on the tip of my tongue dies down with each step that closes the distance between us. The low gust of wind carries a whiff of the intoxicating mixture of nicotine, sandalwood and musk, which provokes the side of me that is like putty in his crude hands. By the time there is a single step left, there is no sliver of determination to go against him left, only the willingness to submit and repeat last night.

Although, it would be a repeat of most nights.

It’s shameful and hypocritical to long for the one man who has been nothing but a pain in the arse. Yet, I am guilty of enjoying the sex even if it leads to nowhere. All the same, I try.

Try to find the crossroads.

The place he’ll meet me halfway.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

A silly endeavour, isn’t it? 

A pointless silent hope.

The days in the army and those spent shortly as a port labourer at the port of London when not getting involved in cage fights have left his palms rough and callous. Action is in their muscles, threaded through with violence. As deft and strong like a bear catching a salmon, they envelop mine, which snaps me out of the melancholy reverie. Normally, the warmth and feel of his big hands would make my heart somersault, but that’s only during the rare times.

The moments when it isn’t like walking around the walls of Jericho.

The moments in between.

They occur during the late night cigarettes he smokes while I trace his peculiar tattoos, curious about the stories behind them, or he allows me to trace the deep gash running from his neck to his chest, the skin raw and rigid. They are the mornings or evenings of an auction, when he tells me to dress nice before kissing my forehead and getting ready himself. They are even there in the midst of darkness, created by the midnight ghost-like walks around London he sometimes permits me to accompany him on. They also tend to take on the form of the afternoons he spends at the desk at the back of the shop, immersed in inspecting whatever antique he has acquired and thus forgetting all about his tea. 

Without milk, strong, dark, preferably darjeeling. 

I flinch, but blink in surprise at the ease with which I retract my hand from his. Nonetheless, unwilling to submit to our usual dynamic of me putting in most of the work and him being infuriatingly stoic, I let the sharpness of my tone speak for itself. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

James lets out a gruff sigh and reaches out again. Catching on quickly to the tactic of backing away every inch he comes closer, his rough fingers shoot forth like a rattlesnake and entwine mine in the familiar iron grip I had expected the first time.

Hardly anything turns out alright when the antiquarian is involved, his mere touch meaning violence and darkness are not far behind. Regardless of the lull in our search for the Sturluson text supposedly containing the ritual to enter Valhalla as a living mortal, I refuse to have a part in what lurks in the shadows he has taken with him today.

It’s almost comical, the effort put into trying to pry his bear claw of a hand loose. However, the pushing and pulling nor the wrangled curses are much of a concern, if a bother at all, for the man. Ignoring, as per usual, the struggle to break free from his touch, he calmly rummages in the pocket of his waistcoat.

“I swear by all that is holy and all that is not, if you don’t let go of me right fucking now,” I pick up the book in my lap and hold it up, ready to strike, “I’ll send you to the Devil himself. You could give him a book recommendation as soon as you see him.”

Because I really do like the novel he bought for me during the small trip to Foyles earlier this week on a dreary Monday: The Club Dumas by Arturo Pérez-Reverte.

Not that I would ever admit it because James Delaney is absolutely not worth granting an easy victory. I do have my pride, after all.

The pleasant warmth of his palm falls away as his fingers unfurl to casually pluck the novel out of my hand and plonk it on the glass side table. Then he nods to indicate something below, a note of curiosity in the short grunts he thinks constitutes a proper question.

On my ring finger there’s a thin silver band depicting two hands holding a crowned heart inlaid with my birthstone. 

A slight smile spreads on my lips as I slowly raise my hand to admire the piece of jewellery in the sunlight. The wave of nostalgia fully crashes over me as memories of my Nan float to the surface, of the stories she used to tell me as we hiked in Coole Park, the place where the greatest folklorist of our family once resided. What I would not give to return to those days, free and careless.

Away from London.

Away from… James.

Strangely, despite the rocky relationship with the big, burly eejit, the thought of returning to a life without him erases the nostalgic happiness. We are here, in the ever-expanding, all-devouring heart of a broken empire.

And, somehow, there is a part of me that would not have it any other way. Because if there is someone who might know it best, it’s the bloody bastard whose stormy greyish  blue eyes are sparkling with rare delight. A sliver of a smirk tugs at the corners of his full lips, barely restrained.  

So this was your master plan all along, was it?

A pleasant warmth expands in my chest, moving up in a flush across my neck and face. Various emotions are at war with one another, though none of them know how to adequately express themselves. So, I lower my head to hide the effect the gift and, essentially, he has on me. Nevertheless, the way I twist the band around my finger should provide James with ample evidence to imagine how I truly feel even though neither words nor my tone convey a genuine sense of gratitude. “Uhm, I mean… thank… you?”

A sonorous, gravelly purr rises from the depths of his throat. I snap up at the sound, but awkwardly clear my throat at the sight of the eyebrow cocked in surprise. If there is one thing I refuse it’s granting James the pleasure of detecting any hint of fragility in me. He might be a wolf, but even a human woman has her pride and being to protect, which she can very well do herself. “Don’t think I’ll let you off because of this. Do you always have to be so fucking difficult?”

“Like it?”

Lips pursed, I raise my shoulders in a vain attempt to shrink and hide myself from his annoyingly proud scrutiny. “Yes.”

“Good.”

“Why, though?”

His expression falters and he remains quiet, holding out on providing an answer. After all, why would there be a reason for him to give a gift as intimate as a promise, especially one embodied by a band around a specific finger?

I mimic his expression, a response which causes him to roll his eyes. Nonetheless, he briefly glances to the side and licks his lips, sitting on the answer yet unable to voice it. 

After another moment of silence, he finally answers. “You’ve been missing home, but have been unwilling to talk to me about it. My contact in Ireland procured this ring for me, telling me I-’’

He leaves the sentence unfinished and swallows hard, hesitant to share his weakness.

“What? What did they tell you?” I probe, wilfully forgetting how often it has led to nothing. If James is one thing, it’s a man of few words and a lot of bottled up feelings.

However, much to my surprise, there is an actual response.

“That I should be open with you. Sit down and talk. Try to be less…” he lets out a deep sigh and looks down at his fiddling fingers, uncertain now that they no longer have a ring to hold.

The silence returns and lingers for a moment while I patiently wait for him to continue. A strange remorse mars his features when he looks up again and locks his gaze with mine. Barely audible, he finishes the sentence. “Savage.”

The barely audible word drops a heavy stone in my stomach and tugs heavily on the strings holding my heart together, usually so tightly woven yet now almost tearing apart for perhaps one of the most infuriating men I have met throughout my life. And yet, here I am, hurting for, no, with him. 

Despite the usual hesitance to touch him, never knowing whether he’ll allow it, I extend a trembling hand to cup his cheek. James leans into the touch, his lashes slowly fluttering shut as he, perhaps unconsciously, emits another appreciative purr as my fingers glide over the stubble lining his jaw. 

My throat thick with sorrow and pain, I try to offer him solace as best I can. “You might not seem to understand basic etiquette at times, which drives me up the bloody wall, I won’t lie to you. But, all the same, you’ve never been savage in my eyes.”

“Good.”

“Thank you for the ring.”

“Mhm.”

Ah, we’re back at noises for answers.

Although the wolfish communication is normally a point of contention, it isn’t now. For James to open up like this is a big feat, an massive effort, so it’s only fair of me to leave him be instead of chastising him for who he simply is.

Feeling a little brave and foolish enough to test the waters, I ask him a question I had never thought I would. “Can I hug you?”

Nose pressed into my palm to nuzzle it like a wolf scenting something, warming the skin with the friction caused by his coarse but neatly trimmed beard, he nods in consent. “Mhm.”

I get up from the chair, crouch down, and carefully embrace him. True to his word, James returns the gesture. However, my heart skips a beat when he lifts me into his lap and tightens the hug, burying his face in my neck like he had with my hand a moment ago. 

I don’t ask questions. Instead, I remain silent and live in the moment.

Thus we sit on the tiles as London roars and carries on without a care in the background, arms entwined.

And though the timing might be right and I could for once push my pride aside, the three words that have crossed my mind nowadays remain sitting on the tip of my tongue. 

The sunlight reflects off of the Claddagh ring.

On my left ring finger.

The point of the heart turned towards the wrist.