y'all what is a movie from the 80s that is YOUR movie? like for whatever reason. it’s incredibly nostalgic, you love it a lot, it just makes you feel good, you connect deeply with it. basic answers welcome
Jfc tumblr the VERY LEAST you could do would be to give us one button for “report spam and block” instead of making us click through two separate times for “report spam” and “block.”
14. when one of them has never had a proper birthday party for whatever reason, and their lover makes it their mission to give them the best day ever, followed by “you didn’t have to do all this for me. just being with you is enough.” “i know. but i thought you deserved ?’’ and their lover smiles, a kiss is shared
i tweaked the prompt a smidge, it’s more ~inspired by
He knows she's got some hang ups about celebrations. On a teltak headed for Netu all those years ago, he'd slid down the wall to sit beside her while she worked to calm shaking hands, thoughts trapped in the past.
"Cookies," she tells him, voice quavering. "I was baking cookies for my mom's birthday that weekend when my dad told me she was gone."
"Ah." He doesn't know what to say--it doesn't feel like the right moment to share his own hangups about water pistols and grilling hamburgers some days because those are what preceded the loss of Charlie. Instead, he lets his knees fall apart just a little, just enough that it could be an accident, and rest against hers.
She presses back and he knows she understands it's all he can do right now. She rubs a hand over her face, scrubs at it like she can erase the thoughts in her head, before turning to face him. "I haven't really been able to do birthdays after that, not mine or Mark's or anyone's. Not that dad was ever--"
Sam sighs, stopping herself. "It doesn't matter now."
Jack nods, lips pursed, caught between the knowledge of what it is to be a father hurting for your own losses, your own child and his affection for the woman in front of him and the scars of childhood pain.
"I make a pretty mean chocolate cake," he says suddenly, not quite looking at her. He hasn't quite figured out how to get a hold on his changing feelings for his second-in-command and he doesn't want her to get the wrong--or right--idea. She sits up a little, eyes clearer, knee pressing back into his slightly.
"Yeah?"
He nods. "Yeah."
"Maybe birthdays wouldn't be so bad if I didn't do the baking."
This time he can and does face her because teasing Samantha Carter about her cooking is low-hanging fruit. She's burned water off-world and he hadn't even known that was possible. "Well, I think a lot of occasions would be better if we just left you out of the kitchen, Carter."
The half-smile she hides behind a ducked head is enough to let him know she's okay, that they'll be okay. They just need to get through this mission, rescue dad, and make cake.
Easy.
They don't make cake after Netu, though. Sam disappears to Alaska with her father for a week and he disappears to his cabin and tells himself it's pointless to do so, but he stocks his cabinets with flour, sugar, cocoa, and baking staples. Just in case.
They don't make cake after Edora (even though he really, really wants to bring her some cake after he realizes what she's done for him--gratitude cake, he'd call it). They don't make cake after they spend a week on an alien planet sleeping beside each other and staring at the stars, letting lines and boundaries fade gently away (it's for the best, he tells himself, neither of them is ready to...eat cake...together). He tosses the candles he'd bought for her after the zatarc tests. No point in those now. Cake and candles and everything else left inside a room in the SGC.
He can't even bring himself to ask her about wedding cake when he sees the engagement ring on her finger years later.
They continue to not make cake or go fishing or all of the other things they once told each other they'd do. It's all starting to feel like a metaphor, which in his book are only a step above a cliché.
And then--
And then she comes to his cabin with a bare ring finger and slings her duffel down onto the porch and stuffs her hands in her pockets like she doesn’t know what to say or where to go from here. He thinks about handing her a fishing pole and having her sit on the dock beside him, but changes his mind. He knows exactly what he wants to do.
Her birthday is three months away but he can’t wait that long. He hands her a beer, picks up her duffel bag over his shoulder, and tells her to follow.
She does (and the sight of her duffel thrown atop his beside the couch sends tiny tendrils of warmth down his spine).
“Jack--” He likes that he doesn’t have to tell her to call him that, that she knows where this is going just as much as he does. It’s never that they’ve been bad at communicating, per se. It’s just restrictions limiting how and what they communicate about that always got a little dicey.
But her questions stop when he pulls out a bowl and a whisk and baking ingredients that may or may not be out of date. It’s not the point, though. He’ll make her a spectacular, show-stopping cake in three months if that’s what she wants. This is more than birthdays; a different celebration all together.
“We are making a cake, Carter.” Then, “Well, I’ll make the cake. You’re on ingredient retrieval.”
“Cake?”
He nods sagely. “Cake.”
She tilts her head, searches his face and likes what she finds there: resolve, excitement, trepidation, meaning.
“Okay then,” she agrees softly. “Cake.”
It’s a dance after that, one they’re surprisingly good at. His kitchen isn’t small, but she makes it smaller by filling in all the empty places where he’s always imagined her to be. Where she could walk around the island, she steps in closer to him instead, her shoulder brushing his. Her fingers linger on the back of his hand when she passes him the bottle of vegetable oil she’d dug out of the pantry. She leans on the counter to watch him carefully measure and level off flour and rising agent and sugar, eyes straying to the flex of his wrist and the tendons in his forearm in a way she would have stopped herself before. She wrinkles her nose at the explosion of cocoa powder and espresso granules on the counter.
It’s a type of foreplay, he supposes--a gentle entrance into intimacy. He’s pretty sure she wouldn’t mind jumping from nothing to everything based on the way she scoops up a fingerful of batter and sucks on it thoughtfully, eyes never leave his. “It’s chalky.”
He scoffs. “It’s not cooked yet. Trust the process.”
She looks skeptical, but when he turns back around to face her after putting the cake pan into the oven, she licks the remnants of batter off her finger anyway.
They’ve got 20 minutes and he’s got nine years to catch up on. He snags her wrist in his fingers, pulls her closer and settles their joined hands against his chest, his free hand at her hip.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” she whispers, voice thick with the things unexplained and unsaid. The big things, though, the big things he knows. He brushes her hair back from her face, fingertips drifting over her jawline and against her temple.
He rests his forehead against hers, breathes her in: sun and coconut and the faint aroma of cocoa powder from earlier.
“We waited a long time for this cake,” she says, pressing her forehead back against his in a playful nudge before pulling away. “It better be good.”
“I told you it would be the best,” he reminds her, hand drifting down her back. He can’t stop touching her, never ever wants to stop touching her.
“You did,” she says thoughtfully, eyes sparkling with unshed tears, voice tinged with a little sadness, a little wistfulness. “I’m sorry I doubted.”
“No, no, hey.” He crowds against her, gathers her into a hug and tucks his head into the crook of her shoulder, his lips pressing just so against her neck. She shakes in his arms and he holds her tighter, lifting his mouth to her ear: “We got here in the end. That’s all the matters.”
She nods, nuzzles her cheek against his and wraps her arms around him tighter, swaying slightly from side to side, breathing him and his assurances in.
(Later, they spend the weekend eating through the cake. He feeds it to her in bite-sized pieces while they’re tangled on the couch watching bad action movies from the 80s. She wraps her tongue around his fingers and sucks each crumb and oh god, he’s going to have a fetish by the end of their cabin stay. She brings the plate out to him one evening on the dock, barefoot and wearing one of his old, threadbare academy sweatshirts. They eat cake and watch the stars and listen to the ripple of water lapping against the shore. He draws the line at cake in bed. “No way, Sam, no crumbs in the bed.” She’s certain she’s changed his mind when she scoops a bit of frosting off the top of the cake and drags it in a line down his neck, her mouth working diligently at licking every last bit up.
Turns out, she’s pretty fond of some celebrations after all.)
hey yo my friend, long time no see, how you doing? i can ask for 19 and/or 20 for the writing warm up prompts please? 💜
hi friend! doing okay and glad to be dipping toes back into fandom waters <3 #20. wearing their lover’s clothes! (also, “can I get my shirt back? ’'no.”)
Samantha Carter, it turns out, is a no-good, dirty rotten thief. He suspected her when he'd returned to the commissary to find his plate of fries a few handfuls short and his second-in-command looking suspiciously like the cat got the canary, greasy fingers and lips and all.
It escalates from there.
On their return from their stint in 1969, smelling like pot and incense and sweat , he'd returned to the locker room with wet hair and a towel around his waist to find most of his 60s-era clothing gone. He hadn't thought anything of it at the time, figured the eggheads collected it as part of mission artifacts and they were folded and labeled in a storage vault somewhere.
Except when he gets topside and walks towards his truck, ready for a cold beer to ease the ache of time travel, he sees Captain Carter astride a rumbling beast of a motorcycle clad in a suspiciously familiar leather jacket. Where it had been snug on him in the 60s, it swamps her form. Something low in his gut twists at the sight of seeing her wearing his clothes--however brief a time they were his. And the sight of her now--leather jacket and long legs and looking entirely too tempting and dangerous--is enough to make him question every fraternization reg in the book.
He slid his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose and twirled his keys around his finger, aiming for nonchalant as he made his way towards her, raising his voice over the rumble of her engine. "Nice jacket you got there, Carter."
There was only a flash of chagrin on her face before she shrugged, fingers plucking at the soft, worn leather. "Vintage is in these days, sir. And, well, it doesn't get more vintage than this."
"Hey," he said sharply. "Easy with the vintage. Some of us were around when that jacket was new."
She ducked her head, biting back a smile. "Yes, sir."
(He should report her for removal of property of the Stargate program, but he's always been a pretty firm believer that rules are generally meant to be broken and she really, really does look good in that jacket. He steps back and watches her go, revving her engine and disappearing around the corner with a backwards glance at her stunned CO.)
On P3X-229, he finds the front pocket of his pack suspiciously light and Major Carter covered in his favorite brand of sunscreen--the kind that smelled just a little bit like coconuts and bananas that the Air Force refused to spring the extra couple bucks for. When he stepped into her personal space and gave a dramatic sniff, she had the gumption to raise an eyebrow at him, chin jutting defiantly as if daring him to say something.
(He made sure to pack an extra tube in his pack for her next time. It was more protective than the standard issue crap and maybe it did a little something to him to know that he was doing this for her--his fair-skinned Major who started burning exactly sixty-one minutes in the sun. The fact that she smelled like summers at the cabin didn't hurt either.)
On her first real trip to the cabin--after Pete and Kerry and all the things they left unsaid finally said--she sits beside him on the dock of his cabin, cold beer in her hand and smelling of his own personal brand of sunscreen (this time given freely and applied in messy swipes of his hands over her shoulders and neck). She stretches out leisurely and presses her bare thigh against his, the contact of skin sticky in the heat. He squeezes her knee and leans over to brush his lips over her rapidly freckling shoulder.
"You should go inside, Carter. You're mottling like a banana."
She gave him an unimpressed smile. "A banana? Real nice." Another brush of his lips against her skin had her relenting, melting against his side. "A few more minutes and then we'll both go in."
"This is not a negotiation, Sam," he argued, voice dropping the teasing tone and instead replacing it with concern. Old habits die hard. "You're going to burn and you'll be miserable and then--"
But Sam is two steps ahead--when isn't she?--and curls her fingers against his jaw and lifts his mouth to hers, kissing him softly, hungrily. She tastes of sun and salt and all thoughts of going inside disappear with each brush of her tongue against his, each soft searching press of her lips. No matter how many galaxies he travels to or planets he explores, each kiss and touch from Samantha Carter is the only adrenaline rush he needs.
As he presses forward, shifts in his chair to get closer, his fishing rod clattering to the dock so he can get his hand between her legs and the other in her hair, he feels a sudden pull and then she's gone from his arms.
He blinks stupidly for a minute until his lust-filled gaze clears and he sees Samantha Carter sitting in front of him looking deliciously self-satisfied and his favorite olive green cap--the one he was wearing until about five seconds ago--perched atop her head, her blonde hair curling beneath the brim.
She beams at him. "Ten more minutes," she counters, her tongue peeking out from behind her teeth in a too-wide, mischievous smile.
He huffs, faux-annoyance coloring his tone as he reaches for his favorite hat on his favorite person. "Give that back, you kleptomaniac."
But she dodges out of reach, laughing and pulling the bill of his hat--now her hat--further down on her head. "No," she argues.
He could argue, he thinks, reach over and scoop her up and throw her in the empty lake or carry her back to the cabin and strip her of every piece of clothing she has except for his baseball cap (and actually, yeah, he'll put a pin in that). Instead, he leans back in his chair and watches her and realizes he's forgotten one last count of theft against her:
For @formerdetective and @lenalake who asked for my not so g rated thoughts on the gifs in this and this twitter post (honestly 2x22 Out of Mind has some serious sexy happening). Thanks to @justplainmels for providing said sexy gifs. 🔥🔥🔥
His arm wrapped tight around her middle, a possessive hand cupped hard over her mouth, his hips bumping into her ass as he drags her to a stand-still; combined it’s enough to pull her senses out of the memory-recall and accompanying headache it brings.
The firm grip he has on her eases off a little, his hand slipping slowly away, but he’s solid behind her and her body is now hyperaware of every single place they meet. She can’t help the rush of warm arousal that washes over her at the contact. It spreads out, ignorant of the moment–perhaps even heightened by it–and settles low, pooling a liquid heat in her belly and between her thighs.
It’s the adrenaline, she thinks. Blame the adrenaline.
Then she hears it. The uneven breath close behind her ear. It barely lasts more than a few short seconds before he’s in control again, though his momentary lapse gives him away regardless, and she’s far too keyed up not to miss the growing pressure that’s nestled at the curve of her ass, interested.
Her body reacts, whether she wants it to or not, and all those already too-interested parts of her own flare up even more, screaming at her. Then fingers, his fingers, curl tight into the white fabric by her hip, clutching hard, the tips almost-but-not-quite bruising her soft skin beneath; if the action is wanton or warning she can’t really tell. Maybe it’s both. Either way her usually repressed id is loud, pleading–begging–for him to grip her just that little bit harder.
It’s problematic in more ways than one. And equally as inappropriate. That fact that she’s so reactive to it all–the possessive, controlling parts–that it’s him–that she wants more–makes it just that much worse. Or exciting.
She swears if he pulls her back against him now, with one hand gripping her hip and the other a breath away from collaring her throat, there’s no way she’ll be able to stop herself from rolling her hips back for him.
She holds her breath, stilling herself, waiting for her super-ego to rein her in, to fight back against her raging id inside that’s usually locked up tight. Behind her she can feel him tensing, warring to do the same. For a moment she’s grateful they can’t make eye contact like this. Because they’d be screwed if they looked each other in the eyes right now, she’s sure of it.
When he mutters a whispered curse under his breath every part of her clenches in anticipation, only releasing once she feels him start to push her away.
Control. He has it.
She has to quickly stifle a little dejected noise that starts in the back of her throat, cutting it off, she hopes, before he notices (she’ll lie to herself if that’s what it takes to re-group). This isn’t the time or place for any of this and she hates the part of herself that has the nerve to be disappointed.
They slide away together, dragging themselves back into the present. But not, it seems, without him daring to make eye contact with her first.
A dangerous move.
The heated glance he delivers is swift, yet it’s more than enough to push directly at those buttons they now know they have. With just a look, with just his eyes, he carefully inches them past a line they aren’t supposed to cross and then back again.
Control.
He has it, and they both know she wants to bend to it.
Jack comes in and puts a hand on her shoulder while she cries at Daniel’s bedside. “Come on, Carter. Don’t cry on his bandages.”
She sobs out a laugh and lets him tug her out of the room and into privacy to let her compose herself. His hand is tangled with hers and she follows him unquestioningly, her own words ringing in her head. She doesn’t want to wait anymore. It could have been any of them in that bed. It could have been him.
There’s a few moments of movement and then he’s pushing them into her empty lab, dark and cool and comforting. He knows this is her safe place.
“C'mere.”
He tugs their joined hands and pulls her into his chest. It’s the most contact they’ve had since Jonah and Thera overruled their better sense of judgement and she wraps her arms around his waist, buries her face in his chest and breathes him in. Hugging him–touching him–is second nature, the thing she always craves just beneath her control.
His hands are large and warm and roam over her back in soothing comforting circles. It makes her cry harder. He’s a good man and she loves him.
Why do we wait to tell people how we really feel?
She’s done waiting. They’ve hidden and denied themselves so long and for what? For it to all be gone in one decision, one stray zat gun bolt, one faulty gate connection? Not being able to tell him how she felt, not being able to kiss him or hold his hand or go home with him at the end of the day had done nothing to lessen her feelings. She still loved him, whether the Air Force said she could or not.
Her head lifts from his chest and she puts distance between them, just enough to tilt back and look up at him. His hands settle on the small of her back, dangerously close to the waistband of her pants. Curling her fingers into the front of his uniform, feeling the thick stitching around O’Neill of his shirt, she smiles softly at him, a sort of steely peace settling over her.
He was here in her arms, real and solid and alive, and she needed to tell him that nothing had changed for her. That she was still his, as long as he wanted her.
Why do we wait to tell people how we really feel?
“You need to know,” she starts, voice just short of desperate and frantic. Her grip tightens on his uniform, keeping him close as if her words could be trapped here just between them. “In case it’s ever one of us. You need to kno–”
He presses a finger to her lips, eyes glinting and intense and focused. “I know,” he says softly. The pads of his fingers are soft and warm on her lips and she considers what it would be like in another life to be able to lick and nip at the skin, to demonstrate her affection the way she wants. For now, the words need to be enough.
She shakes her head and talks against his fingers. “I know. But you need to hear it. Just once,” she begs. “I need to say it.”
He closes his eyes like the words will physically pain him if he hears it but he nods, smoothing his fingers over her lips and curling his fingers beneath her chin, cupping her jaw. An acquiescence. She presses her cheek into his touch, eyes fluttering close.
“I love you.”
The words fill the room and the tension drains from both of them, a weight temporarily lifted from them both. She opens her eyes and sees him staring down at her, mouth parted, wanting. He strokes his thumb over the curve of her cheek and leans forward, resting their foreheads together.
“I love you, too, Sam.” She shudders in his arms, lets the words fill her up. “So much,” he adds.
They stand there in that room–pressed close together and breathing in the other’s air, the confession blanketing them in a cocoon all their own. It’s enough for now.
“The whole ‘are you fine?’ dance.” She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “We’re not friends.”
Matt arched an eyebrow. “We aren’t? Does that mean you’ll stop breaking into my apartment and drinking my whisky?”
Jess rolled her eyes. “Let’s not go crazy there.”
Matt chuckled. “So what not being friends entails? I’m confused.”
“That I get to drink your whisky and in return I tolerate your company.”
“What would change if we were friends?” He asked, curious about her logic.
“I’d still only tolerate your company but you’d have to get me better whisky.”
That made him actually laugh. But then his laughter died down and he grinned -and Jess knew he was about to be a smartass. “And if we were more than friends?”
Look, some years aren’t graded as A/B/C/D/F or even pass/fail, but Last Bastard Standing. In a few weeks I will still be here and 2021 won’t be, so we’re going to count this as winning.
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