#flufflet

Anyway, because he can do this he tends to lay on his back, his free arm tucked under his head as he reads.

This night, Steve is led on his side, back to him. Eddie isn’t sure if he is asleep, but it’s past midnight, and Steve had a very early start, so he wouldn’t be surprised.

As for Eddie, he had promised to finish after one more chapter, but that had been a few hours ago, and as he turns another page, Steve turns, moving into Eddies space.

Eddie automatically moves the arm from under his head, allowing Steve to move closer, resting his head on Eddie’s now outstretched arm. So when Eddie turns to look at him, their lips brush, causing a shuddering sigh to escape Steve, his hand moving to run across Eddie’s stomach to his side, pulling, to draw Eddie onto his side, bringing him closer. Eddie moves, lowering his book, dropping it to the bed as Steve moves his lips slow and soft against Eddie’s.

Bringing his now free hand up, Eddie gently runs his fingers over stubbled skin, relishing the feel as the pads catch on the hair.

The kiss remains slow, soft, lips simply moving across each other. It wasn’t passionate. It wasn’t hot and heavy. It was simply just them enjoying the feel of each others lips.

They kiss, hands gently caressing for a while, soft sighs escaping them both until Steve pulls back, blinking slow, a smile on his red kissed lips.

“I only came for a cuddle.”

Eddie smiles, nudging his nose against Steve’s, before brushing his lips against his husbands once again.

“Are you complaining Mr Munson?” Eddie asks against the lips caught by his once again.

“Not at all, love.” Steve answers, kissing Eddie in a way only those that truly love do.

Suits / Marvey / Rated T

Harvey Reginald Specter had unironically been called brilliant more than once in his life, and he wasn’t inclined to disagree. He was smart, determined, able to think on his feet and improvise, anticipate, manipulate. He worked hard to get where he was; he was always hungry for a win and rarely left unsatisfied.

Harvey knew he could court Mike. He knew he could seduce him. But he was more than aware of his own deficits too. Entire skill sets had been forgone in favor of easier, more lucrative ones, and he’d never quite mastered anything approaching a normal healthy relationship. That was problematic. 

For @casmick-consequences because I just can’t help myself.  Part 1 maybe? 

Castiel fiddled with the card in his hand for the 100th time. Mick Davies number glared back at him each time he looked down at it, and he could remember the split second of tension that had shot through him when it was handed over. The moment replayed clearly in his mind over and over the more he thought about it, the more he realized what Mick was actually asking him. That was a flirtation, he knew now, and the number was given to Castiel specifically for personal or business use. There was something about Mick Davies and the way he had said those words, and the look in his eye that made Castiel pause and accept the card.  Dean was rather angry after it happened, giving him a glower, but the more that Castiel thought about the interaction the more he wanted to call Mick and have a conversation with the man. Perhaps it was more than that, but he seemed to have an interest in Castiel, as a person. Castiel was aware that he had a type, tall, dark, handsome, with green eyes... there was a type there. Claire had let it be well known, when she texted him. Claire was the closest thing he had to family here and he would ask her opinion on some things, and Mick Davies was one of them. Claire was the one who prompted him to “go for it” what ever that was to mean, perhaps he should call.  After another moment of indecision, he dialed the numbers into the cellphone and instead of calling, sent a text.  That was easier than Castiel trying to be awkward on the phone. 

>>Hello Mick, this is Castiel. You gave me your card.

 That was how one started a conversation with someone new... right? Claire had told him to “be himself” whatever that was to mean, but it sounded normal. A few moments later he got a reply.    << Castiel, I honestly did not think I would hear back from you at all. How are You?  Castiel blinked at the phone. It must not have been too “dorky” as Dean would sometimes call him if Mick answered. He thought for a moment to reply.  >>I am well, and you? Any interesting cases? 

Claire said that when attempting to flirt, one should always be curious as to the other person’s interests. He had tried it on Dean, but he was not sure that it always worked on the hunter. Usually Dean would just fluster and tell him he was fine and walk away. It was sometimes rather hard to engage Dean in conversation. And Castiel was attempting flirtation with Mick, because “he deserved it” according to Claire.  <<Castiel, if you sent me a message just to check on my case load I will never survive. I had hoped you were looking for something more interesting than that.... but we could discuss things over dinner perhaps?

Dinner? That was... like a Date right? Quickly he sent off a message to Claire just to make sure, human dating rituals were vastly different now then they were when he was watching earth. Sometimes it was better to be safe than sorry. When he got the affirmative from Claire and an “LOL” he decided he should accept Mick’s offer. 

>> Dinner would be wonderful. I would be happy to discuss things other than cases. Let me know when and where to meet you. :smile:  << How about tomorrow? Seven? I can get us in to this cozy Italian place I know, I will send you details. Looking forward to it! XX Castiel stared at the little X’s at the end of the text, and sent a message to Claire but she didn’t respond right away. So he walked into the library where both Dean and Sam sat. “Sam, when someone responds to a text message with two X’s at the end what does that mean?” 

I wrote a fluffy thing!

The Galaxy's favorite Space Twins share a pretend game in their dreams - and not for the first time. Their respective families navigate the aftermath with some exemplary parenting. No warnings here except for overwhelming fluff and Darth Purrgil!

Crowley didn’t quite know what had possessed him, in the heady optimism of spring gardening, to plant courgettes.

Over the winter Aziraphale had casually commented how the little corner in the back of the garden would be just perfect for a vegetable patch, and wouldn’t it be lovely to have some fresh home-grown vegetables to cook with. Crowley had made the mistake of meeting Aziraphale’s hopeful gaze, and now he had courgettes.

Not just a couple of courgettes to go nicely into a summer salad, or even to have a few left over to give to the neighbours. No, Crowley had courgettes coming out of his ears (with far more subtlety than any hidden coin, much to the disappointment of Aziraphale). He’d planted one or two courgettes in amongst the other vegetables he’d purchased with feigned disinterested from the local garden centre. But the damned things showed up everywhere. In amongst the potatoes, the carrots, peaking up in the rows of runner beans. Even a few in the strawberry patch.

They appeared to be utterly unconcerned by his particular brand of horticultural encouragement, brazenly continuing to propagate beyond all reasonable expectations, no matter how firmly he explained to them that they had really better not.

Aziraphale had been delighted with the first harvest of Crowley’s little vegetable garden. When Crowley had dropped a selection of vegetables on the kitchen table one day in early summer with a practiced air of indifference, Aziraphale had beamed at him, his whole face lit up like, well, like an angel. That night he had served garlic and courgette pasta.

The second crop had been greeted with equal enthusiasm by Aziraphale, “I’ve been dying to try that recipe for stuffed courgettes Anathema gave us last time we visited, do you remember my dear boy, the one with couscous that you didn’t think you’d like?”

By the third crop the smile had started to slip a bit. Now they were approaching the end of the summer and Aziraphale had quite exhausted the culinary possibilities of the courgette. It wasn’t like they had to eat anyway, and a summer of courgette for dinner was more than any being could reasonably be expected to put up with. Though Crowley did have to admit that the courgette and orange cake had been surprisingly good and he was considering the possibility of maintaining a flourishing orangery in rural England.

And they just. kept. growing.

One night Aziraphale had even started musing on trying out those spiraliser things that seemed so popular these days. Crowley had put his foot down on that one; he’d received a commendation for the invention of ‘courgetti’ and had never quite forgiven the humans for putting him in such a position.

When they finally started dropping off around October, Crowley went through his vegetable garden ruthlessly digging up every courgette plant and offshoot he could find, repotting them and gifting them to his least favourite neighbours.

A few years later Aziraphale casually commented how nice it would be to make that wonderful courgette cake he’d made a few summers back, remember my dear, when we found the only plant in the world not susceptible to the fear of Crowley.

With a sigh of long-suffering fondness, Crowley got to his feet and wondered out to the thriving orangery, harvested a few terrified but delicious oranges, and wandered round to the corner shop to buy courgettes.

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Check out the story on AO3 for my series of Good Omens flufflets and to view this fic in all it’s glory complete with ACTUAL CLICKABLE FOOTNOTES.

"I've never been very good with them," Mycroft had said.

"Babies?" Sherlock had asked.

The British Government had wrinkled his nose and clarified, "Humans."

That attitude had been all well and fine and easily maintained while Mary was alive, but afterward...well, John moved back to 221B with his little girl, didn't he, and then any time Mycroft needed Sherlock, the child was always underfoot, like a sticky wad of bubblegum.

And irritatingly, Sherlock answered his phone less and less, necessitating car rides to 221B both day and night if Mycroft wished to get his little brother's attention at all. Because, of course, said attention had to be wrangled away from John and the baby (Rosamund; he had committed the name to memory against his will).

Rosie, as she was affectionately known around the household, was a very small thing who necessitated the use of a chaotic amalgamation of other things, such as diapers and dummies and food stuffs and rattles and creams and it was all just so much NOISE.

And, for some reason, she liked him. Rosie, that was, the child--this Rosamund Watson--liked Mycroft. He couldn't fathom why.

Few things are more stubborn than little girls who have taken an interest in something. She liked to first paw at, and then--as she grew--cling to, and eventually climb him whenever he sat. It was like visiting the zoo to see the monkeys and unexpectedly becoming the tree.

It is impossible to set a toddler aside as one would a tea cup. Again, such a tactic results in a most unacceptable level of noise. Eventually Mycroft, a broken shell of his former concrete self, was forced to admit that any foreign government looking to infiltrate and monitor its enemy country covertly would be wisest to send in its Trojan horse in the form of a tiny blonde Watson.

Mr. All-hearts-are-broken, Mr. Don't-get-involved, Mr. Ice Man, Mr. The-only-one-I've-ever-held-hands-with-is-my-umbrella, made a fatal error one day when he offered the child a sweet (which he most certainly had not slipped into his pocket from the dish in his office with that very intention in mind). The look on the child's face--widening of the already-wide navy blue eyes, taking in his face with rejuvenated adoration--had effectively tossed rock salt onto the ice ball in his chest. It had also proven to Rosie that all her intuitions were not misguided. And thus, civilizations have fallen.

What followed was the most demeaning, degrading, humiliating evolution of Mycroft's character that he could ever have once imagined. He would come away from 221B covered in finger paint and unicorn stickers. (On one particularly memorable afternoon Mycroft, having stepped outside with some foreign diplomats following a tentative but satisfactory meeting to join them for a smoke, opened his umbrella under the afternoon's gloom only to be showered with several cups worth of rainbow glitter. And had laughed!)

One evening John and Sherlock arrived home from a date (yes, that had begun, long before stated evening) and were shocked from their revoltingly amorous attitudes by the sight of Mycroft, who had relieved Molly as the designated sitter. He was seated on a frilly purple blanket on the floor of the lounge, having a tea-and-cupcake-and-feather-boa party with the precocious four-year-old. Both were sipping imaginary liquid from their cups with great sophistication and dignity.

Mycroft didn't even pretend not to be engrossed in the game of make-believe. He shooed the other men away impatiently, telling them they had not been invited. Rosie found the idea of her fathers, who in her mind ruled all of time and space, not being invited to anything uproariously funny. For weeks afterward she uninvited them to all manner of things: dinner, bath time, goodnight tickles.

And so that is the story of how Mycroft "East Wind" Holmes became swept along in the domesticity one Sherlock Holmes and one John Watson created in a little flat on Baker Street, changing him irrevocably from The British Government to Uncle Mycroft.

Which, as it turned out, he was pretty good at being.

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taking a break from that double frame movement....takes double time yknow