#i had to go buy thermal paste

[writeyourdarlings]

bucky was always drawn to lights - any kind of light. study lamp, street lights, fairy lights around a christmas tree, the light coming from behind the curtain of a window, even the light coming out of a firework or a laptop screen. the swift changing from darkness to brightness served as a symbol of healing to him, especially after the winter soldier happened.

now, christmas was truthfully bucky's favourite time of the year, because there's so much lights to see in his hometown and steve knew how much bucky loved the season. thus, during another christmas, after 2 days of snowstorm, steve gently woke him up at noon with a forehead kiss and asked him his favourite question: "want to go for a walk and check out all the lights?"

bucky beamed and got out of his bed immediately, causing steve to chuckle at himself. he went toward his wardrobe, getting dressed in layers and layers of thermal clothes, with bulky sweater, a pair of gloves, and a coat. after that, he walked towards the door, then he could see their xmas tree standing firm in their living room. it wasn't too big, but full of lights, balls, angels, many other decorations and a santa claus near the top, where steve put a big comet star. there was also a bunch of scented candles, some cakes, covers, and little things which steve had bought for old people living alone in a hospice near their town. plus, a pack of dog and cat foods, which were living in captivity into a kennel in their town. it warmed bucky's heart to see how steve prepared so much for christmas. however, steve wasn't actually a festive person, but once he found out bucky loved christmas, his reason of buying gifts and things was just: "i don't know, guess i just want to do so many things with you."

steve looked up at him after lacing his boots and said, "ready?"

bucky smiled and nodded excitedly.

shortly after, they walked together side by side and steve took bucky's hand to hold it and keep it warm. he didn't know where they would be headed, but he'd just let steve guide him along their journey. the snow made a crunching sound under their boots, like walking on a cup of granita. he could hear children's laugh and jingle bells song on every street corner they passed.

he watched steve with full affection, while the blond guy was staring into the distance. he loved that being with steve, he didn't have to say anything to him. just... silence. and nothing was wrong with silence. silence was not awkward. he didn't have to bother filling the cold air. the cold air brushing his rosy cheeks felt amazing. and between their holding hands, there lied something so comforting and safe.

now the residue of the past turns into dust; and everything’s sparkling beautifully under the christmas lights. those days of him being the winter soldier were left burried and forgotten, because all he chose to remember now was steve. his last flicker of light before the dark.

#i got this short scenario in my mind and it's not even christmas yet haha (well just a month away)😆 #i'm trying to practice my writing #aya writes #steve rogers #bucky barnes #stucky fic #short fic #stevebucky fic

[not-poignant]

Daily excerpt from today's writing editing, Underline the Gold, chapter 5:

And then, of all the things, pulling up to an apple orchard and Anton grabbing a wicker basket from a young girl who couldn't have been more than thirteen, but who seemed incredibly competent at the job she was doing. The girl had looked at Anton and smiled, then stared at Flitmouse's clothing for a long time, and Flitmouse had that agonising wait to see if the teenager thought he was a crime against fashion, or liked what he wore.  'Cool coat,' she said finally.  Flitmouse smiled. It was an olive-green duffle coat made from Italian wool, lined with a black, green and cream tartan check interior. It was something he'd made recently, spending weeks to get the measurements right, and he'd sell something like it for close to four thousand dollars, maybe even six, for the right client. The bemusing reality was Flitmouse didn't have enough clothing, he didn't want the well-intentioned Faber buying him clothing from chain stores, and he had to survive the increasing cold somehow. He was too thin, he didn't want to get by with thermals alone. The duffle made him feel nicely ensconced, and Anton said it felt amazing to hug him while he wore it.  'Thank you. It's a duffle.' 'Sure, sure, is that the brand?' she said.  It took all of Flitmouse's energy not to roll his eyes. 'It's the type of coat. They make them for women too.' 'I'm nonbinary. They-them pronouns. But thanks! I'll look 'em up,' they said.  Flitmouse nodded, then thought quickly about the kind of budget she likely had - though he had no idea what a commercial apple orchard paid a young teen. 'Good duffles are hard to come by. You might like to try second-hand stores, or thrift for them.' 'I'll just use Shein,' they said, laughing.  Flitmouse swore his eye twitched, but he nodded, smiled politely, and it wasn't until they were about thirty feet away past the gate, into the orchard, that Anton burst into laughter. 'Thought you were going to blow a gasket,' he said, swinging the basket back and forth in the bright, clean sunlight. 'My god, Shein, even I know they're not great.' 'Don't - do not - get me started,' Flitmouse bit out. 'And an apple orchard? Truly?'

#daily excerpt #underline the gold #anton valenosk #anton the brave #alois flitmouse #underline the rainbow #mm romance #love these two #poor flitmouse he was trying so hard to help #and then heard the word 'Shein' and nearly died alskfdjsafdsa

[i-cast-teatus-deletus]

Clothing - Hoodies (Part 1)

The most obvious #1 thing that you need after surgery is some zip-up hoodies. I saw a lot of people on a lot of forums recommend "a huge size, like a 3XL"

Unfortunately, I wear a 3XL hoodie under normal circumstances, and the guys wear a 2X, so I needed to really look around and see what options existed that were substantially larger.

I will probably discuss putting these clothes on myself AT LENGTH over the course of this blog, even though I am not (currently, at least) slated for surgery. This is because:

I am taller (and wider) than both guys in question, so if it fits me, it will fit them and probably be the 'right' amount of oversized. I intend to post measurements for everyone when I get to it so you have a better idea, but keep in mind I intend to post measurements of clothing that fits the way we want them to fit after surgery, NOT body measurements, because that is the set of measurements I am using to buy clothes.

I will be the person who keeps these clothing items after surgery is done for the most part (though the guys are not afraid of wearing a super oversized shirt for funsies)

The very first thing I noticed is that Amazon is backordered on a LOT of 5X/6X men's clothing, especially their Essentials line. Not just a little backordered either, but using the same terminology they use for items that have been openly discontinued. I suspect it's supply chain issues combined with figuring nobody is buying them anyway, but I have to admit I'd buy Amazon Essentials 5X or 6X hoodies for some insane price like $26 and be very, very happy with it.

But it wouldn't have made for a very interesting blog post, either.

Fruit of the Loom, a perennial cheap favorite, only goes up to 4X, and Hanes stops at 3X for zippered hoodies. Dickies stops at 3X, and Carhartt, definitely nobody's cheap option, stops at a 4X.

In mid-weight hoodies, it pretty much left me with Champion, though not every style comes in larger sizes. I bought a Thermal Lined Hoodie in Heather Grey because it was dramatically cheaper than the other colors (though I paid 39.99 and it's going for a good bit cheaper than that now), but they also have a Heavyweight Hoodie without the thermal lining that's less expensive that I might buy in Olive so we have a second hoodie. There's other options, too.

Amazon sucks, but they're the only place I found carrying some of these sizes and styles (not even on Champion's own website), and they're carrying them for about 60% of the price of anywhere else. If you absolutely cannot do it, King Size catalog has a single Champion style in the right sizes for a lot more.

After all of that, how is it?

I have two big issues, both of which I'd say are solidly my fault

first, I was (somehow) unaware that a "thermal lined" hoodie would have a plastic-y lining in the sleeves to protect your arms from water and wind. Very useful as an outer layer (and I wish it was an options more places) but it'd SO loud and crinkly. So this hoodie is probably fantastic for running errands in the spring and fall, but it's less great when you're laid up after surgery.

second, my hoodie arrived with a zipper that's busted. The tab of the zipper is metal, but the teeth are plastic, so I have some missing teeth and some badly bent teeth, and now the zipper pull is bent as well from trying to get it unstuck. We'll have to replace the zipper to get much use out of it. If I had caught it sooner, i might have been about to return it, but the return window closed about a month ago.

Past the zipper, I have no issues with the quality of it, and it seem like a nice, fairly heavy hoodie otherwise. So once I replace the zipper, I'll be quite pleased with it, even if it's not ideal for recovering from surgery.

#I got trapped in this hoodie for like 10 mins please appreciate my commitment to this blog #ICTD Part 2 Clothing #Part 2 hoodies

[mariacallous]

The Home Office left asylum seekers from the Manston immigration centre in central London without accommodation or warm clothing, as officials attempted to reduce acute overcrowding, the Guardian can reveal.

A group of 11 asylum seekers from Manston were left at Victoria railway station on Tuesday evening with nowhere to stay, without winter coats, many of them in flip-flops, according to volunteers with the Under One Sky homelessness charity, who provided them with emergency supplies of food and clothes.

“They were stressed, disturbed and completely disoriented,” said Danial Abbas, a volunteer with the charity. The group, from Afghanistan, Syria and Iraq, some of them wrapped in blankets to keep warm, were confused about what they were meant to do, he said. “They were also very hungry.”

About 50 asylum seekers from Kent were also deposited from a bus by Victoria coach station at around 11pm on Saturday, according to a witness. “They were still on the street at midnight, trying to work out what to do, where to go. They had no money, and hadn’t even been told where they were,” said the witness, an Afghan asylum seeker, who asked not to be named. He has been housed in a nearby hostel for the past 14 months, and watched them arrive. “I was shocked. I tried to help; I showed them where to get free wifi, where to sit and get warm in the station.”

Hundreds of asylum seekers have been rapidly moved out of the Manston camp in the past two days amid heavy criticism of overcrowded conditions at the immigration centre, where this weekend about 4,000 people were being held at a site designed for 1,600.

The immigration minister, Robert Jenrick, said the number of people at Manston had fallen substantially on Tuesday, but on Wednesday evening he admitted that there were still about 3,500 at the centre. Appearing on ITV, he told Robert Peston: “We gripped this immediately when we appreciated the scale of the challenge at the weekend, it’s now falling very rapidly and I expect that we’ll get down to an acceptable level within about seven days.”

The 11 men left without accommodation on Tuesday told charity volunteers they had been driven from Kent to London earlier on Tuesday afternoon as part of a larger group of about 40 asylum seekers. Other members of their group had family members or friends they were able to contact and stay with, but 11 were left by the station without anywhere to spend the night.

One of the men, a 29-year-old economics student from Iraq, said he had been held at Manston for 21 days after arriving in the UK by boat. “There were so many people there. They gave food, but only a little,” he said. He said he was told on Tuesday afternoon that he was being taken to London. “We were told we should go to our families or friends. I don’t have any family in the UK,” he said.

When they arrived in London he told the driver that he had nowhere to go, but he was asked to get off the bus. He had no money of his own and had not been given any funds by the Home Office. “I asked what should I do for the night, it’s cold. He said: you need to go.”

Volunteers from the charity, which distributes food to homeless people on the streets in London, took the asylum seekers to Primark and spent more than £450 buying them gloves, thermal jackets, shoes and socks. The volunteers telephoned the Home Office, which said there had been an “operational error”. At 1am on Wednesday, eight hours after they had been dropped in the street by the station, two taxis were sent to Victoria to collect the 11 men and they were driven to Norwich, where they were placed in a hotel.

A British Transport Police spokesperson said staff responded to reports of a group of asylum seekers looking for assistance at Victoria station at 10.33pm on Tuesday. “Officers engaged and liaised with charity partners, rail staff, and government colleagues to help them find accommodation for the evening,” they said.

Abbas, from Under One Sky, said the offloading of people at the station may not have been a one-off incident. “A British Transport Police officer at Victoria told me that that has been going on since Saturday – coaches of refugees are just being dumped here,” Abbas said.

The witness who saw the bus-load of asylum seekers being dropped at Victoria station on Saturday night said no Home Office staff were on hand to assist.

He said most of the asylum seekers appeared to be from Afghanistan, and they told him they had spent the past 10 days in a Home Office camp near Dover. “Each of them had a blue plastic bag full of their belongings, and a paper tag around their wrists. They were freezing and hungry. I went to the shop on the corner and bought them some cakes. I felt sorry for them – they were asking me where they should go,” he said.

Some had relatives in Birmingham and Manchester, he said, but no money to travel there. Others were able to call friends in London, and left the station area to find them. By about 1am all of them had disappeared. “They said they had been told there was no space for them in any hotel or hostel accommodation. I don’t know where they all went,” the witness said.

Clare Moseley, of the refugee charity Care4Calais, said the Home Office had a duty to house asylum seekers who did not have the means to support themselves. “They should not be leaving people on the street. We have had heard of another case of someone being driven from Manston to Southhampton, where there was no hotel room for them. It is absolutely chaotic and horrific.”

On Wednesday the prime minister, Rishi Sunak, said the government faced a “serious and escalating problem”, adding: “We will make sure that we control our borders and we will always do it fairly and compassionately, because that is the right thing.”

But Enver Solomon, the chief executive of the Refugee Council, said: “People are not being supported with dignity, humanity and compassion.”

The Home Office has been contacted for comment.

[hasilthe42th]

Didn't want to comment in OP's post cause I stay away from arguing online, but as a computer technician I can tell you that info is, kind of wrong? sort of?

Disabling animations or transparency effects has been a Long Known procedure for Windows operating systems since I think the years of Vista / 7, specifically to take some of the load off the Graphics Processor. This was mainly done for sort of two reasons:

1.- It stops the GPU from doing work that could otherwise go to rendering programs or getting more frames in videogames, and

2.- Integrated Graphics Processors (the ones that come attached to the main processor) used to be Extremely Bad, and to this day they still consume system memory (RAM), so given that computers used to come out of the assembly line with as little as 1 Gb, turning off the eye candy was the only way most systems could run At All.

Otherwise this has No impact on the computer's performance. First of all, animations and visual effects don't "load" from the hard drive, past the system wakeup time, so having the drive pinned at 100% is a sign OP should replace it with an SSD, which some run from the same physical slot.

And the heat dissipation issues I've seen are around 85% no manteniance from the user in terms of dust collecting thru the metal fins from which air goes through, as well as changing the termal paste which makes the processors transfer heat to the computer's cooling system less than once a year... and then the unfortunate 15% who bought a shitty laptop or All in One that are now stuck without a proper cooling solution (my advice is to never buy ultra thin laptops for cheap unless you want to become their thermal mass, or want to settle with lower performance than a low end phone).

If your computer had the same issues as OP did, don't be afraid to look how to open your specific computer, dust off the clogged aluminum fins (if any), buy a 480Gb SSD at minimum (lower capacity drives are more prone to failure and being slower in general) from Kingston or Western Digital so you can replace your hard drive and install Windows in it, and get a carry for your old drive to use it as an external disk). With OP's tweaks and some extra tinkering, I have brought back to life Countless computers from as early as 2014.

And one more thing, if you're afraid to put on thermal paste or aren't dexterous enough with tools, you could just ask for manteniance at your local repair shop. It's probably Much cheaper than buying a new computer.

#Skd #tech rambles #I apologize for the english

[sunny-satellites]

I’ve had a morning.

Calling every place in town for brass motherboard standoffs, no big box stores have them, but I figure small shops do.

But I called the wal-mart and first get hung up on, then I call again and I hear a gun cocking and then their department phone disconnects??? If you’re not american then you might not know that wal-mart sells guns and often store layouts put electronics/car bullshit/sporting goods which includes guns next to each other and you have to cover those so it’s not out of the realm of possibility someone could just grab a gun as a prank and do that

Then I call best buy and the dude is like “We don’t even sell these on the website” LIKE YOU SELL THERMAL PASTE HOW

Bonus round: I called an MSP by accident and because I’m tired as hell I went “OH FUCK You’re an MSP I’m Sorry” and the woman on the other end went from “Fine” to “about to cry” I think because of my F-Bomb?

then I call several places which all either have google voice phones that go nowhere or my favorite which was just.. run out of a storage place and doesn’t exist, because I think their weird storage franchise caught them??

FINALLY I get a call back from a place i left a message at earlier and he’s like “yeah you can have them for free,” but as soon as i give him my name he starts explaining how to install a CPU backplate “to stop bugs from getting in there” and i’m just like.. laughing, finally fem enough to get mansplained to

[gleitzman]

Teaching Machines to Beat the Heat

Must everything get worse as it gets old? Is planned obsolescence the law of the land? As a hacker with a 5 year old laptop, it's easy to look at those with fancy new models with more than a little envy. However, I enjoy my current computer. Sure the battery life isn't the greatest, but the only time I truly get hot and bothered is when my machine also gets hot and bothered — and throttled — severely liming the CPU and making your machine crawl.

Thermal throttling is nothing new for the Intel Macbooks. Heck, even the latest system-on-a-chip models suffer when they get too hot. It doesn't help that many of these new machines don't even ship with an internal fan. That said, the Intel Macbook Pros are the prime offenders. The i7 and i9 chips are performant when nice and cool, but turn up the heat and you're in for a frustrating experience. For me, this seems to happen during the all-too-common video calls of the modern era.

How can you tell if you're being throttled? A quick pmset -g thermlog can tell a story:

2022-08-03 21:25:21 -0700 CPU Power notify CPU_Scheduler_Limit = 100 CPU_Available_CPUs = 8 CPU_Speed_Limit = 34 --- OUCH!

With the CPU running at 34% of its designed speed, no wonder the performance get choppy. At first I tried some basic fixes — opening up the back of the machine and cleaning out the years of dust and dirt from the two onboard fans with an old toothbrush seemed to provide some relief. I also discovered that due to a design flaw, you can also try only using the right USB-C ports when charging or using external devices. You can even go so far as to re-apply thermal paste on your CPU and GPU.

For me, even with all these clever solutions, my computer was still struggling, trapped in amber — another victim of Hot Girl Summer. I had almost lost hope and even started pricing out the cost of a new machine when I discovered a curious design flaw in Intel Macbooks related the Voltage Regulator Module. Intel provides a feature called Turbo Boost that "lets the CPU run at its base clock speed when handling light workloads, then jump to a higher clock speed for heavy workloads." This jump in clock speed means a jump in power, and with that jump in power through the VRM comes more heat. It seems that it's not that the CPU or GPU are overheating, but that the VRM module gets too warm from Turbo Boost.

The solution? Well, you can begin by turning off Turbo Boost with an application. I saw much less throttling being reported by pmset, but this also means the machine is running below the speed of which it is capable. And after a few hours of video calls and running an external monitor, I was still finding that my computer was getting sluggish.

Luckily, smarter people than me had already pioneered a solution. In a nutshell, you place thermal pads on the VRM chips so that they make a direct connection with the metal case of the machine. The pads dissapate heat much faster than air — atmospheric air has a thermal conductivity of about 0.024W/mK at 25C, which is pretty bad compared to the thermal pads which can dissipate 6W/mK (250x!).

The VRM chips come in various sizes, so multiple layers are necessary

With the thermal pads in place it was an immediate night and day change from the sluggish system I had once known. I could use all of my USB-C ports without issue, and almost never experienced any throttling. The downside was that the machine was noticably hotter to the touch, because the heat of the VRM chips was being dissapated directly into the case.

I looked around for Macbook stands with fans, but was not too impressed with what I found. Most seemed extremely cheap, or so expensive as to be completely outrageous. Plus, the whole point of my explorations was to not buy anything new.

My satori moment arrived as a result of an exploration into DIY Data Sovereignty and a recent upgrade of the Iron Blogger server following a hard drive failure. I could pull the heatsink off an unused video card, file down the metal attachment heads with a Dremel tool I recently received from Selene's father, and attach it to my existing stand for a system that would run as cool as a cucumber.

These metal attachment points needed to be removed to make direct contact with the Macbook case.

Safety third.

The last step was to solder a USB attachment to power the heatsink's fans.

Success! It's almost like having a brand new machine. Plus, I can still disable Turbo Boost if the machine seems like it is getting too hot on the go.

Re-use is a great concept but can be difficult to live in practice. We're often too busy, or too stressed, or just too lazy to try and make do with what we already have. I'm looking forward to more opportunities for up-cycling and re-use rather than reaching for the Buy It Now button.

#hacker #tools

[sourcherrymag]

three poems by rhys feeney (they/them) 

is it hot in here or is it just the palaeocene-eocene thermal maximum

u put ur cold feet on me in bed. i have learnt it is the radical redistribution of amab privilege. i have not grown tht much. i steal the blankets in the middle of the night. i just want to warm. i am warming up to this life of chores like permafrost.  i am dreaming of peat fields smoldering. my mindsceen plays pictures of the oil fields ablaze during the war i watched on the kitchen telly. i am talking in my sleep all abt the paleocene-eocene thermal maximum. the volcanoes. the methane burbs. the ice caps taking a mental health break. the time when the world was at its warmest. when mammals thrived. no i am not talking abt climate change again. we left the heater on even tho the power company said there was not enough power. we are cuddling while coal is being shoveled in to cover the deficit. we are woven into each other in a way tht bodies are made to. coal is probably not shoveled anymore. i picture huntly like a 19th steam train thrusting towards a terminus. there probably isn’t a big man with a big lever tht says more power. my hands are always cold. urs are always clammy. cold gets to my bones like homesickness. an interesting synonym for dull ache. primates first appeared in the rainforests of the PETM. our alpha state was developed in heat. we spread ourselves like contested yeast-based spreads. we sleep in a hothouse earth. condensation drips like in campfire stories. spores are the apex predator here. we lay intertwined like dna being hit by gamma rays. i am thinking abt buying a big winter coat. to live like a new yorker in the movies. always tucked inside. coming out whack-a-mole style to say i’m walking here. i am sleeping here. please do not disturb. i am radiating with warmth & all its synonyms. the PETM caused mass extinctions in the ocean. acidification turned the sea into soda. which explains why i crave sprite when i wake up. the power bill soaring like all those demoralizing graphs. in my mind 2020 was the sequel to 2016. tht sense of time fading. then finally the double helix unravelling from the solar flares. the cold feet on the bathroom floor. the little click of the heater. the dawn chorus & the boiling kettle. 

breakthrough

it will be a cold morning

when the first images from starshot arrive

the sky will be soot dark from the fires

i’ll walk across the basketball courts 

the paint worn off from the hard rain

the bell will ring & the kids in their donated shoes

will huddle round the screen

mouths agape / ready to feast on 4 y/o light 

we’ll watch an ad before the planet slowly filters back to earth

a grainy picture of a world just like ours

one kid (13) who has never tasted real chocolate will say

why didn’t we just take a picture of our own planet

& in my teacher voice i will give some explanation

which doesn’t say tht 50 years ago we had had enough

we sucked the gas from the tundra

we dredged metals out of the ocean

we skied on sands from deserts that came to

our doorstep like delivery drones 

we swiped past water wars on our phones 

until we had had enough & burst & burst

burst in rage & punched a flotilla of

mass produced probes w a laser strong enough

to power this country for years

sent iphone parts flying towards prox b

little survey pegs in the void

then the smog siren will sound 

& we will put our masks on

the students will turn on their devices

& i will say tht

today we are learning abt communication skills

it will help u get a job (i’ll say)

primordial depression soup 

it’s wednesday & i’m making soup. the flat is quiet except for the dehumidifier rattle. a light drizzle brushes the window. 

it’s 9:28pm: I just got home. I turn the hob on w/o looking at the dial, then pour in the water / cover / wait

it’s wednesday & I am going through my mental checklist to make sure I am not losing my mind:

am I eating enough

have people started to comment on my energy levels

can I distinguish b/t dreams & real life

can I remember being content

am I binging too much content

do I have anarcho-primitive urges

when the water reaches a boil, I add the tom yum paste / dried shitake / white pepper. let it go for a while, then add frozen dumplings. I step outside into the engulfing cloudcover

it’s 9:36pm: i am just following packet instructions

in the upper-paleolithic, when ppl first learnt to boil food, they warmed river stones on coals. placed them into leaves full of water. added the food & waited

it’s 9:39pm: I am waiting.

the dumplings are starting to share their secret insides. some have broken in the heat. when a stone is heated and cooled repeatedly it starts to glaze + crack. this is how we track the development of boiling in archaeological records. the term for this is crazing.  the root-word for crazy

it’s 9:43pm: I am full of cracks

the soup burns my tongue. i eat in front of my email inbox. type up a lesson for tomorrow. think about opening an incognito tab but fall asleep before I can 

it’s 7:20am: the soup is half-finished on the desk

condensation drips down the window

rhys feeney (they/them) is a high school teacher in Te Whanganui-a-Tara, Aotearoa. Their debut chapbook, soyboy, was published in AUP New Poets 7 (2020). Their favourite fruit is oranges on summer days.

#poem #poetry

[adozentothedawn]

My soul feels like it's peeling.

What that means is that I really, really need to sleep but unfortunately sleep is hard, especially when your soul feels like it's peeling.

#personal #i just stayed up way too long the last two days #had a good time but now i sure aint #and i 'broke' my laptop #it's not broken i just need to buy and apply new thermal paste #but try explaining that to my over tired and frustrated brain #that's the important part and then the heat thing should go away too #especially if i get that cooling pad too #which would be nice but isn't necessary #i know i can get that paste tomorrow #even if they don't actually have it at the shop closest #i know for sure they have it in a different one #so worst case scenario i have to wait like an hour longer #but again #sure doesn't feel like it #god i need to sleep

[somber-mangata]

For the past few months my PS4 has been insanely loud and cleaning the dust wasn't enough. So I finally decided to watch some teardown videos, so I could see if the heatsink was clogged (which it definitely was) or something and I ended up finding this.

The thermal paste on the CPU alllll fucked up lmao. So I had to go buy some paste, and managed to clean it from the rest of the chip and now it's running quieter than it has in months.

I'm very proud of myself for doing so well on cleaning my console for the first time ever ^_^

#trans #trans girl #trans woman #tech #PlayStation #PS4 #cleaning #clean #cpu #thermal paste #teardown #motherboard #technology #gamer #gamer girl #techy

[samuel-de-champagne-problems]

I Can't Help It If You Look Like an Angel

Summary: Spencer is not that kind of doctor, but he'll always come when Y/N needs him, even if germs are involved.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem Reader

Warnings: One cuss (sh!t), kisses, small insecurities

Word Count: 2.5 k (was not supposed to be this long but I'm a monster)

Author's Note: From this list (3, 12, 14) since I hit 300 followers! Thank you! This request is from @willowrose99 (look for the bold)

I Can't Help It If You Look Like an Angel

Spencer’s half done with his third book that weekend when his phone rang. A weekend spent in the company of Nietzsche and Sartre is, according to Spencer at least, a weekend well spent. He can feel the relaxation that settles in his bones come crashing down as he phone rings.

Thinking it’s Hotch calling the team in for an unexpected case, Spencer, lethargically, walks over to answer the phone. However, realizing the caller is not his boss pulling him away from a restful weekend, but Y/N, his heart rushes with a sudden urge of excitement.

“Y/N,” Spencer starts. He’s more than happy to have Y/N interrupt his weekend; they even made plans for a day out on Saturday at the new Anthropology museum that opened downtown. But all of Spencer’s made up plans fall in front of his face, as he hears Y/N’s quiet sniffles.

“Spencer, I’m so sorry to bother you. I know that you’re probably enjoying your rest, but I guess I have a cold. One of the kids at school, I suppose,” Y/N tells him in between sniffles. Her voice is scratchy and Spencer tries not to think about how his brain seems to short circuit at the way his name sounds.

“I’m coming over,” Spencer says, cutting her off. He doesn’t like doing that, in fact he hates when that happens to him, but right now he knows that Y/N is going to try her hardest to stop him from coming over.

“No Spence, it’s germs. You hate germs and I’m really gross and snotty and—”

“Stop, Y/N. Don’t say another word. I’m on my way” Spencer says. He feels a little guilty for hanging up on her, but he knows that if he stayed on the line any longer she’d end up convincing him that he didn’t need to rush over. There’s not a lot of people in this world that can convince Spencer to change his mind, and he’s pretty sure that Y/N is one of them.

Spencer walks into his bedroom, looking for some supplies like a man on a mission. He decides to pack a small bag for the next three days. He’s off from work anyway, why not spend that time making sure Y/N gets better. Spencer packs away a couple of sweaters, flannel pajama pants and two thermal shirts. In the back of his drawer he spots a very old college tee shirt.

A memory, an early memory with Y/N, comes flooding to the surface. They got caught in a rainstorm after a picnic in the nearby park. Spencer changed into his comfortable tee shirt and pajamas. He would never forget the look on Y/N’s face; the way the rain collected on her glasses and for some reason she had yet to wipe them off. She called him an angel. Maybe it’s for bringing her some warm clothes or maybe she’s slightly on edge from their dash into Spencer’s apartment. Whatever it was that made her call him an angel, Spencer never wanted her to call him anything else. Besides his own name, in that scratchy sick voice that made him feel a little guilty for liking so much.

Spencer collects some other things he needs for his stay. A toothbrush, toothpaste, a hair brush, and his hair serum that Y/N says she likes the way it smells. When she told him that, Spencer could hardly wait to buy the entire supply from the CVS down the street. He tucks away in this bag with a small smile.

Walking out of his apartment, Spencer locks up and makes his way down to his car. He glances at his watch, realizing that it only took him a couple of minutes to get ready for Y/N. Quicker than what it takes for him to get ready for an emergency case. Then again, tending to a sick Y/N seems much pleasurable then looking at served bodies and mangled limbs.

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After making a pit stop at a small convenience store near Y/N’s apartment, Spencer pulls into the guest parking spot near her complex. He attempts to shoulder the weight of his go bag; even though he only packed a couple philosophy books, they are quite dense. In his hands, he grasps the grocery bags.

Y/N’s apartment, thankfully, is on the first floor. Spencer approaches the door and thinks twice about knocking or ringing the doorbell. The last thing he wants to do is wake a sick Y/N up. He rummages in his pants for his car keys. Attached to the keys is a cat keychain with a spare key to Y/N’s apartment. Balancing the groceries and his own bag, Spencer quietly attempts to open Y/N’s door without possibly waking her up.

Once he finally gets the door open, Spencer realizes all too late that a large orange cat guards the tight hallway entrance. Spencer Reid, though a genius in his own right, is completely aware of the fact that he has two left feet.

“Oh, Zelda! Oh shit!,” Spencer yells as he trips over Zelda, Y/N’s orange cat. Zelda, scared from the noise, leaps from her spot guarding the hallway to the kitchen. Spencer brushes himself from his fall and picks up the groceries that fell during his tumble.

“Zelda, baby?” Y/N calls from what sounds like the couch from the other side of the wall.

“Hi Y/N, it’s just me. It’s just Spencer,” He says, placing the oranges back in his canvas bag and on the kitchen table. He sees Y/N laying on the couch. Surrounded by a pile of crumpled tissues, she smiles weakly at Spencer. He walks over to her and like an involuntary muscle, she scoots her feet so Spencer has room to sit.

Spencer, setting the beg on the floor, tucks Y/N’s legs over his. He rests a comforting hand on her calf that’s covered by a worn quilt.

“You didn’t have to come Spencer. I’m really okay, I just wanted you to know that I wasn’t ghosting you this weekend,” Y/N explains. The TV has been left on, but on mute. The colorful lights illuminate Y/N’s face in her dimly lit apartment.

“Nonsense, Y/N. What are friends for,” Spencer offers, wondering beyond belief if he messed up calling them friends. Their relationship had been quite strange for the past couple of weeks. Intense moments of silence where Spencer thinks he’d have the time to memorize every freckle on her nose or small grazes from fingers to wrists where Spencer swears she left scars that he hope would never heal.

“Friends,” Y/N says quietly. Spencer, offering a tight lipped smile, leans forward to straighten the blankets under Y/N’s chin. He presses the back of his hand towards Y/N’s forehead, feeling her warm skin under his knuckles. He’s not sure if the heat he feels is from her bug or from the adrenaline coursing through his veins at being this close to Y/N.

“You’re hot,” Spencer says, not moving his hand from Y/N’s forehead. She, loving the way his ears turn pink when he’s embarrassed, uncovers her arm from under the blankets and holds onto his wrist, keeping him attached to her forehead. Not that he’d want it any other way.

“So are you,” Y/N says. Spencer flinches and moves his hand from her forehead like she scorched his hand. In reality, her comment pierced his heart with hope.

“How much cough syrup did you take?” Spencer asks, choosing to face the situation with humor. There’s no way in the world Y/N could ever find him “hot” without the aid of cough syrup or another mind numbing substance.

“None,” Y/N says, reaching around to turn off the television. Spencer, getting increasingly nervous as the minutes of that intense silence passed, mentions to Y/N that he needs to put the groceries away.

“You really didn’t need to do that, Spence. I feel bad enough that you came here just to get sick yourself,” Y/N says. She’s folding the blankets that she was just resting under.

“I’ll always come when you need me to, Y/N” Spencer says, his breath catching and his eyes latching onto Y/N. He looks at her too long and there’s that intense silence again. Silence that is as thick as fog. Spencer can’t see facts through all the love that swallows him whole looking at Y/N.

“Maybe I knew that, and maybe that’s why I called you,” Y/N murmurs quietly, almost like she’s more scared to admit it to herself than to Spencer.

“Maybe,” Spencer says, breaking her gaze to put the half melted tub of green tea ice cream in the freezer.

“I think I’m going to shower, I need to put a fresh pair of pajamas on. I’ll be right out,” Y/N tells him, turning on her heel and leaving Spencer along with his thoughts.

Spencer can hear the water from the shower turn on. He estimates that Y/N will take at least 5 minutes in the shower, accounting for a margin of error, he supposes that he should start to heat the soup he bought from the store now, so it’s ready for Y/N when she’s done in the shower. Too bad all Spencer’s brain power is good for his statistics and numbers, not recipes and romance.

As it turns out, not a single statistic, nor a single digit could account for the possibility of Y/N walking out her bedroom, her hair damp and skin practically glowing, wearing Spencer’s worn college tee shirt. Spencer reckons that his eyes must have been bugging out from his head, given the spirited smile Y/N wears.

“I’m sorry, Spence, you know how much I love this tee shirt. I was putting some of your stuff away in your drawer and I saw this and I just couldn’t help myself. God it even smells a little bit like that hair gunk you wear,” Y/N rambles. She stands, leaning on her door frame, staring at Spencer who holds a wooden spoon that he used to stir the soup.

“You look like an angel,” Spencer says before he can stop himself. He just knows that his face is flaming red.

“You remember that?” Y/N asks, her voice light and hopeful. Spencer recognizes something in it. It’s the way his voice sounds when he talks to her, about her, with her. He can only hope that this is the way she always talks to him. He hopes with every fiber of his being that she uses that light and hopeful voice with him and only him.

“Of course Y/N. Then again, even if I didn’t have an eidetic memory, I’d still remember every single detail about you,”

“Now you’re making me feel guilty about stealing your shirt. You’re being all sweet and kind with me, it makes me fuzzy in the head,” Y/N confesses. She walks to her kitchen table, slowly closing the gap between her and Spencer.

“Keep it, it looks better on you anyway,” Spencer tells her. Her eyes grow big at his words and she presses her lips together like she’s holding something in. But something in her switches. Something in her grows a little sad and Spencer watches before his eyes as Y/N withdraws into herself.

“You can’t say that stuff to me, Spencer. You can’t say that stuff to me and not expect me to love you more than I already do,” Y/N says, her eyes shut and her lips pinched so tightly that it almost looks painful.

“Y/N,” Spencer starts, unsure what he’s supposed to say. His brain always seems to be playing catch up around Y/N. “Can I say it if I do love you back?”

Y/N eyes flutter open and narrow at Spencer, as if she’s reading him. Her eyes scan for any sign of a joke, of a prank, of Spencer trying to trick her. Maybe he should be upset that Y/N is doubting him, but all Spencer can feel is hatred for the person that made her doubt herself so much to not believe him.

“I’ve never felt what I feel when I’m with you, Y/N. No one else has made me feel truly me except you, Y/N,” Spencer professes, setting down the wooden spoon on the counter to reach Y/N’s hand.

“I never thought you’d feel the same way, Spence. I love you, God. That feels so good to say,” Y/N says, letting out a strained laugh. Spencer standing up next to her, places his hands on Y/N cheeks, and tries to lean in lower to kiss her, but Y/N’s finger on his lips stops his movement.

“I’m so sorry, I should have asked. I thought that this is-” Spencer stammers, suddenly very concerned that he violated Y/N in some way.

“Shhh, angel. It’s okay. I want you to kiss me. I really do, but I just want you to tell the facts on you getting sick if you kiss me,” Y/N says, not moving her finger from Spencer’s soft lips. He kisses her finger and grasps her hand with his.

“Sorry, I just had to do that,” Spencer smirks, “but to answer your question, unless you have a bad cough, and some of the respiratory mucus has made its way into your saliva, the cold virus will not be transmitted by kissing,”

“That’s good, so please kiss me, Spencer,” Y/N practically begs, eager for Spencer to leave pieces of him all over her. Eager for him to leave physical evidence of the marking he’s already left on her heart.

“You just might have to take care of me next week,” Spencer counters, peppering kisses over her jaw, knowing he’s purposely avoiding her lips.

“Spencer, I’m sick! Don’t tease me, just kiss me,” Y/N whines, and Spencer caves. He leans in slowly, meeting his lips to Y/N’s. It was the kiss that Spencer knew he’d be waiting for. A kiss that seals fate without a return address. A kiss that reminds him that he’s alive. A kiss that says forever and always.

Spencer, resting his chin against Y/N’s head, closes his eyes. The intense silence that existed between them, now is this light and hopeful air.

“Y/N, do you use my hair gunk?” Spencer asks. He can’t help but giggle with her and breathe in the familiar scent of her hair. He places three kisses on Y/N’s head and gently pushes her hair to the side to kiss down the back of her neck.

“I’m not sure what I love more, the smell of your hair gunk or the man that wears it,”

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@willowrose99

@calm-and-doctor

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#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader fluff #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid imagine #samuel de champagne problems 300 followers #criminal mind x reader #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader fluff fic #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x reader comfort

[loversandantiheroes]

Can. Can we talk about how dexterous and clever Whiskey’s hands are. Can we talk about how strong and nimble and skilled they are. Can we.

(Hands anon) And honestly I’m a Frankie and Mando girl as well, you KNOW they hands are just as good 👌🙌

I want you to know I have tried to come back to this ask I don’t know HOW many times, but I always get incredibly distracted and just kind of stare into space with my eyes glazed over for like forty-five minutes.  Can’t imagine why...

1.8k words of pure hand-related yearning featuring Din, Frankie, Whiskey, and a bonus Ezra bc I was compelled.

Din’s hands are exactly what you’d expect in some ways - broad and strong as vise-grips, but meticulously deft when it comes to things that require care, whether that’s stripping down his weapons to clean them or patching your wounds (a surprise in and of itself given the impatient, almost flippant way he tends to the holes in his own hide).  What is surprising is just how soft his hands are under those ever-present gloves.  If you ever bring it up he’ll only huff a laugh, insisting his hands are as much a part of his toolkit as his weapons and his armor, and he wouldn’t be much of a Mandalorian if he didn’t take care of his tools.  Unpainted beskar needs to be cleaned and polished frequently, his guns need to be maintained, and the leather of his gloves need oiling to stay supple.  And his hands, too, need maintaining.  And well, hide is hide, and the oil he uses on his leathers goes a long way towards making sure his hands don’t crack or chap.

He’s a man of opposites, especially once you start to get past his defenses.  He can be absolutely unyielding and also shockingly gentle.  With the armor on he can be almost brazen about the way he touches you, particularly if what’s between you is purely physical.  Just scratching an itch?  Oh, he can do that, that’s easy.  And those hands can lock you down better than any binders.  But if it becomes more than that, if he starts pulling you close when he’s just down to his flight suit and there’s no cold press of metal between you, and finally works up the courage to pull those soft-worn gloves off?  It’s hard to imagine this is the same man.  He’s hesitant.  Nearly timid, you think at first, until you realize his hands aren’t trembling just from nerves but from the effort of control.  Touch is a luxury Din has never been afforded, something new to learn in the dark of his bunk with you pressed up against him with your back to his chest, overwhelmed by the simple contact of his fingers curling hesitantly around your own.  Give him time to breathe, to process, to touch without fear that it will overload him or that he might by some pure accident of excitement touch too hard and hurt when he doesn’t mean to (it is, he still thinks on his more rueful days, what he is built for; not this tenderness).  Your patience will absolutely be rewarded.

Frankie’s a bit of a different story, bless his heart.  His nails are starting to look a little less ragged these days - the nicotine gum has gone a long way towards both helping him back off the cigarettes and keep him from chewing them ragged when his anxiety’s off the rails - but given when he’s grounded he tends to go for more hands-on jobs, his hands can take a horrible beating.  If he’s not seeing anyone he doesn’t bother much trying to take care of them beyond pumice soap and the occasional application of vaseline or bag balm in the winter time when they get chapped.  But if that should change, suddenly he’s blisteringly self-conscious about his hands.  The spots where the skin is rough and peeling, the calluses that he’ll never be able to file down and the ones he is only just beginning to see fade (index finger, between the first and middle digits - his thumb still worries over it absently, as if trying to rub it out).  He buys a nail brush, starts using balm every night, trying to work the coarseness out of his hands before he ever dares to touch you with them. 

And god he wants to touch you.  Touch is a grounding thing for him, a much-needed anchor to keep him in the here and now.  If he’s near enough you’re almost certain to find his hands on you - snaking his fingers between yours, or resting his hand light and warm against your thigh when you come along for a drink with the boys, or pressing his palm flat and solid against your back to keep you steady when he walks you to the car after.  And that’s maybe the thing that clings to your bones the strongest: how safe those hands make you feel.  He’ll learn your body until he knows every dip and curve, knows the paths to skate his fingertips along, where to press in deep, where to only graze until he’s got every nerve singing.  But it’s that sense of safety that overwhelms you, that feeling when his hands cup your face or settle gently on your hips or close warmly around your own that there isn’t a force in the world that could hurt you as long as he’s there. 

Tell him so.  Fold his hands up in your own, brush your lips over his knuckles, and tell him that you know you’re in good hands - in the best hands.  It’ll nearly crack his heart in half to hear it.  He knows what those hands have done, no matter how hard he’s tried to wash them clean of it.  But if they can make you feel safe, then maybe they’re worth something after all.

Whiskey is too vain not to take care of his hands, let’s be honest. Though there is a bit of practicality to his vanity - there always is, somehow, like the grain of sand that spawns a pearl.  He learned early enough that if he was fool enough not to take care of his hands it played hell with his ability to use them properly, and much like Din, he fully recognizes that his hands are as much a necessary tool as anything Statesman could provide him.  Decades of experience with his lasso, whip, and guns have left the palms of his hands thickly callused (his right only slightly more so than his left), but careful attention has assured they’re never outright rough.  The way he uses those hands, though, that’s a different story.  They’re strong and shockingly clever, and just as greedy as the rest of him.  Whiskey has a permanent case of Roman hands and Russian fingers, all too likely to have his hand dangerously high up your thigh in public (and far higher still if you’ll let him), but always just out of the view of the people around you.  He’s a menace, through and through, but rest assured, he won’t be putting his hands on you unless he’s sure you want that (and if you do, he will absolutely make every second count - he is as greedy for your pleasure as he is his own).

If he’s managed to get himself in a state where there’s more than just his libido involved, well, it’d be disingenuous to suggest that tactile greed ever goes away, there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of that, but it does change.  He still wants to touch you (there isn’t a second in the day this man does not want to be touching you, somehow in some way), but it’s different.  It’s smaller touches among the big ones, almost innocuous.  Fixing your necklace when it’s crooked.  An idle stroke of his thumb along your wrist, or a brush of his fingers along your forehead to sweep the hair out of your eyes.  Helping you in or out of your coat, or taking a knee to do up the laces of your winter boots, or nuzzling ever so briefly into the back of your neck while his clever fingers cinch up a knot into the new apron you bought while you were on a baking kick.  The man’s got twenty years of latent domesticity stored up and he can’t quite help it if you bring it out in him.

When you meet Ezra, he’s down to just the one hand, though you don’t quite notice at first.  You're making your introductions - new dig crew, small, but seemingly well-seasoned, even counting the young girl that keeps a nervous orbit around Ezra - not quite clocking the way his right arm moves just a little different under the thick fabric of his suit until you close your hand around his and feel the hardness of metal under his glove.  If anyone is bold enough to ask how he lost the arm, he’ll just give a grin and insist it is not lost: he remembers exactly where he left it.  His remaining hand is striking somehow when you first see it without the thick gloves on.  Wide palm, thick fingers, a prominent thumb joint.  A small black target tattooed there in the webbing between his thumb and forefinger.  But his right hand, his new hand, he never takes the glove off of that one.  It’s accident the first time you see the thing in full, poking your head in his tent to let him know breakfast is running a little late on account of a brief problem with the water pump.  You find him sitting on his bunk in a battered thermal shirt with one sleeve cut off, his suit shoved down to his waist as he wrestles the prosthetic into place as Cee adjusts the harness over his shoulders.  It’s by no means top of the line, but it’s no cheap thing, that much you can tell.  The fingers, you know by now are fully articulated, and you can see now the digits and palm are thickly padded with silicone grips.  Ezra’s face hardens at the intrusion, Cee freezing behind him like a startled deer.  But then he sees it’s only you and the tension drains, his face softening, and he assures you they’ll both be out in a tick, just as soon as he’s made himself presentable.

It’s weeks later that you realize he’s only ever touched you with his right hand once.  Just the handshake that first day.  It’s tough to notice, honestly.  He’s not one to crowd into your space if you don’t want it, unless of course he’s trying to make a point.  You remember the floater that had wandered into your camp trying to make trouble, and the way Ezra had put a seemingly amiable hand on the man’s shoulder as he talked, smiling big and broad, and it wasn’t until the man cried out, dropping to his knees and clutching uselessly at his shoulder that you realized the full strength he carries in that prosthetic.  But every time Ezra is close enough to you to touch, it’s his left that finds you.  He makes a point of it, even going so far as to stay to your right when you walk together, but you don’t fully notice until one day he turns to you with an awkward twist to take hold of your arm with his left rather than his right.

It’s later, much later, in the dim quiet of your own tent, when the small touches finally snowball into something larger and more urgent and finally you feel that hand on you, bare and broad and warm as he cups the back of your neck to draw you close, and he almost laughs into your mouth when you suddenly ask him why he does that.

“Dear heart, if I am to touch you, I mean to feel it.”

Perma-Tag: @missredherring @dovesnroses @astroboots @magpierhymes @alienprincesspoop @aasimarr @maythxthirstbxwithyou @recklesswit

Pedro Perma-Tag: @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @corvueros @thirstworldproblemss @littleferal @krissology @frannyzooey @Forallthestarsinthesky @princess76179

#Anonymous #pedro pascal #din djarin #frankie morales #agent whiskey #jack whiskey daniels #ezra #ezra prospect #hands hands hands #shockingly tame all things considered #ezra's breaking pattern a bit but hell #I finished a thing #I'll take it #this is the part where I have a mild panic over whether or not I should be using taglists for headcanons #I think too much #idk lmk if you don't want to be tagged in these things #I'm gonna go drink coffee and wash dishes

[sequinsmile-x]

prompt 28 or 40 fluff!!

Oh I enjoyed writing this one!! Prompt 28 from the fluff list:

Can I stay here tonight?

Prompt list is here - feel free to send me more :)

Words: 750

Warnings: some suggestive content

Aaron always knew that their agreement to sleep separately on cases would never last. They had done well the first couple of cases after they started seeing each other. Despite the fact he was already very used to sleeping next to her, he managed to get some sleep, albeit broken up.

Emily loved to tease him. She threw him heated glances across conference rooms and the table on the jet. She touched him whenever she could get away with it. A hand on his shoulder as she looked at a file he was holding, or her fingers stroking over his as he handed her a tea. Sometimes she just stood very close to him, just marginally closer than deemed socially acceptable so the team wouldn’t notice, and he could smell her perfume, the shampoo she used.

He fell for it every time, giving her the reaction she wanted - which was pressing her against his bedroom door as soon as they got back there, Jack already fast asleep in bed, and Aaron’s hand over her mouth as he made her come again and again.

They were in Montana. It was December so it was freezing, and the case just kept dragging on. They were on their fourth day with no end in sight, and he found himself missing her, and the tired look on her face that morning had told him that she felt the same.

Aaron was genuinely considering breaking their agreement just so he could sleep next to her when he heard a knock at his hotel room door. He opens the door to reveal Emily standing there, wearing a pair of thermal leggings, one of his sweaters and a scowl on her face.

“I’m annoyed at you.” She grumbles, walking past him into his room and immediately sitting on his bed. She sits on what had already been designated as ‘her side’, her back against the headboard.

Aaron smirks at her, closing the door and locking it as he walks over, taking a seat on the bed. “Really? Why?”

Despite her apparent annoyance she immediately rests her head on his shoulder and loops her arm through his. She throws a leg over his lap, wrapping herself around him as if he was her anchor. The thing that kept her grounded. “I slept perfectly fine by myself for years. Slept in the middle of the bed and everything.” She says, annoyance in her tone that he knew was playful more than anything. “And now, three months into dating you I can’t sleep without your big, stupid, overly warm body next to me.”

Aaron thinks he would have been offended if she wasn’t literally clinging to him like a koala bear. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He says sarcastically. “That must be really inconvenient.”

“That’s ok I forgive you.” She says, pressing her face into his neck. Aaron wraps his arms around her. She sighs happily when his hand goes up the back of the sweater she is wearing, the heat of his palm warming her cool skin. “Can I stay here tonight?”

He smiles, because she’s already half asleep against his side, her breath skipping across his neck as she curls in closer to him.

Aaron kisses her forehead and turns off the light on the nightstand, sending the hotel room into darkness before he eases them down so they are laying on the mattress, Emily half across him, using him as her own personal bed. “Of course, sweetheart. Just for tonight though. We can’t have the others getting suspicious.”

“Just for tonight.” She repeats, voice thick with sleep as she clumsily pats his chest reassuringly. He grabs her hand and links their fingers, resting their joint hands over his heart. “Night, Aaron.”

“Goodnight, Emily.”

She sleeps in his room every night from then until they go home. Derek catches her on their penultimate night as she sneaks out of Aaron’s room in the morning. She glares at him as he announces loudly, with a shit eating grin on his face, that he had won the bet of when they would get caught out.

When she realises he had known her room was empty from the first night she had tiptoed down the hallway to Aaron’s, and had spent the rest of their week setting his alarm early in order to catch her out, she forces him to split the winnings with her.

She uses her half of the winnings to buy some very nice lingerie to surprise Aaron with, and takes great pleasure in telling Derek how she spent the money.

#hotchniss #hotchniss prompt #hotchniss fan fic #mini fic #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #aaron hotchner x emily prentiss #i'm a bit sad #so i wrote something happy #this is just fluff my friends #self indulgent fluff

[essaysbyciara]

It’s Been A Long Time | Nebraska Williams x Black!PlusSize Reader [Part 1/?]

Warnings: language, smut thoughts (my ministry!)

So this has been in my drafts for a *HOT MINUTE* but that photo of Trevante in high school triggered a release. If people dig where it could be going, I will add it to my list of stuff to finish and open up a taglist. I’ll try my best to do so, I promise! lol

“God, I played this album out…” Lil’ Wayne’s seminal album, The Carter, didn’t age at all. Back in 2004, Wayne was a secret about to bubble over to superstardom, just years shy of lollipops and Static Major (rest in peace). Wayne represented the teenage angst of your time, even though you toiled in the suburbs while he wrestled with the streets. But as “On My Own” damn near explodes your factory speakers, a high pitch ping from your phone pauses your trip down memory lane. 

Message from Sheena: Let’s catch up before the babies wake up. 

You hit the call button on your dash once you stop at a red light. 

“Girl, hey. You on your way to work?”

“Ain’t I always, Shi Shi? Damn near almost overslept. Thought I missed my flight.” 

Sheena, or Shi Shi, is the epitome of a best-friend-forever. You two met in Ms. Grayson’s civics class, 11th grade. On the first day of school, you rolled into third period wearing a Scream Tour II t-shirt and if you were to describe Sheena in that moment, jealous wasn’t even the word.  She stanned hard for Lil’ Bow Wow but her mom wouldn’t let her go to the concert because she got caught with a boy in her room. That boy is now the husband half-way responsible for the twin girls she’s hoping will give her some grace by sleeping a little bit longer. 

“Damn. You wanna gift some of that sleep to these twins, God mommy?”

“Only if you gift me some of those post-pregnancy boobs, Mommy Dearest,”

“Can’t do that. Jarell been having too much fun with those!” 

“Girl, eww. I don’t need to know all that.”

You kinda did. Sheena’s stories were always live, wild and uncut. And the only fireworks you’ve been adjacent to in months since you broke up with that lame stockbroker, Keith. You curve around the airport parking lot as Sheena starts digging deep into her latest soft-core episode with her husband since the six weeks ain’t up yet. In between interjections of how nasty Jarrell could be and watching planes taxi in the distance, you cruise through Instagram to take inventory of what your day might be like. 

Managing social media for the biggest sports publication in the country was not the fulfillment of a dream after high school because, shit,  social media didn’t exist when you were in high school. But it’s what has you just hours away from a flight to the NFL Combine in Indianapolis, sitting in a parking lot, listening to your BFF’s slow burn sexcapades. You break up the audio immersion experience once your timeline displays something else to ruminate over.

“Sheena! Shi -- shut up! I can’t believe - you remember Lisa from high school? She got married ...and it ain’t to Brasco.” 

“Whaaaa… you can finally stop making u-turns in the hallway and snag your man!”

You didn’t appreciate the lowly dig from your friend about Nebraska “Brasco” Williams, star running back, track champion and boy so fine he made both Omarion and J-Boog look like ogres. Your high school crush had you shook to your pubescent core; pretty teeth, deep skin tone and two tattoos before the age of eighteen. You’d see him in the student parking lot with the rest of the football team and you’d rush to your car as if it would go home without you. He was too hot to handle. You were beyond envious that Lisa could. 

“Lisa ain’t do too bad. Her man is crazy fine. I mean, not Brasco fine but still…” 

“Man,  he had high school going crazy. I wonder what happened to him after that fight? I should stalk him on Facebook while I pump.” You laugh so hard, the couple walking past your car stops their argument to stare at you. 

Your laughs break once you realize you might actually miss that flight. You relegate Shi Shi to kiss the twins for you and to send his Facebook profile if she can actually find it. You tried years ago and failed. 

“Aight, fave. I will.  Love you. Text me when you touch down in Indy.” 

As you weave through the terminal, your mind thinks back to the days at New Birth High School. While it brought you joy in a forever friend and the launching point for your forever career in sports journalism, it did bring you one of the most hurtful days of your life that took years to shake. 

It was the summer going into your senior year. Lisa’s sweet sixteen pool party. No way in Hell you thought you’d be there but your Mom and Lisa’s stepmom sat on the same deacon board at church and somehow thought you two were friends; Lisa paid you dust in those hallways. You fretted over every part of your outfit, especially the swim shoes you didn’t want but your Dad picked up at Sports Authority. But you were fretting the most over your swimsuit, a red one-piece with a deep open back. It was sexy for a 16-year-old, to be honest, but you secretly tried it on at the mall and fell in love with it -- especially how it made you feel. 

You fell in deep love with your body that day. The way the swimsuit clenched your waist, giving your almost-pear shape some definition you’d never seen before. Your hips sat wide, your breast placed taunt, just peeking through the sides, showing off a crescent shaped birthmark right below your collarbone. It was Jet Beauty of the Week-esque and it made you feel on top of the world. Something that society kept telling you a plus-size teenage girl was not to feel. You used the last of your paper route money to buy it and hid your secret weapon in the back of your closet until the day arrived. You were hoping to get some boy’s attention -- especially Brasco. But you’d take anybody’s glare if you could get it. 

You were in the clear once your Mom dropped you and Sheena both off at Lisa’s back gate. As you walked into the party, the sounds of the local hip-hop and R&B radio station blasted throughout her huge backyard. So much fun was had -- so much splash and dash -- that the faint sounds of “Knuck If You Buck” failed to erupt a party full of teenagers it was made for. The pool seemed tempting in 90-plus heat but most of the temptation came from the jacuzzi next to it. There inside sat Brasco, his lanky on-field wide receiver sidekick Kenny and Jarell, Sheena’s partner-in-bedroom-bust crime looking delicious in their highlighter-color swim trunks. You were still figuring out your body and the reactions conjured up from the sight of water droplets chasing down their backs confused you even more. But the heat of the sun -- and the heat from your body -- got too much to bear. That pool called your name. 

You stripped off your t-shirt and denim shorts, leaving your swim shoes back by the picnic table. They clashed. Your nerves splashed together like the water you couldn’t wait to feel, battering against your heart. Were you ready for all this attention? Amongst the rest of the classmates, you disappeared. You weren’t popular. People knew of you but didn’t know you, only associating you with Sheena by proxy of Jarell. “My Goodies” came on the radio, providing you a soundtrack and a sign from God. Before you could answer the call, Sheena jumped into the pool. You tossed your glasses on top of your clothes and did the same. 

The water felt golden. Sheena smacked your face with sheets of chlorinated goodness. Too much fun was had by all, even Lisa joined in the fun. Suddenly the entire football team did too except Brasco and Jarell, languishing on the edge of the jacuzzi because like most boys from their side of town, they didn’t know how to swim. Lisa saw her boo in isolation and tapped Sheena on the shoulder. 

“Hey, Shi Shi. Let’s get in the jacuzzi.” Sheena grabbed your hand to guide you out of the pool. You weren’t expecting to see your Mom at the other end. Sheena didn’t grab you to join her in the warm bubbles, she got you out at the angry-faced-behest of your mother. You both were going home. The party silenced and stares followed as everyone watched your walk-of-shame to grab your clothes. You got what you wanted in the worst way possible. 

Your unholy exodus commenced when Lisa’s mom called yours to report what she saw: this red bathing suit too revealing for a little girl to wear. It wasn’t the green ruffled mess-of-a-bathing-suit from last year. She claimed to witness stares and whispers and “boobs hanging out, butt all out.” Your mom got over there quicker than a church shout. She waited to scold you after she dropped off Sheena. 

It was a Sunday School scolding like no other. Tears pooled deep like the one you were just having fun in. You tossed the bathing suit into the trash bin. You were never going to see it again. 

The announcement of your flight breaks you out of your day nightmare. Grabbing the handle on your suitcase, you see a text with an attachment from Sheena. 

Girllllllllllll. I found Brasco and babyyyyyyyyyyy… 

You gasp. Time did a wonder on him in all the right ways. He packed on even more muscle, chiseling out the navy thermal dressing his upper body. Teeth still bright, Moonlight-bright. His Omarion-Pandemonium-era braids were gone, now donning a clean fade with perfect waves. His stance meant business, a lot of it risky. You bite your lower lip to mask the “damn!” urging a release from you, staring at his picture so intensely that you damn near walk into the stewardess checking your boarding pass. 

You couldn’t wait to get to your first-class seat. You needed a safe space to drown in your own splash waterfalls. You beg Sheena to send you his profile, looking to make some more of that mess and she obliges. Scrolling through his Facebook, you see nothing. You needed him to match your uncleanliness. Another text from Sheena breaks you out of your spell. 

Ain’t shit on here though. I can’t find an Instagram or anything. That’s where the dirt is at lol 

You put your social media skills to work. Ain’t an Instagram profile that you can’t find. Nebraska Williams brings up nothing. Such a unique name and nothing to show for it. 

Maybe Jarell can follow him, Shi. 

Jarell ain’t on this thing. He hates all this stuff. You want me to follow him? 

Girl, yes! I need more pictures! I’m trying to find his ‘gram and no diceeeeeee. Ughhhh. 

Damn the “no cell phone until after lift off” announcement. You then try “Brasco”, too many names -- rappers, really--  and a dog company to boot. “Brasco Williams” yields no results. You couldn’t wait what could be hours, days,  weeks, maybe never, for a response from Brasco to Sheena’s friend request. 

You pull up Google as a last ditch effort. The results bring up what only seems to be archives from your now-defunct city newspaper covering one of Nebraska’s record-setting games from 2005. You know to quit while you’re ahead until you see a Youtube video: “Nebraska Williams (RB) New Birth High School (MD). uploaded by Donyell Williams. You remember Donyell as this boy who played too damn much in Geometry class but right now, he’s Brasco’s cousin who's Instagram profile came up on the first search. Thank God his profile wasn’t private. You scroll back far enough to hit the jackpot. 

I found it! @donniebrascowill is his Instagram. 

Sheena was right about the dirt. His posts were bare but his stories carried enough. Enough shirtless, weightlifting, fresh-out-the-barbershop-got-to-show-you-the-fade dirt. You hit the follow button before the stewardess asked for your drink selection. 

End of Part I

#trevante rhodes x reader #trevante rhodes x fanfiction #nebraska williams

[monicashipsnickyjoe]

(part 4 of my advertising agency office au. check out part 1/2/3)

At the end of the day, Nicky tries to think of ways to more properly thank Joe for saving his bank account and, probably, his job. A handshake, perhaps? No, that’s not enough, and after the jacket incident, it would feel too formal. Perhaps an email? A curt nod?

Ug! He buries his fingers in his hair. Why is he so bad at this?

On a poster on the wall of his cubicle, the kitten clings to that tree branch. Hang in there! If the kitten can do it, then surely he can -

A card! Decided, he turns back to his computer. He could try to make one by hand, but he lacks any artistic talent. The best he can do is adjust the word processor to print out a few clip-art designs in a way he can fold into a card. Nicky has to buy his own ink for the printer beneath his desk, but he doesn’t mind using it for this. He only wishes he splurged and bought color ink instead of only black.

After carefully folding the thin computer paper into a slightly lopsided, card-like shape, he fills in the boxy THANK YOU on the front with pink, yellow, and blue highlighters. Inside, beneath a smiley face, he writes his name: Nicolò.

Around him, his co-workers begin to leave. The clock on his monitor tells him it’s already ten after 5. Nicky grabs his card and his jacket and leaves his cubicle. Like wading upstream, he dodges his exiting co-workers, all headed the opposite way, as he makes his way past the water cooler and toward the offices.

He glares at the copier as he steps around it, and knocks his knuckles on the door frame to Joe’s office.

Joe’s three monitors are on, two paused on different sections of what appears to be a commercial-in-progress. The third shows his email inbox. Joe is looking at none of them. Instead, he’s swiveled in his desk chair to the barren section of his L-shaped desk. He sketches something in a notebook. Under his desk, he’s kicked off his shoes.

At Nicky’s knock, he looks up, and those heavy bags under his eyes have only darkened since this morning, he visibly brightens when Nicky steps into the room.

“Have you been home since yesterday?” Nicky asks.

Joe glances to the side, like he’s thinking of a lie, but he quickly sighs and says, “I went home for a shower about 4 this morning.”

“Have you eaten?”

Joe waves to the take-out containers Nicky now sees wedged behind his monitors. There’s several days worth.

“You should go home,” Nicky says. “You’ll get sick like this.”

Joe shrugs. “It’s only until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” That doesn’t make sense. Nicky has seen the forecasted earnings for the next month, coupled with the designer-client meeting schedules. He knows Joe’s meeting with the Pharmaceutical company isn’t until next week. And even if Merrick convinced Joe to move it forward, tomorrow is impossibly soon.

“Honestly, I thought I’d get far enough ahead last night to give me a break tonight but... things change.” He smiles up at Nicky, but it doesn’t hold.

Things change. What could have changed from yesterday to today?

Oh.

Oh, no.

“Joe,” Nicky storms further into the room, coming right up to the edge of Joe’s desk. “Tell me you didn’t move up the schedule because of me.”

“It’s not your fault,” Joe says, but his eyes are soft and sad. He’s lying.

“Joe.” Nicky clutches his pathetic card in both hands. It’s not enough. Not near enough.

“What Merrick wanted to do to you was wrong. If I could fix it by putting in another all-nighter, what does it matter?” He holds Nicky’s gaze, and that at least, is earnest. Which only makes Nicky feel worse.

“But, Joe -”

“I did what I had to do, Nicky, and I’d do it again.”

“But you didn’t have to.”

Joe laughs a little, under his breath. “I will always stay true to my heart.”

Nicky’s not sure what he means, so he doesn’t know how to argue. He looks down at his card. At the very least, he could have more carefully colored the letters inside the lines. Yet somehow, he knows Joe will still love it.

It’s not enough.

“What are you having to eat tonight?” Nicky asks.

Frowning, Joe waves to take-out containers again.

Nicky’s stomach flips. “No,” he says, before he even realizes he’s spoken. When Joe blinks at him, Nicky trudges onward. “Do not eat that. I will bring you dinner.”

Joe leans back in his chair. Those dark bags are barely visible now, with how bright his eyes are, like he just woke up to Christmas morning.

“Wait for me,” Nicky says, and all but throws his silly card at Joe.

Joe catches it with both hands. Nicky turns and leaves before he can see him read it.

*

Nicky, fortunately, has stew cooking in a crock pot since before work. He woke up early, restless from having heard Joe call his name in his sleep. To distract himself, he sliced carrots and potatoes and beef. He paced the length of his small kitchen, worrying over spices, trying not to think of Joe.

So, after rushing back to his apartment, he doesn’t have to worry about making anything new. He cooked enough for several days of leftovers, but he packs it all up now into five different containers, and puts them into an insulated thermal bag. He also throws in some napkins, two forks and a spoon, not knowing Joe’s preference. He grabs some waters from the fridge, a bag of fresh rolls from his pantry, and hurries out the door.

Back at the office, Joe has tacked Nicky’s ridiculous card onto the wall. He’s smiling at it when Nicky steps through the doorway.

“You’re back.” Joe turns that smile on Nicky, and Nicky trips a little on the carpet.

“I hope you like stew,” Nicky says, dropping his gaze to his feet so he can make it safety across the room.

“I love it.”

“Good. I brought you enough for several days.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Joe says.

Nicky opens the thermal bag. He pulls out one container and places it before Joe. He sets a second one beside it, for himself. He removes the napkins and the silverware, and sets the rest aside.

“Take my chair,” Joe tells him, standing. He slides it over before Nicky can refuse, then goes to retrieve a metal fold-out from against the wall.

“Joe -”

“Just sit, Nicky. You went to all this trouble.” Joe arranges the fold-out and sits. “I’ll be in that chair all night. It’s good to spice things up.”

Nicky could hardly see how sitting in a metal chair would ‘spice things up’ but he decides not to argue.

They remove the lids and dig into the food. At the first bite, Nicky’s pleased the stew is still hot. All thoughts fizzle, however, at the sound of Joe moaning delightedly.

Joe’s eyes flutter closed. After he swallows, he laughs. “Nicky, you have spoiled me. This is delicious! You must tell me which restaurant you bought this from. I will never eat anywhere else.”

Nicky’s face burns so hot, he might catch fire. “I made it.”

Joe’s gaze snaps to him. “You...?“ Surprise makes way to something else, something warmer, and for a moment, Nicky suspects Joe might hug him. Or maybe he just wants him to.

“Nicky,” Joe says. “I am convinced you are an angel.”

Nicky shakes his head. “If I was an angel, I wouldn’t have broken the copier.”

Joe grunts, like he doesn’t agree, but rather than argue, he returns to the stew.

They eat for a time, before Nicky wonders aloud.

“You surprised me, the other day,” Nicky says. “When you knew my name.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Joe lowers his spoon. “You were introduced on your first day.”

Nicky remembers Merrick waving toward him unceremoniously as he stood by the water cooler on his first day. People stood in their cubicles and sat down immediately after. He hadn’t noticed anyone step out of the offices.

“That was a year ago,” Nicky says.

“I would never forget you.” Joe scoops fresh stew onto his spoon and brings it to his mouth.

“But you never...” Nicky has no idea how to handle this new information. “We never...” He motions his fork between the two of them.

Joe lowers his chin, sheepish. “I thought of how to approach you a thousand times. But you are so...”

Oh. Nicky frowns. “Quiet.”

“No!” Joe leans forward. “Beautiful! That’s what I was going to say.”

Nicky blinks, too stunned to speak.

“I wanted to impress you, but I didn’t know how. I even tried to learn Italian, though work has been so... it’s been difficult to find time to do anything else.” Shaking his head, he sits back in the chair again. He lifts his spoon. “I’ve only learned a few words so far, but I will learn more. I’m determined.” Joe speaks with such confidence, Nicky believes him.

“Joe.” Nicky tries to find his voice. It feels important, to reply.

“I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“No,” Nicky says. “The opposite.”

“Oh?”

Nicky swallows his nerves, takes a breath. “Joe, you are the most beautiful person I have ever met.”

Joe’s cheeks tint red. His eyes sparkle, or maybe it’s the overhead light reflecting just right. What does it matter, with how lovely he looks when his lips part and he whispers, “Nicolò.“

If Nicky stays, he will kiss him, and if he kisses him, he will not stop. “I should leave you to your work.” Before hurt can settle on Joe’s face, Nicky reaches out and places his hand on Joe’s arm near the wrist. His thumb circles the fragile bones there. “The sooner you are finished, the sooner you can leave.”

Joe’s smile returns, a touch more devilish than before. “And then?”

Joe’s skin is warm under Nicky’s hand. All Nicky would have to do is lean a little closer and he could... They could...

He starts to. So does Joe.

But then Nicky snaps back, remembering, and makes himself pull away. He stands and moves around the chair, placing it between them. Yet even with the distance, the air sparks between them.

Nicky gives Joe a look. “And then.”

Whatever Joe sees in his face has Joe popping out of his chair. “Nicky, stay.”

“You’ll never finish your work.”

“To hell with it.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do, and I...” He stops himself and sighs. “No. When my lips touch yours for the first time, it will not be in this place.”

The thrill of a kiss rushes up Nicky’s spine, and he shivers. “When this is done...” He sucks in a breath, steadying himself. “When this is done, we will meet, and then...”

Joe licks his lips. “And then.”

#i wrote something nickyjoe #nicky x joe #joe x nicky #joenicky #kaysonova #welp that's where it went haha #advertising agency au #hey how about an office au lol idk man #no powers au #au #this is part 4 please read other parts first they all reference each other #food cw #ty discord for food help i am hopeless haha #i might have to raise the rating oops lol #we'll see haha

[queercraftingchonk]

Tali and Garrus go shopping (& have a good ol’ elevator chat)

Garrus was not sure how he ended up being Tali's personal packing mech. The turian became aware of his 'tool' status after the fourth shopping bag was added to his arms. He didn't know how many more parts Tali was planning on buying, and the two still needed to get some dextro-based groceries.

"Alright, we just need to stop by the Docking Bay, and then we can get groceries," Tali said. She only carried a single light rucksack where she had stowed a couple smaller mechanical parts with the prosthetic specs datapad.

"Docking Bay?" Garrus asked. He trailed after his quarian companion as they strode towards the rapid transport. Tali hailed a skycar. The two waited as it was brought to them by the VI self-driving valet.

"Supply lines are still in complete chaos. The only seller that I could find on the Citadel with the thermal paste I want is a batarian refugee named Dorvek. The Docks have been officially adapted as a sanctuary; apparently the Council approved converting abandoned shipping containers into furnished shelters for the time being," Tali explained.

"Let's hope this Dorvek keeps things smooth and easy," Garrus said. The skycar pulled up and idled quietly. Tali took the passenger seat, leaving Garrus to shed the shopping bags into the back before sliding into the driver's seat.

"Why do you think I brought the infamous Archangel along?"

"I assumed for my dashing good looks," Garrus teased. Tali laughed with an obscured blush beneath her faceplate. The turian added, "And to be your personal secretary, apparently." He gestured to the shopping bags tucked behind them.

"Are you really complaining about helping a girl carry some bags?"

"I'm just wondering if you're using me, Tali," Garrus smirked. He easily shifted the controls of the skycar and drove them to the Presidium connection to travel down to the Citadel Docking Bay.

"I am using you for your body, yes," Tali teased. Her mirthful expression faded somewhat as she fiddled with her omni-tool. "And...well, when some people see a quarian with lots of shopping bags..." She sighed and shut off her device.

"I'm sorry, Tali, I didn't mean--"

The quarian raised a hand to quiet Garrus's apology. "It's alright, Garrus. It just saves time to have a respectable turian carry my things, rather than be accosted for shoplifting again."

"Again?" Garrus asked. His mandibles twitched tightly against his jaw. He felt an anger burn and build in his gizzard and flare against his carapace. A twinge of shame mixed as well--a shame for his ignorance in his youth, and for his part in perpetuating C-Sec profiling years ago. He was not an optimist, but he had thought that the quarian Fleet helping to save the galaxy would undo the stigma of the suited Rannoch natives. Garrus briefly wondered if Shepard's general disposition was softening his old emotional callouses--or if it was, in fact, Tali's unyielding care that had rubbed off on him.

"I don't really want to talk about it," Tali admitted. Her voice crackled slightly through her helmet's compression. Her hands fiddled with one another in discomfort.

Before Garrus could change the subject, they had arrived on the Presidium. The quiet between them had taken on an awkward air as he scrambled to grab every bag with a little too much enthusiasm. It wasn't until they got into the elevator to descend to the docks that the silence was broken.

"We should watch Fleet and Flotilla tonight," Garrus said.

Tali nearly gave herself whiplash with the quick force of snapping her attention to the turian. "Where is this coming from all of a sudden?!"

Garrus shrugged. "You, Shepard, and I haven't gotten much of a chance to relax since the vidcall with Miranda. Samara's training has been a little more frustrating for Shepard than she anticipated. It seems like a thing roommates should do."

"Sure," Tali said with some poorly hidden incredulity, "but you constantly go off on how much I love that vid..." The quarian's eyes widened and she suddenly pointed an accusatory finger at her friend. "I knew you loved that film! I knew it!"

Garrus laughed with a trill of self-conscious subvocals. "I admit it has a great soundtrack, and the leads have good on-screen chemistry."

"I want to hear you say it," Tali said.

"What?"

Tali leaned closer, finger now directly stabbing the center of his blue armor. Her vibrant white eyes were locked intensely on Garrus's blue gaze. "Admit that you love Fleet and Flotilla."

The turian leaned down until his head was beside Tali's; the gesture disarmed her, but she willed herself to remain stubborn and determined. He whispered, "I admit that I love that you love it."

"Bosh'tet!" Tali cried and shoved Garrus. He bellowed a laugh, lit up with a self-satisfied grin.

"Hey, no pushing your respectable turian secretary!"

"Respectable my ass," Tali huffed with an obstinate stance.

"It is very respectable," Garrus teased. He ventured a passing glance at the quarian's shapely hips and rear.

Tali was sure she was going to die. "You have a girlfriend!" She managed to reflexively shout. Her mind was both whirling and blank.

"Who also agrees that you have a respectable backside," Garrus smirked. He delighted in making the quarian squirm--especially since he knew he spoke the truth. Shepard had, on at least a couple drunken or overtired occasions, heaped praise on Tali's attractiveness in conversation with Garrus. (Particularly, he realized, when Shepard imbibed ryncol; it was the one alcohol capable of reducing the human Spectre to a mushy pile that loudly loved everyone.)

The elevator doors opened and Tali had to restrain herself from running away from the conversation. Her heart was pounding, throat dry, and possibly feverish. Her mind raced: how much was this just their usual teasing? And how much of it meant that Shepard had checked out the quarian's ass completely unbeknownst to Tali?

"I don't know what's worse elevator talk: your insufferable teasing or your old racist commentary," Tali said. The sharpness in her voice was unintentional, even catching the engineer by surprise.

"Ouch," Garrus breathed. He followed after her, elevator closing behind them as they moved towards the temporary shelters. "Again, for the record, I am sorry for--"

"Enough, Garrus. Let's just meet with Dorvek," Tali said. Her mind was racing too much, body fluctuating with waves of emotion, some clear and others cloudy. She needed to just focus on the errand. For his part, Garrus actually did stop talking and followed his friend diligently. He even seemed to stand a bit taller as they approached a rougher looking group of batarians--some sporting insignias of old mercenary gangs.

Tali's transaction with Dorvek went smoothly, much to both Normandy crewmates' relief. She pocketed the purchased paste in her small rucksack before turning to Garrus. Her posture had softened since the elevator.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you," Tali said softly.

"Tali, I promise, it's fine. I can be an ass. And besides--I don't mind when you're mean," Garrus said. He seemed a bit unsure, but his mandibles fluttered playfully all the same.

--Excerpt from How to Love a Biotic God(dess) [Ao3]

Chapter 14: Mind of Stars; Words of Hate

by Queercrafting_Chonk

#mass effect fanfiction #how to love a biotic goddess #tali'zorah vas normandy #garrus vakarian #talibrations #shakarian #shalibrations #shali #quarian #Fleet and Flotilla #mass effect #elevator conversations