twentysomething

Tony sort of thinks he's going into a sugar coma and he hasn't even touched the pecan pie yet.

"Wait, I peel first, right?" Peter demands urgently, holding a knife and vegetable peeler. Steve chuckles from where he's dicing apples.

"Yes, Peter. It's easier that way," Steve says. "May really never made you help out in the kitchen?" Peter pouts.

"I set the table! And helped with the dishes!" he insists, starting to peel the potatoes. Steve puts the apples in with the sausage and onions.

"Well, you'll learn now," Steve tells him. "Peel faster, Thor's coming." Peter stares at the two giant sacks of potatoes.

"Oh god, we'll never have enough," he mumbles, even as he peels frantically. Steve just laughs.

Steve's been cooking for the last two days straight, despite Tony offering to get the whole thing catered. Steve had looked scandalized, like Tony had tried to pay him for sex or something and insisted on cooking the whole thing himself. Around the day and a half mark, Peter had volunteered himself as the world's most inexperienced sous chef. The whole thing has been been so cute Tony kind of wants to hurl.

Tony would complain about how little attention he's been getting, but he's weirdly turned on by Steve, sleeves rolled up and socked feet under his flour covered apron. He's trying not to over analyze it.

"I wanted to get it catered," Tony reminds them both, reaching around to filch a piece of apple and burning hot sausage. Steve hip checks him away from the pan.

"You. We talked about this two days ago," Steve reminds him. Tony remembers the sex that followed the "no stealing ingredients" talk fondly.

"Yeah, we "talked" about it," Tony waggles his eyebrows for good measure. Steve rolls his eyes, but kisses Tony fast.

"I have to make the stuffing. And if you make a single joke about stuffing, you're sleeping on the couch." Steve says. Peter sighs.

"When you guys talk about sex, I just pretend that it's code for something else, because otherwise I have to hum loudly and childishly over everything you say," Peter keeps peeling serenely.

"See, you're scarring the kid," Steve tells Tony and the mock serious curve of his mouth is something Tony wants to kiss a lot.

"We're awful parents," Tony agrees.

Peter just sighs, but he's smiling as he peels potatoes.


I JUST LOVE TONY/STEVE A LOT

Dean is so happy he could cry.

"This is like Christmas," he says. "No, this is better than Christmas."

The pies are cued up on the card table in their beautiful perfection: apple, pumpkin, pecan, chocolate bourbon, cherry, and even some crazy fancy-ass pear thing.

"You look like you're about to faint," Sam jokes.

"Sam, this is sacred." Dean breathes out. "This is a religious moment."

Dean feels the puff of displaced air on the back of his neck as Cas says, "Well, this is a pleasant change. If only I had known it took baked goods to obtain your faith earlier."

Dean had suspected Cas of a certain sappiness before, but this just confirms it.

"Aw, babe," he spins around and smacks a wet, noisy kiss on Cas's mouth. Dean grins.

"It's just piety."


PUNNNNNNNNNNNNED

The clinic had been a mess all afternoon and Sherlock had been in an inactivity related strop all week. All John wants- in the entire world- is a biccy and a cuppa. Which, he wouldn't think that was so much to ask, but the frankly staggering number of days wherein that does not happen would imply otherwise.

When he opens the door, Sherlock is immediately on the other side of it.

"Good God!" John clutches at his heart.

"John," Sherlock starts before cutting himself off abruptly.

"You have to sit down, immediately," Sherlock changes tack, practically dragging John into the armchair.

"What on earth is the matter?" John asks, as Sherlock darts into the kitchen. "D'you finally have a case?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hums absently- John can hear him running the taps. The microwave beeps and clangs. John sighs, aiming for patience, but it's awfully difficult.

"Sherlock," John reminds him that he's waiting for an answer.

"Yes, yes, shh," Sherlock says dismissively. John pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Was there some reason you were laying in wait for me?" John asks.

"Lying," Sherlock calls, clanking something around. John bites back a shout of frustration, screwing his eyes shut and grinding his teeth.

"John."

Sherlock is right in front of him again, but- the saucer he's holding out has a steaming cup of tea and what John thinks are the last two biscuits perched on the rim.

"How did-" John starts and Sherlock just stares at him.

"Please," he scoffs. John can't help the smile.

"Thank you, Sherlock," John says, accepting the plate. Sherlock simply shrugs and curls himself up on the couch, his cool dismissal ruined by his peeking over his shoulder back at John dipping the biscuit in the tea.

"I added an extra spoonful of sugar. You skipped lunch." he adds compulsively.

Most of the time, when it's directed at him, Sherlock's deductive gifts are somewhat unwelcome, but John can't help but be grateful sometimes.

"There is too much football and not enough precious babies at our Thanksgiving, Spencer," Brendon whines, tucking his shamelessly cold feet underneath Spencer's thigh.

"We could go steal some children," Spencer offers, rolling his eyes. But he knows Brendon grew up with increasing amounts of nieces and nephews at his family events and can't help his baby fever. Also, babies fucking love Brendon, so maybe it's only natural he likes them back.

"Our neighbors' kids aren't babies anymore," Brendon's whines are becoming aggressive in their pitch.

"Go get one of the dogs. We'll go buy baby clothes and you can try to feed them out of bottles." Spencer suggests, taking another long pull from his beer. He strongly suspects that he's going to need more alcohol to handle this conversation.

"That's what you said last time I wanted a baby," Brendon points out.

"And you loved it," Spencer points out, because Penny had made a pretty precious dog baby.

"Okay, true," Brendon agrees and gets up, presumably to get the dog onesies. "But you can't put me off forever, Spencer Smith."

Spencer thinks about the literature he's been accumulating about adoption in the desk drawer where Brendon never looks.

"Wasn't planning on it," he says, drawing Brendon back down for a kiss.



(Sort of kidfic? IDK MAN)