[fic] like a puzzle already solved (the way we fit together)
fic: like a puzzle already solved (the way we fit together)
fandom: Arrow (tv)
pairing: smiggle (felicity smoak/john diggle)
setting: domesticity
word count: ~400
a/n: written for indiesnopp who helped me through season two and shared my appreciation for smiggle domesticity, laughing at oliver, stanning laurel, and pretty much lusting over the entire female cast. because damn tho. protect felicity from oliver 2014
[apparently i can write cute things without angst]Upon the evening in question, Felicity Smoak went home at half-past nine just as she always did, the plastic bag in her hand sweating in the summer air and exposing the hidden containers of Chunky Monkey and Dublin Mudslide, she put her key into the lock, left her coat and shoes in a heap at the door and collapsed on the couch in an old stained t-shirt and fluffy socks.
She had already started watching that night’s recording of the The Voice and was a good five spoonfuls into the Dublin Mudslide when the front door creaked open and a strong male voice gave her a stern lecture about the WD-40 he had slipped into her purse three weeks ago, it only takes two seconds Felicity and did you start watching without me?
Her legs are bare and wrapped over his lap as if made to be there, he drags out the elastic in her ponytail and rumples her hair before even saying hello and makes her rewind back to the emotional backstory of the mother of two currently singing when he finally manages to pick up his Chunky Monkey (three to five spoonfuls less full than it should be) (but what does he care) and teases her when she cries and babbles through the emotional backstory.
Truth is, he planned on being late because he loves hearing her tearfully (but bravely) explain to him just why this delightful mother of three or youngest son should be the winner of all winners to ever win this trashy reality show she’s ‘dragged’ him into watching.
Truth is, she used to take out the ponytail herself and run her fingernails along her scalp after a long day but now she waits for him to do it because his fingers linger at the base of her neck where she just can’t get the angle right on her own.
Somewhere between the couch and the shower and the bed, most likely when one or both had a toothbrush or dental floss clogging up their mouths and garbling up their words, they begin (or end) a discussion about who was going to buy milk the next day. She crawls into bed satisfied with the knowledge that he knows which brand of almond milk she prefers for her coffee and he slips in beside her completely assured that she’ll remember to also grab a can of shaving cream while she’s out and neither one of them has to remind the other that tomorrow is Psych and therefore black licorice night.
ps- to anyone out there sending me messages/comments or wondering where the fuck I've been - well here's the thing, someday I'll sit down and write out a general synopsis of my daily life - until then, trust me when I say that I'm just busy and tired and sorry and miss you all a lot. (also the flu. the flu kicked my ass and all my writing ambitions in the ass.)
fandom: Arrow (tv)
pairing: smiggle (felicity smoak/john diggle)
setting: domesticity
word count: ~400
a/n: written for indiesnopp who helped me through season two and shared my appreciation for smiggle domesticity, laughing at oliver, stanning laurel, and pretty much lusting over the entire female cast. because damn tho. protect felicity from oliver 2014
[apparently i can write cute things without angst]Upon the evening in question, Felicity Smoak went home at half-past nine just as she always did, the plastic bag in her hand sweating in the summer air and exposing the hidden containers of Chunky Monkey and Dublin Mudslide, she put her key into the lock, left her coat and shoes in a heap at the door and collapsed on the couch in an old stained t-shirt and fluffy socks.
She had already started watching that night’s recording of the The Voice and was a good five spoonfuls into the Dublin Mudslide when the front door creaked open and a strong male voice gave her a stern lecture about the WD-40 he had slipped into her purse three weeks ago, it only takes two seconds Felicity and did you start watching without me?
Her legs are bare and wrapped over his lap as if made to be there, he drags out the elastic in her ponytail and rumples her hair before even saying hello and makes her rewind back to the emotional backstory of the mother of two currently singing when he finally manages to pick up his Chunky Monkey (three to five spoonfuls less full than it should be) (but what does he care) and teases her when she cries and babbles through the emotional backstory.
Truth is, he planned on being late because he loves hearing her tearfully (but bravely) explain to him just why this delightful mother of three or youngest son should be the winner of all winners to ever win this trashy reality show she’s ‘dragged’ him into watching.
Truth is, she used to take out the ponytail herself and run her fingernails along her scalp after a long day but now she waits for him to do it because his fingers linger at the base of her neck where she just can’t get the angle right on her own.
Somewhere between the couch and the shower and the bed, most likely when one or both had a toothbrush or dental floss clogging up their mouths and garbling up their words, they begin (or end) a discussion about who was going to buy milk the next day. She crawls into bed satisfied with the knowledge that he knows which brand of almond milk she prefers for her coffee and he slips in beside her completely assured that she’ll remember to also grab a can of shaving cream while she’s out and neither one of them has to remind the other that tomorrow is Psych and therefore black licorice night.
ps- to anyone out there sending me messages/comments or wondering where the fuck I've been - well here's the thing, someday I'll sit down and write out a general synopsis of my daily life - until then, trust me when I say that I'm just busy and tired and sorry and miss you all a lot. (also the flu. the flu kicked my ass and all my writing ambitions in the ass.)