NeverSleepUntilFive

Still collecting the full alphabet of the “live, laugh, love” variants if anyone has some good examples.

Ah, the classic "top or bottom?" A question that's homophobic, reductive, and misleading all at once.

For the record: roles are often versatile, change with mood and partner, and reducing relationships to a static sexual position—a concept amplified more by media than by reality—erases gay love in favor of a pornographic checklist. It's not the norm. And even then, two tops in love don't break up; they figure it out. Love isn't Grindr.

thanks to @henrygrass for the tag! here's something from chapter 5 of with everything to win which is not coming along as fast as i'd hoped

Happy Wednesday! I started working on some Snowcember fics, so I thought I’d share something. Thank you for the tags, @carlos-in-glasses, @actuallylemon, @ladyknight1512 <3

Carlos' eyes snap open in the dark. TK is snoring directly into his neck, his arm a dead weight over Carlos' waist—a possessive grip as if Carlos might levitate away without it. The snoring is usually a lullaby, a white-noise machine that tells him his husband is right where he’s supposed to be. Tonight, however, there’s more.

A faint tinkle. The scuff of a footstep.

Carlos' ears strain as his mind automatically runs through the possibilities: a settling house, a rogue raccoon, a poltergeist. Then comes the main event: a crash that echoes through the house.

Before his brain can formulate a reason, his body is already in motion. He disentangles himself from TK’s limbs. His hand finds the lamp, flooding the room with light.

Ripped from his dreams, TK scrambles across the bed, mumbling “Jonah,” and performs a full-body flop off the foot of the mattress, landing with a grunt. He springs to his feet, body coiled but off-balance, still partly tangled in the duvet.

Carlos is quickly beside him. He yanks the bedroom door open, heart pounding. He expects chaos. He expects tears.

He does not expect the tiny, pajama-clad missile that comes skidding to a halt in the hallway.

“PAPA CARLOS!” Jonah shouts, his small chest heaving. His eyes are wide, looking from Carlos to TK. “PERMISSION TO SAY A BAD WORD!”

Carlos blinks. His entire fight-or-flight response short-circuits. In the dim glow of the bedroom light, Jonah appears unharmed—just flustered, his brow furrowed in a scowl.

Muffling a snort, Carlos shares a look with TK, who just shrugs and sinks into a crouch, bringing himself to eye level with the frustrated six-year-old. “Run that by me one more time, buddy. Permission to what?”

“A BAD WORD!” Jonah insists, stomping one foot. “IT’S AN EMERGENCY!”

A beat of silence.

“I see,” TK says. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” he asks, his hands gently patting Jonah’s arms and shoulders.

The only reply is a frantic, full-body wiggle. Jonah starts to shift his weight from foot to foot, a little pot about to boil over.

“What was that noise, mijo?” Carlos asks. He squints past Jonah into the darkness behind him. The faint light from their bedroom glints off a dozen iridescent Christmas tree ornaments—scattered like fallen stars across the floor. A single silver one winks from underneath the couch.

Jonah follows his gaze, takes a deep, shuddering breath that puffs out his cheeks.

He straightens his little shoulders and looks Carlos dead in the eye.

“I,” he announces, solemnly, “had a collision with the tree.”

*reluctant sigh*

*scrolls back up*