Okay but Marquis de Gramont 🌷🎀

When the pile of clothes on the chair in the corner starts looking suspiciously person-shaped in the dark:

baking with my mama

Baking with my mama 🍞🥖🥐

MORE THAN FRIENDS

⤷ FRANK CASTLE X READER

And the oscar for surviving the longest speech in history goes to cillian murphy

I know for a fact that John Price doesn’t talk in the morning, he grumbles. He’ll push out the word “morning” and the rest of his speech is just unintelligible mumbling.

He pulls you close to him one morning, kissing your cheek and greeting you with a “good morning, sweet.” You giggle quietly in the early morning sun, until he whips out the most confusing sentence ever.

You stare at him confused, thinking that he’d fallen asleep again. “John?” You question, leaning towards him.

“Hm?”

“Oh.” A pause. “I thought you’d fallen asleep.”

“Hm.”

It’s Biscuit’s world, mate. Simon’s just living in it.

Biscuit is her dad’s shadow. Follows him around whenever she can. Simon’s on the toilet? Biscuit is lying in his boxers. Simon’s at the sink shaving and doing everything else in preparation for the day, Biscuit’s at his feet watching. Simon turns to her, asks, “Well, pup?” Her tail wags in approval. He thinks. Her tail is always wagging.

She loves to sleep on his head, on his face, or anywhere in the vicinity of her papa. Simon puts her on the bed, makes himself comfortable for the night, and now his routine is no longer complete without Biscuit plopping down on his pillow and making herself comfortable. Guess she likes his snoring because every time he wakes up, there she is, a tiny furry ball right next to his face. Or resting her head on his face. Yeah, something like that.

Why have an alarm clock when you can have Biscuit? The pup makes sure to wake Simon up for her morning walk. Or for cuddles and scritches. But really for her morning walk. After cuddles and scritches. Sure thing, pup.

It’s an off day? Simon’s chilling in his flat. He’ll knit, let the telly be background noise, or whatever the fuck. He just needs to rest. He sets Biscuit on the couch, goes to grab his cuppa, and he hears whining. And barking. Oh, bloody hell, not again—“Daddy’s coming, Biscuit.” Nope, not fast enough, dad. Biscuit is telling Simon off because he’s supposed to be here. On the couch. With her.

And when he does sit down? What does she do? Jump in his lap. She also likes to lay inside the shirt he’s wearing. Yep, there’s his little furbaby wrapped up in a ball on his stomach. He can’t move for shit, though.

He’ll deny it, but Simon spoils her. Unfortunately (not really) for her papa, Biscuit has become a bit of a celebrity with his neighbors. Which means that she’s spoiled even further. The one elderly lady two doors down? Margaret (she’s a bloody sweetheart)? She always has a treat or two for Biscuit. And for Simon. Good scones, that. The family that lives across the hall? The kids live for Biscuit. The couple’s young daughter has made it her mission to adopt his girl into their family. Heh. Kid’s got guts and Simon thinks it’s cute.

There’s also the Scottish terrier a couple doors down that’s made a friend out of Biscuit. Name’s Barney… or is it Fergus? Fuck, he forgot. Anyway, that’s Biscuit’s little boyfriend. The two have play dates all the bloody time. Has dog sat a couple times for his owner, too. M’hm. Simon’s gonna need to have The Talk with his pup.

And let’s not forget how much the rest of 141 adores her. Soap carries her like a baby in his arms which she loves. Thanks to Kyle, she has an endless supply of toys and gourmet dog treats (where the hell did he get those?) and the less said about how she has Price wrapped around her tiny paws the better. Matching hats, Cap’n? Bloody hell, how can he parent in peace when everyone spoils Biscuit? Him included?

Yeah, Biscuit’s trained her human(s) well.

Actually that no punctuation plot hole ooc wattpad fanfic written by that 12 year old will ALWAYS be better than character ai. And I love that 12 year old btw

so very true. sometimes you need what i like to call "crack fics". they may not be your usual drug but a hard reset is needed sometimes

Fuck u, orlok. Give me back my anna😔

Little bit of domestic fluff.

Sitting on the couch on a cloudy, cool fall day. The wind whips the dead leaves around outside, and there is a threat of rain. But that’s fine. Chores are done, food is simmering in a pot on the stove, and the cozy blankets have been dug out of the closet.

The boys arrived a bit ago, pausing in their chatter to plant a kiss on your cheek before grabbing a beer from the fridge. John’s already in the living room with the game on, and you can hear them all settle into amiable teasing.

You grab your book and a snack, poking your head into the living room to make sure they don’t need anything. You’re fully prepared to disappear to the bedroom to read, but John catches your eye and indicates the open place next to him. Your favorite blanket is there, unfolded, and waiting for you.

With a grin, you amble in and curl up, leaning into him, adjusting as he gently tucks you in and pulls you tighter to his side. Game day was always a day for him and the boys, a chance for them to relax together and bond. You never intruded, enjoying hearing them from the other room as they got animated and laughing to yourself at the creative insults.

But John wasn’t having that today. He keeps his arm around you as he watches, jostling you gently when his team scores and squeezing his hand on your bicep with disappointment when they miss. Without thought, he presses a kiss to the top of your head as you flip a page and silently passes you the cup of tea Simon makes for you after he disappears into the kitchen for a bit.

And when you tire of reading, you close the book and watch the television, dozing lightly as John rubs your arm in a soothing manner. Sushing Johnny and Gaz as they get a bit too rowdy and flipping off the lamp on his side of the couch as you finally slip under. The sounds of John’s heartbeat and the light patter of rain lulling you into a comfortable nap.

John coming home after a long day to reader who’s a bit picky when it comes to food and absolutely not having it when you don’t finish your plate. You can tell from the way he’s eyeing it that he’s not impressed, but you can only offer him a lighthearted shrug as you sip at your drink.

You think it’s all in good fun until he levels you with a hard look that dares you to test his patience, and a stern “Don’t be fussy”

It takes every ounce of will power you have not to laugh sardonically as you remind him that you are, in fact, a grown adult.

“Don’t care, love,” he rumbles back—an order. “finish your plate”

She exits the stage with a smile, disappearing from the view of hungry eyes to slip into the private booth above the dance floor. Her smile drops as she enters and grabs the silk robe sitting on her couch, slipping it over her body as the man in the corner sets his tablet down and watches her quietly.

“Good set tonight,” he notes, gazing as she sits down behind the one-way glass on the cushion.

“I’m always good,” she replies and holds out her hand, waiting; he’s behind her in a moment, handing her a glass of burgundy wine. “There’s a man down there at the center stage. Plaid suit. Receding hairline. I want him gone from my club.”

“Gone or gone?”

She smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Depends on how many times he continues to touch Jeanette as she performs her set.” She takes a sip and hands it back to him. “Find out who he is, Simon.”

“Yes ma’am,” he murmurs, taking her glass before he bends down, getting in her ear; the coolness of the ceramic skull brushes her skin and she manages to suppress a shiver as he asks, “Is there anything else you need, Mistress?”

“Dinner.”

“What would you like?”

“Carbonara. From Osteria Francescana. And some wine. Something that pairs.”

“That’s fourteen hours away, Mistress,” he deadpans.

“And I have no doubt you’ll make it happen in less than,” she says, tipping her head up to look at him. “You’ve never failed me, Simon. I don’t suspect you’ll start now.”

His eyes crinkle behind his mask. “Never, ma’am.”

She watches below and notices two men who are talking amongst one another and filling out the questionnaire the club offers. “Simon?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“The two down there,” she says and nods to them. “Have Angelina bring me their questionnaires when they’re finished.”

Ghost looks at them. “New stallions to break, Mistress?”

She offers a secretive smile. “They’ve never been to a club like this. Just look at them.” Her smile grows as she sees the one with the mohawk grin at the women in the booth with their lovers, the other in the cap practically gawks as a crimson paints his face. “It’s always nice to welcome new members.”

“You haven’t welcomed anyone since me. You stopped after me.”

His tone is practically filled with a neon green envy, and she looks up with a smile, crooking her finger at him; he rounds the couch and she watches as he kneels before her. “Simon, how many do I keep in my personal circle?” he opens his mouth and she adds, “My private circle.”

He pauses before begrudgingly admitting, “…myself. Price. Keegan.”

She takes his chin in her hand, gently tilting his head up. “You are my most precious treasure, Simon. Always mine. Never shared.”

“I don’t like sharing you,” he retorts, and she pulls away, propping her elbow on the side of the couch, her fist to her cheek.

She merely smiles with amusement. “Someone needs to be reminded of just how much he means, doesn’t he? Of just how perfect he is in every way,” her eyes lower to his groin.

“Yes,” Simon begs, and shifts on the ground, his hips tilting down, and she stifles a laugh.

“Later, darling,” she murmurs. “You have a job to do before. And I’m still hungry.”

It takes him an awful moment to find the desire to get off his knees, feels better at her feet before her. “Yes, Mistress.”

She grabs his hand in hers before he leaves and tugs it, having him bend down. “What are you, Simon?”

His eyes drop to her lips, then back to her gaze. “Yours.”

“Mine.”