So Fun!!! Unsurprisingly I Like All The Happy Things Lol My Work Life Is Heavy And I Deal With A Lot

So fun!!! Unsurprisingly I like all the happy things lol my work life is heavy and I deal with a lot of heavy topics and so my reading life is sunshine and rainbows for the most part 😆

TierMaker

Create a Fanfic Trope Ranking Tier List

Megalist of fanfic tropes since a lot of my favorites were missing from others

@jtl-fics @leedee013 @noomyart @sassy-pen @yes-i-exist-shutup @theloonatic

If you are a jerk about anything to do with Nora and especially if you reblog or tag her automatic block. Let me know so I can block you or go ahead and block me. I have seen some pretty bad behavior towards other authors but ya’ll take the cake when it comes to Nora.

Oooooof just seen something that has made my blood boil. People are qting Nora on twitter and saying they're sick of Jean and to focus on andreil again instead. If you're one of these disrespectful people let me know then I can block you because if you can't be nice you don't deserve nice things, and I certainly don't want you consuming anymore of my work.

💕Positivity prime time! Share five things you love about yourself, four things you're excited about, OR three people you care deeply about and why. Pass this along to someone whose posts make you smile💕

I decided to share the 5 things I love about myself because I need the reminder.

1. I’m strong

2. I’m empathetic

3. I try to be a positive force in the world

4. I’m resilient

5. I’m always willing to try new things

Thanks anon❤️

My parents take pottery classes several times a week (it’s their obsession 🤣) and I asked them to make us some soap dishes. The bathroom could be anything but the kitchen I wanted Bob’s Burgers themed and omg mom did such a good job 😆she wants to try again and actually carve the characters but I think they’re adorable. Bobs swoopy hair makes me laugh 😆

And for a man who has always claimed not to be creative, my dad has really found his creative niche! They both hand pieced these dishes and I’m just really proud of them lol they’re so cute about their pottery 🥰

I’ve had a rough couple of weeks, and last night my husband asked me when was the last time I watched Bob’s Burgers and I realized it had been awhile. So now I’m curled up with a blanket watching the movie being wrapped in the warm embrace of the Belcher family ❤️🍔

😍😍😍

NIGHT PRACTICE

Andrew/Neil, NSFW, canon-verse one shot…

(This is published on AO3, but AO3 is down right now and it was too hard to link all my fics, so I just copy/pasted this one for y’all 🦊)

“Stop it,” Andrew snaps.

He’s annoyed at Neil, who freezes at his words, looking up from the baseboard he’s been crawling along on his hands and knees to scrub.

He’s annoyed at himself for being annoyed, too, but Neil has been buzzing around the house for a week straight and Andrew is going to duct tape him to the recliner if he doesn’t figure out how to get still.

Running isn’t scratching the itch. Monday after six and a half miles he’d only sat in one place for 45 minutes of Aaron’s newest zombie killing game before bouncing up and out of the room to try and fail to make bread with the last of the wilting bananas Kevin had left behind.

The smell of burnt banana still haunts the entire downstairs.

Even fucking Neil into the mattress yesterday until he couldn’t string a coherent sentence together had been a temporary fix, and Andrew had woken up from his post-coital nap alone, followed the sound of banging to find Neil hammering loose boards on the back porch.

Which had been simultaneously hot as fuck and incredibly annoying.

He would ask what has Neil crawling out of his skin, but he doesn’t need to. He knows.

Andrew stands, tossing his novel on the table.

Neil frowns but Andrew ignores him.

Andrew takes the stairs methodically. He kicks one of their giant orange duffles out from under the bed and shoves some indeterminate mix of his and Neil’s clothes into it, before tossing in the half empty bottle on their bedside table and grabbing a jumbled set of keys from the dresser.

Neil is where Andrew left him and the sudsy water is still sloshing gently in the bucket.

Andrew drops the duffle next to Neil and stares at him, twirling the heavy court keys on one finger.

Neil blinks up at him.

“I’m not going to repeat myself,” Andrew says, when Neil doesn’t move from his knees.

“But Kevin-”

“Is not here,” Andrew interrupts.

Neil’s frown deepens, and Andrew bites back a sigh. Neil hasn’t gone to the court for two weeks. Not since Palmetto shut down for summer break, not since Kevin graduated and left to spend what little summer break he has with Jeremy before joining his new team for pre-season training. The Bearcats. Andrew hates the name. What even the fuck is a bearcat?

Andrew squats down and tucks an unyielding finger under Neil’s chin. “I’m still here. The court is still here.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to go.”

I’d go anywhere with you, Andrew thinks.

“You didn’t ask,” is what Andrew says.

It’s a two hour drive to campus. Andrew fills the car with dubstep loud enough to rattle the speakers, and Neil fills the time by staring out the window, but their hands are tangled over the console.

It’s not until Andrew is fitting the key into the outer court door that he gets it, a little. There’s a small twinge at the back of his neck that forces him to recalibrate, to reorder his orbit, to remember that - in four years - he has never walked onto this court for night practice without Kevin.

It’s never been just Neil and Andrew. Not here.

Kevin is family, hard won and for keeps, and Andrew misses him too. He does. But there’s a silver lining to be teased out.

They change in silence. Andrew’s eyes don’t shy away from Neil as he strips, layers first his armor and then his home court whites. Andrew matches him piece for piece, purposefully snapping his chin strap into place at the same moment that Neil does.

“Drama,” Neil scoffs, but even behind the grate of his helmet Andrew can see the spark igniting his gaze, turning up the light that had been dimmed to low these past weeks.

“Tell that to our baseboards,” Andrew says, scooping up his racket and whacking it hard into Neil’s on his way out of the locker room.

“Asshole,” Neil says, but it’s fond, and he follows close behind Andrew to the court.

They post up at half court and Andrew dumps an entire bucket of balls onto the floor. “Don’t cross the quarter line,” he says. “We’re not getting off this court until you shoot every single one.”

Neil blinks at him. Squints. “Who are you and what have you done with Andrew?”

“Ha ha,” Andrew deadpans. “If you can score more than twice I’ll even help you clean up.”

“Challenge accepted,” Neil says, scooping a ball, a gleam in his eye that Andrew has fucking missed. Junkies, the both of them, but it is Neil that is Andrew’s drug of choice, not stickball.

Andrew centers himself in the goal, watching Neil twirl and twirl his racket halfway down the court. “Any day now, Josten.” Neil must have been waiting for a signal because he drops low at the words, takes seven steps, and shoots. Andrew barely has to shift to snatch it out of the air and lob it right back at Neil. “Really?” Andrew scoffs.

Neil grins at him. “Just getting warmed up.” He scoops another and jogs back down the court before launching at Andrew again, shooting for the top right of the goal, and Andrew has to move this time, still blocking it easily and sending the ball to the other end of the court, and then Neil is coming at him again and again.

It’s fun - more fun than Andrew’s had on an exy court in a while. He’s long past denying that he enjoys this; patrolling his piece of plexiglass wall, breaking hearts and smashing dreams with every swoop of his racket.

Access denied… and denied and denied and denied.

Neil is good though - scary fast and harder to read than Kevin, and even with no backliners to block Andrew’s line of sight and the quarter line handicap, it only takes him twenty shots to score in the mid left side of Andrew’s goal. Neil crashes into him, glowing and grinning like a madman.

“You are past the quarter line,” Andrew says, gripping Neil’s hip tightly to steady him.

“Wasn’t when I shot,” Neil smirks at him, leaning as close as he can get through their armor. “That’s one,” he whispers before running back to his starting line.

Andrew’s dick absolutely does not twitch.

Neil scoops another ball and is at him again, and again. Andrew breaks a sweat as he sweeps from one side of the goal to the next, anticipating the unpredictable striker in front of him, the striker who makes the top goalies in the NCAA throw their rackets to the ground in frustration.

But Andrew isn’t one of the top goalies - he is the top goalie, and this isn’t just any unpredictable striker, it is his striker.

His Neil.

His person.

Andrew slams shot after shot away, and feels a bead of sweat slip down his neck, and it’s almost two hours before Neil is down to the last two in the line of balls.

“Looks like you’ll be cleaning up alone,” Andrew says, a keen eye on the shift of Neil’s hip, the flicker of his gaze from line to line. Neil says nothing, and Andrew bends his knees slightly, starts to lean into it as Neil steps, twirls, grins - then flips his racket in mid swing to a left handed grip and sends the ball home the the bottom right of Andrew’s box when Andrew had been going left.

The goal lights up red; Andrew can see the glow of it reflected on Neil’s jersey, in Neil’s face, in the delighted whoop that Neil lets out as he skids to a stop a foot away from Andrew.

“That’s two,” Neil says.

“What the fuck was that?” Andrew is not impressed. He’s not. Except Neil just flawlessly executed an impossible move that Andrew has never seen, not even from Queen Day himself, a move that sent Andrew to the wrong end of his goal leaving the far end wide open.

“I don’t know,” Neil says. He’s still planted a foot away. Andrew wants to grab him, but he doesn’t. “Just a thing that’s been in my head. I didn’t think it would actually work.”

“Do it again,” Andrew demands. Neil huffs quietly in amusement, but jogs back to the line when Andrew shoves him none too gently with the racket end of his stick. He scoops up the last ball, twirls his racket and Andrew watches, waits, doesn’t move until Neil is three strides out and flips the racket on another half twirl, barely letting the stick land in his left palm before he launches it at the goal.

Andrew ignores the ball, the red glow, the goal, instead closing the distance between them in the space of the heartbeat and slamming his stick into Neil’s. “You shift your grip right before you switch hands,” he says. “You won’t get away with that twice in the same game.”

“Guess I’ll have to practice then. Work on my tells.” Neil’s looking at Andrew’s lips. It’s distracting. He’s pretty when he’s sweaty, when he’s happy.

“You missed this,” Andrew says, dropping his stick and shoving Neil’s after it, getting as close to him as he can through the padding.

“Yes,” Neil says, and the grin is long gone, replaced by the intent, feral gleam that Andrew wants to taste with his teeth.

Andrew shoves his helmet up, and Neil does the same, sliding it off with fingers hooked in the grate, his eyes on Andrew, his hair a sweaty mess. Andrew can’t quite stop himself from running his hand through it, the damp curls snagging on his fingers, and Neil’s eyes flutter closed as Andrew grips his hair and tilts his head back. The stubble on Neil’s neck shines with a layer of sweat and Andrew leans in, brushes his lips across Neil’s jugular, licks a stripe up his jaw. Neil shivers. Andrew is captivated by this man; will always be captivated by this man. Neil. He licks at the corner of his mouth and Neil yields, just like he always does, lets out the tiniest breath as he turns into Andrew’s kiss, as the kiss turns to wildfire. This. This is what Andrew missed - Neil unleashed and sweaty and feral and needy and his.

Andrew breaks their kiss reluctantly, but he has plans. “Move, Josten,” he says, stepping back and shoving Neil in the chest. His voice is already rough and scratchy. Neil grins at him and turns, promptly tripping on their rackets. “Messy,” Andrew says, grabbing Neil by the back of his armor to keep him from falling to his knees. He doesn’t let go, pushing Neil in front of him until they are off the court, across the hall, into the locker room, doesn’t let go until he has Neil slammed up against his locker.

Neil’s chest is heaving and he’s looking down at Andrew, present and accounted for, the crystal clear ice of his eyes focused, his dick half hard already against Andrew’s belly, and Andrew slams him again for good measure before carding his fingers into Neil’s hair. The care he takes is juxtaposition to his thumb pressing into Neil’s hip, to the bruise that will form there. Andrew has learned to love the marks he leaves on Neil, because Neil loves them. “Mine,” Andrew says, and it comes out urgent. Neil’s eyes widen at the tone but Andrew doesn’t take it back.

“Always,” Neil says, and Andrew has to swallow the knee-jerk anger that incites. He presses a hand over Neil’s mouth, but Neil just licks him and leans into his palm and Andrew is made of nothing but desperation. Their teeth clash as Andrew shifts his grip, surges up on his toes to kiss Neil, just as Neil is leaning down to meet him. Andrew bites Neil’s lip and then kisses the fuck out of him, pushing and pushing until he wrings an unhinged moan from Neil’s throat, until Neil’s thigh is sliding up to Andrew’s waist, until Andrew’s thumb dips below the line of Neil’s shorts.

There’s an urgency Andrew can’t contain, bursting him open at the seams; he’s doing this for Neil, but Andrew doesn’t lie to himself, not anymore, and this is for him, too. A rebranding, a shifting of axes. He can’t get close enough but he can’t pull back long enough to divest Neil of his padding. Andrew shoves roughly at Neil’s shorts, hooking a finger into his boxers and jock strap on the way down, and Neil’s yes is in the kicking off of shoes, the hand on Andrew’s shoulder as he lifts one leg and then the other, in the little gasp he lets out when Andrew half falls to one knee, hauls Neil’s thigh up onto his shoulder, and lifts him off his feet, sucking Neil’s dick deep into his throat in one practiced move.

Neil’s answering moan is filthy, and Andrew lets himself get lost in it - the sweat-musk damp of Neil’s skin against his nose, Neil’s cock firm at the back of his throat, the clutch of Neil’s desperate fingers in Andrew’s hair, the flex of honed thigh muscles against Andrew’s ear, those goddamned pornographic noises that no one ever told Neil not to make. This was a first stop for them, years ago, Andrew swallowing Neil down and taking him apart with his mouth, and it still feels like home.

But this isn’t what he came here for.

It’s with a whole heap of determination that Andrew slides off Neil’s dick with an obscene wet pop and drops Neil’s feet unceremoniously to the floor. A quick glance up confirms that Neil is already wrecked, blinking at Andrew through half lidded eyes, his rasping breath a come on all its own, and Andrew has to tear his gaze away to reach for their bag, to pull out the lube, to hold it up in brief supplication and receive Neil’s, “Fuck. Yes.”

Gentle is not in Andrew’s vocabulary, but careful is, particularly with Neil. He slicks up his left hand liberally, Neil’s eyes tracking the movement, Neil already lifting up on his toes again in anticipation when Andrew hauls one of Neil’s legs up around his waist. Andrew reaches down with his lubed hand and surges up for a kiss simultaneously, pressing one finger into Neil just as he plunges his tongue into Neil’s mouth. It’s a filthy, delicious, distracting kiss and Neil is already unraveling in Andrew’s hands, ready for another finger in moments.

Andrew half lifts him by finger fucking alone. It’s a heady, unbearable desperation when Neil tears his mouth away, slams his head back into the locker and says, “Andrew, Andrew, Andrew, fucking - fuck!”

Andrew bites Neil’s earlobe, then his neck, then his collarbone, and can’t quite make himself let Neil go for long enough to get his own shorts down, but Neil clocks the problem and starts scrabbling at Andrew’s waistband. Andrew shifts enough to let him get fingers tucked in shorts and briefs and shove down enough for Andrew’s very eager dick to spring free.

“Yes, yes yes yes,” Neil hums feverishly into Andrew’s neck and Andrew gives Neil one more pulsing stretch of his fingers before he wraps his hand around Neil’s other thigh, braces himself, and hauls Neil up and off his feet.

Neil’s back hits the lockers with a resounding crash, his armor bunching up against his ears, his socked feet locking behind Andrew’s back. For the briefest of moments Andrew pauses - feels the added weight of Neil settling into his thighs easily, tastes the air they are fighting to share, relishes the fever gleam in Neil’s gaze, the tuck of his bottom lip in between very white teeth.

“Hold on,” Andrew says, his voice gravelly with lust, and he doesn’t care that he’s so exposed because it’s Neil, and Neil tightens his legs around Andrew and drops his hands to Andrew’s shoulder and holds the fuck on when Andrew half-squats their combined weight to shift, to slide a hand through the vee of Neil’s thighs, past Neil’s still spit-slick dick to grip himself, to pump a palmfull of lube, to press the tip of his aching dick to Neil.

Andrew presses in with one smooth, controlled move, his mouth on Neil’s neck, Neil’s hands in his hair. Somehow they are both holding their breath, the silence around them reverent for a moment, maybe two, before Andrew shifts, adjusts his grasp on Neil, and fucks into him again. It’s a tumble into madness as Neil’s breath kicks in again against Andrew’s ear, his heels still tight behind Andrew’s back, the slivers of skin Andrew has exposed slick with sweat and sliding deliciously against Neil. It’s the tight, pulsing heat of Neil around his cock, of Neil’s legs and arms wrapped around him, the burn of his legs and his abs and his arms as he holds them both up, as he fucks Neil unrelenting into the lockers, and Neil says yes and more and fuck and Andrew.

Neil can come untouched, but the noises and string of nonsense encouragement aside, Andrew knows he’s not hitting Neil’s prostate at this angle. He needs to get Neil’s dick involved, but he’s not willing to give up Neil’s hands on him, or the grip that he has on Neil’s thighs.

Andrew considers for a split second, and then executes a move that would be called a wiggle if he were anyone else besides Andrew Minyard - and the tip of Neil’s dick disappears just under the edge of Andrew’s chest armor.

Neil’s eyes widen with surprise, and he looks down, a husky laugh of disbelief falling out of his mouth. Andrew digs his thumbs into Neil’s thighs and thrusts experimentally, and that laugh dissolves into a groan. Andrew does not grin, but it’s a near thing. Each thrust after that fucks Neil’s dick up against Andrew’s stomach, pressed between skin and sweaty exy armor, and Andrew is vaguely concerned it will rub Neil raw, but the obscenely erotic noises coming out of Neil’s mouth say it’s fine, it’s good, and don’t fucking stop - and it’s barely moments later that Andrew speeds up, thrusts harder, deeper, chasing the orgasm will not be held back.

Neil comes seconds after Andrew, his breath stuttering, his legs losing their purchase around Andrew’s waist. Andrew’s barely cognisant of dropping first one and then the other of Neil’s legs, waiting until he’s got both feet on the floor before Andrew leans in, kisses him fiercely, then lets him go, stepping back because Andrew needs a fucking minute. His legs are wobbly and his heart erratic and he might burst wide open if he doesn’t step away.

Neil smiles beatifically at him, and then slides down the lockers to the floor in one barely controlled, unbothered movement.

Normally orgasms make Neil what can only be called chatty: Andrew can suck his brains out his dick, take him apart and put him back together again, and ten minutes later Neil is sat up, legs crossed, chin propped in hand, his energizer bunny battery all filled up to green. But this time, Neil is slumped bare-assed on the floor of the locker room, boneless and dazed and Andrew feels a deep, throbbing thrill of satisfaction. He did that. He gave that to Neil.

“Exactly how many fantasies did we just check off your list?”

“I don’t know,” Neil says. “I lost count.”

Andrew bites down a retort and clamps a hand around Neil’s wrist. “Get your ass off that floor. Gross.”

Neil rolls his eyes. “Pretty sure they disinfect it every night,” he says, but he lets Andrew haul him up and drag him to the showers.

Andrew strips Neil piece by piece outside of the largest shower stall, and then guides them both under the hot spray of water. This is a practiced movement for them, Andrew washing Neil, sliding wet soapy hands over every inch of Neil’s body. Andrew’s never said it outloud, but he’s done enough therapy to know the importance, the connection to the one time Neil was taken from him and returned in what could barely be called one piece.

Sex with Neil turns Andrew inside out, makes him vulnerable in a way he can’t be - won’t be anywhere else. He’s come to terms with that too, comes to terms that he needs careful hands on every inch of Neil after, to feel him, see him unscathed and humming in post orgasmic surround sound.

It’s not something that needs to be said out loud, but there is something else that must be.

Neil’s eyes are closed, the water beating down on his face, contentment laid bare across his features in a way that it hasn’t been for weeks. Andrew presses wet and naked against Neil’s back, wraps tight arms around his stomach, and says, “I will give you the things you need. Ask me next time.”

Neil tilts his head before turning in Andrew’s arms to look at him. “I don’t want to ask you to do things you hate,” Neil says, serious, his eyes flicking back and forth between Andrew’s at such a close distance it is dizzying.

“Too easy,” Andrew mutters, and it’s the space of a second before Neil clocks his meaning and grins.

“You don’t hate me, though, not anymore.”

Andrew nods, and he almost chokes on the words, but he manages to bite out, “I don’t hate exy, either.”

The smile that blooms on Neil’s face is incandescent, and Andrew slaps him on the hip.

“Shut. Up,” he says, and dumps a handful of shampoo on Neil’s head to make him close his fucking eyes.

It’s not until they are halfway back to Columbia, tucked snug in the Maserati with something more chill thrumming from the speakers, that Neil tucks his fingers Andrew’s and says, “All of them.”

Andrew doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but squeezes Neil’s hand in inquiry.

“All of my fantasies, Andrew. All of them”

And yeah. That.

“Same,” Andrew says.