[muffled expletives]


This was sent to me on anon.  I DID NOT WRITE THIS!  Was too good not to share.  So I am.  Sorry if I did not put it under the cut.  Also, if your not Gillovy fans.  This fic is not for you.  Quit reading and move along.  It is RPF.  A sizzling, splendid, wonderfully written RPF.

He has spent the last few hours trying and failing to keep his mind occupied, even sat for a while with his guitar because usually, the gentle strumming of the strings enables him to relax in the absence of anything else even remotely productive.  But even that isn’t enough to keep him busy, to empty his mind that, as the day has merged into night, has become increasingly crowded with thoughts of her.

They haven’t seen each other for weeks – one of the longest periods of time they have spent apart in the years since they finally gave in to the chemistry that has existed between them for so long and turned their on-again off-again relationship into something substantive.  Finally acknowledging that casual fucking was no longer enough, that maybe it never had been and agreeing that maybe, just maybe it was time to finally give an actual grown-up relationship a chance.

And for the most part, it had been a success, or at least insomuch as they had stayed faithful to one another despite the 3000-mile distance that separated them and the all too predictable pressure that keeping the relationship out of the public eye had heaped upon them both.

His life was here.  Hers was in London; and even though he knew it killed them both in different ways, for the immediate future, that was how things would have to stay.

So they both made the best of things; keeping in contact through e-mail, text and skype but still feeling the pain of the distance that spanned a whole ocean every time they had to say goodbye again.

Her plane had landed a couple of hours ago and although he had offered to come pick her up from the airport, her reluctance was obvious and if he wasn’t aware of the increased interest in her back in England right now, he would have been slightly hurt.  But he wasn’t stupid, he had seen the negative attention directed at her through social media, gritting his teeth day after day as hash-tagged vitriol from irate fans had filtered through to his own accounts, a shift of allegiance toward him as though he were somehow an injured party  in all this and it had taken every bit of resolve to not respond, to not defend her as she deserved to be defended.

But he had promised her he wouldn’t get involved and while he didn’t necessarily agree with her own ways of handling it, he respected the fact that it was hers to handle.

So he had reluctantly acquiesced to her request to wait for her in their apartment; assuring him that after a quick stop off to schmoose the publishers, she would have the driver bring her directly over, as desperate as he was to find a way to snatch a few short hours together before her punishing schedule whisked her away once more.  

Nine hours.  Give or take a few minutes.  Nine hours to re-connect with her.  Not a lot sure and never enough for him, but right now he was prepared to take whatever they could get.

Another quick glance at his watch told him that it was now two hours and sixteen minutes since she had gotten off the plane, every minute spent apart from each other another minute wasted to add to the multitudes that had already passed them by over the course of the last two decades when they both lived in a state of such extreme denial of their feelings for each other that love quickly became confused with hate.  In fact, sometimes, given how turbulent their professional relationship became, he was amazed they had ever managed to ever find each other again.

But find each other they had, embracing the giddy realisation that they were both now free to indulge in that which they had denied each other for so long.

He sighs and rises from the sofa, placing the guitar carefully on to the stand that sits beside the huge picture window; a window that affords him an unrestricted view of the park below; a green oasis that sits right in the middle of a concrete jungle, allowing the occupants of this bustling, vibrant city a brief escape from the pressures of life as they find solace in nature.  In much the same way, she has become his oasis and more and more it seems that she is just as necessary to his own happiness.  

He turns away from the view, not knowing how to make the minutes pass more easily, each one an exquisite torture; a promise of things to come.

Where are you Gillian?

No sooner has the question swirled lazily within his mind though, words unspoken in the absence of anyone to hear them, he hears the sound of a key being inserted in the barrel lock of the door, a muffled expletive as the underused key sticks slightly in the mechanism and a grin threatens to split his face as he reaches the door, pulling it open before she manages to get the lock to co-operate and laughing as she gives him a look before sweeping past him in to the apartment beyond, dropping the huge squashy bag she is carrying unceremoniously on the floor.

“That fucking key David…”

She is dressed in a simple white shirt with a button down collar and on anyone else it would probably look slightly masculine but on her it just looks devastatingly sexy, clinging to her every curve, unbuttoned just low enough for him to be able to catch a glimpse of the lace edge of the bra that sits against her creamy white skin.  And it’s enough to make him instantly hard because despite the fact that she is way too thin, the way she stands there, eyes flashing liquid blue fire, her hair escaping the loose ponytail to messily frame her face and an expression that instantly tells him despite the weeks spent apart that nothing has changed between them, she just looks fucking beautiful.

His Gillian.  Fire and ice as always.

He steps forward and takes the offending key from her hand, casually tossing it onto the small table that stands beside the door before cupping her face, inwardly wincing at the sharp contours of her jaw beneath his hands, before bending just enough to so he can place his lips on hers, effectively silencing any more complaints she may have been about to voice.  And like flicking a switch she is suddenly all over him, clutching at him as though she is drowning and he is her only hope of survival, her small hands roughly caressing his forearms before sliding upwards to grasp at his shoulders, an action which necessitates her standing on her tiptoes despite the chunky wedge heels she is habitually wearing, straining her whole body against him, as though she can meld them together by sheer force of her.

In response he simply plants his palms firmly on her ass and lifts her effortlessly off the ground, appalled for just a moment by how weightless she seems, but as she parts his lips with her tongue, insistently demanding entrance, all thought on his part just flies away.

Their tongues wrestle roughly, breaths mingling together in short gasps as they both revel in the exchange of tastes that are both achingly familiar and half forgotten at the same time.  She tastes mildly of stale cigarettes and strong coffee – a combination which, when he had first kissed her so many years ago, had left him feeling mildly repulsed.  But now he just associates it with her and really, despite himself, the taste is now transformed into sweet ambrosia on his hungry palette.

She has wrapped her legs around his waist, trusting him fully to support her slight weight in his arms, and her heels scratch against his denim-clad thighs as she toes off her shoes which land with a muffled thud on the carpet below.  Each movement she makes grinds against his erection, and he knows that it is purely intentional on her part, eliciting a groan from her as the hardness of him teases her through their layers of clothing, squeezing herself around him even more tightly as he steps forward, pinning her against the wall with his body, letting the solid surface take some of the weight off him which enables him to free one of his hands.  There is a raw urgency between them; a need to re-connect with each other that negates even any attempt at gentleness.  But that’s okay because they both know there will be time for that later.

Because right now, right here, it’s just about fucking away the days and weeks where they have been apart from each other, to answer that most primitive need that has grown and built and which now needs satisfying.

She breaks the kiss first, throwing her head back as far as the wall behind her will allow, exposing her throat to him,  the tendons and  sinew of her muscle standing proud against her stark white skin and he hoists her higher burying his face in the vee of her shirt as he uses the flat of his tongue to strafe her, tasting her skin as he claims her once again as his.  His teeth nipping her as he draws her flesh into his mouth, marking his territory in such a way that will require her to wear a polo neck for her event tomorrow.  He knows to stop though when he reaches a level with her jaw, because years of hiding in plain sight has made knowing where the lines have to be drawn like second nature to them.  And so teeth transform into lips and he completes his journey with a series of barely-there kisses, arriving at the velvety softness of her ear, pulling the lobe gently into his mouth, feeling her shudder as he whispers against her, his breath stirring the tendrils of hair that are floating across his face.

“I’m gonna fuck you now…”

And the way she presses her tits against his chest, seeking contact in the absence of him having a free hand to give them the attention they deserve, tells him that she is more than happy to forgo the niceties of extended foreplay, growling into that soft space where his neck meets his shoulder.

She is wearing a skirt, made up of a soft swirling material that gives him easy access when he works his hand between them, arching away from her slightly so as to take a small detour before getting to the main event so to speak, and he can’t help a sigh of relief as he pops the button at the waistband of his jeans, carefully sliding the zip so as to finally free his cock from its uncomfortable confines,  before slipping his hand beneath the bunched material that just barely covers the top of her thighs and immediately centring it over the heat of her sex.

She isn’t wearing panties; and even though he shouldn’t be particularly surprised, the feel of her slick and wet against his palm is so exquisite that his cock begins to throb, a pulse that beats in perfect synchrony with the one now clouding his brain.


The mantra grounds him slightly and although he wants to just bury himself in her he forces himself instead to slide two fingers through her satin folds, smearing her arousal to cover her before pushing them into her, bending them just a fraction at the first knuckle until he feels the patch of rough tissue that sits right at the front of her cunt, fucking her with his fingers and grinding the heel of his hand against her clit on every stroke and all the time she is writhing above him, the sight of her biting down on that luscious bottom lip, eyes closed as concentration furrows her brow that, coupled with the warm fluid that is literally dripping from within her to coat his hand is such a heady combination that he almost comes right there against her.

She smells of sex now – of a desperate desire for him that he doesn’t think he has experienced to this degree with any other woman who has shared his life – and he can’t do this any longer, he can’t wait even another second because he fears he might die if he doesn’t bury himself inside her soon, the pressure now just too much to bear.

He withdraws his fingers, taking his cock in his hand and smearing her juices along its length, gritting his teeth as finally, mercifully, he thrusts his hips against her, entering her with a grunt as he braces his free hand against the wall to give him the leverage he needs.

Almost immediately he feels her tense around him, her whole body trembling as she goes rigid, her fingers clutching and pulling at his hair and he revels in the sharp pain it elicits, knowing she is close, and knowing that she is falling, tightening around his engorged cock as he slams into her again and again.  Later he will tenderly kiss the bruises that have bloomed across her shoulder blades, evidence of their rough handling of each other and he will feel slightly guilty until she tells him to not be; that she needed it too.

Oh, Fuck….Oh, Fuck…..

And then she is screaming out his name, on the back of a series of cuss words that would make a sailor blush, clenching and pulsing around him as she throws her head from side to side, anchoring him inside her with her legs so she can milk the full length of his cock with the powerful contractions, giving him explicit permission to let go, to ride this with her, biting him sharply, her teeth grazing the muscle that bridges the curve from neck to shoulder.

Suddenly, without warning, it’s enough, enough to send him over, gasping her name as he feels his balls tighten and draw upwards into his groin, sweet relief crashing over him as he thrusts desperately just once more before the word explodes in fragments of sheer pleasure, emptying himself into her; filling her; making her his once more.

And it seems like it will never stop; he doesn’t want it to ever stop.

But finally, she slumps almost boneless against him, a dead weight now in his arms that, without the desperate desire fuelling him, now feel weak and shaky from his exertion, but he can’t bear to break the connection from her quite yet.  Instead, he forces himself to keep her with him as he shuffles backward along the few feet of carpeted floor that leads to the couch, sending up a silent prayer of thanks when he feels the cushioned surface bump the back of his calves.  And all the time she is nestled against him like a cat; in fact, he thinks if she could, she would probably be purring right about now.

Carefully he sits them both down, lifting his ass just enough for her to rearrange her legs into a more comfortable position, smiling as she finally lifts her head from his shoulder and kisses her way from neck to jaw to corner of the mouth.  Her eyes are slightly hooded, drowsy almost as she tips her head away from his to meet his gaze.

“Hi, David how are you?”

Delivered in the impeccable British accent she knows he loves and which, despite the fact she is far more American than she likes to admit, will take her a few hours to lose fully.

He grins wickedly at her, dropping his lips to brush her forehead, murmuring against her skin.

Now I’m good.  How’s Peter doing?”

Almost laughing out loud at her response to his teasing question.

“Peter who?”


Nudge Theory

Characters: CastielXReader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester

Word Count: 2238 (Act I)

A/N: A five act mini-series. The reader and Castiel must work together to solve the curious case of the missing Winchesters. Fluff, smut, and a plot for kicks. It was originally going to be three acts, then I got invested because Cas is adorable. Now it’s outlined for five acts. I’m not sorry.

(not my GIF)

Nudge [verb] –

·       “Coax or gently encourage someone to do something.”

“Sam? Dean?” Your voice reverberated off the tiled walls of the sprawling bunker, announcing your arrival, tone becoming tinny when they failed to respond, “The door was unlocked. I let myself in.” Feet clanging on the metal staircase, you endeavored to make your presence known - the last thing you wanted to do was catch experienced well-equipped potentially trigger-happy hunters off guard in their own home. You made your way over to the map table, tossing your bag on a chair, eyes roaming the spacious room for any signs of life, “Guys?” Silence greeted your ears. Grumbling a muffled expletive, you dug the phone out of your pocket, scanning for any new messages, scrolling back to confirm that Sam’s text yesterday did indeed ask you to meet them here, in Lebanon, in the bunker, to ride back up on a big case. You owed them more than you generally cared to acknowledge in their presence, and dropped everything to show, no questions asked - and they had the audacity to be somewhere else when you arrived. Breath puffing out your cheeks, you noted with amused annoyance that you’d never been stood up by two men at the same time, let alone brothers. You hastily typed a where-the-hell-are-you-it-better-not-be-buying-beer text to Sam, muttering under your breath, “Freaking Winchesters.” Your finger hesitated over the send button, soft footfalls heralding the approach of someone in the hall. Shoving the phone back into your pocket, trembling adrenaline-fueled fingers instinctively brushed the cool metal of the pistol tucked under your arm. Releasing the safety, you withdrew the weapon, backing up to the stairs, steadying your aim at the doorway, “Who’s there?”

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How to Be a Good Catholic, Pt. II (Sonny Carisi x Reader)

A/N: Part 2 of my self-drag piece aka The Reason I’m Going to Hell! I’m sure I had more to say here but it is literally about to be 6AM~

@ohbelieveyoume and @xemopeachx (to the latter: Lower your expectations. Like, lower them so deep Satan’s demanding to know why you’re in his house and threatening to call the police on you.)


5.     Remember not to eat meat on Fridays during Lent

It was amazing how cravings worked: You could be perfectly fine, not want to eat anything in particular and just eat whatever simply because you needed nourishment to keep getting through the day. But the moment you’re told you can’t eat a certain something, no matter how often you may or may not eat it, it suddenly becomes all you can think about. That was what made Lent maddening for you as a child. It was as though the season held special powers beyond serving as a countdown for your lord and savior basically becoming a zombie: It could make you crave cafeteria nuggets like a junkie craved a fix. But considering that said zombie-savior got beaten, nailed to a cross, and was forced to wear a crown of thorns for you, abstaining from meat a couple of Fridays for 40 days was the least you could do besides doing nothing at all.  

… But Zombie Jesus, it was so hard. In your youth, it was a bit easier because your packed lunches would always be checked over by your mom or dad to assure that it was up to Lenten approval. Sure, there was the occasional slip where you’d stop by the convenience store after school for a quick snack and all too eagerly buy a Slim Jim (was that even meat?). But for the most part, you did your due diligence as a good Catholic girl. Unfortunately, you were now a Catholic woman whose mommy and daddy’s involvement, at most, would maybe occasionally happen to call on Friday just to chat and then happen to mention what that day’s meatless meal had been. This, without fail, would always cause you to grit your teeth on the strip of bacon you’d been eating or lead you to utter an expletive muffled by the pepperoni Hot Pocket you’d microwaved to avoid cooking.

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Show Me

Summary: You’re a police officer who catches a mysterious man speeding in his car- you should really give him a speeding ticket, but he has something to offer you instead.

Pairings: Dean x Cop!Reader

Word Count: 1853

Warnings: language, smut, oral [reader receiving]  

A/N: So, I wanted to write something Dean x Cop!Reader themed and this is what I came up with, this is only my second time writing smut-hopefully you like it! Massive thanks to @fvckinpayno for being my Beta for this fic😍

also tagging: @sinceriouslyamellpadalecki  @spnfanficpond  @readingissupernatural @mrswhozeewhatsis @but-deans-back-tho

You were looking forward to nothing more than the end of your shift. You were just heading back to the station, doing the speed limit down one of the country roads–when a black vehicle sped right past you, doing way over the limit. Cursing under your breath, you switched on the siren and the flashing lights, tailing quickly after whoever was driving like a complete maniac.

Thankfully, after a few yards, the car pulled up a deserted side road. You got out of your patrol car and walked to the driver’s side, where the window was already rolled down.

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Muffled Expletives - An Everlark Drabble

I love a lazy Saturday morning, especially when said morning finds me in my current state. This morning Peeta and I spent our entire morning in bed completely wrapped up in each other, crawling out from under the covers only to work each other up into a passionate frenzy as we brushed our teeth and wash each other off in the bathtub.  

“Weren’t we supposed to be putting the crib together today?” Peeta’s hands creep up my side brushing the side of my breast before moving further on to cup my face.  Soon a tender kiss has lighted upon my forehead.

I can’t help but stretch under his caresses.  “Yes”, I say. “And you’re painting the nursery today too.”

“Well, the morning is pretty much over so if you still want to have the room finished today, I need to get  started.” Peeta moves to get out of the bed and I immediately miss the warmth of his skin pressed up against mine, but he’s right, we can’t spend all day in bed.  

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Perfect Fit

Just some totally useless fluff to soothe the inevitable pain of tonight

By the time he arrives to pick her up, she’s spent the last 2 and a half hours trying on clothes. They’d opted for a lunch date to avoid conflicts with work, but she wants to look nice seeing as he’d only ever seen her in tight, slinky dresses with dirty sneakers under them in order to attract and catch equally dirty scumbags. She’s just determined that the black heels and satin dress are entirely too formal for lunch at a cafe when the doorbell rings for the second time and she’s forced to face him, party attire and all. 

He’s wearing a suit. A goddamn suit and tie in the middle of the day, under his scruffy beard and sheepish expression. He should’ve worn a nice flannel or even a button down and jeans. Really anything other than the navy tux he’d smuggled from the back of Liam’s closet and painstakingly pressed the wrinkles out of. However the clock had struck 20 to 12:00 and he was too worried about her coming to her senses and canceling their lunch date to risk wasting any more time. So he showed up at Storybrooke apartments, looking like bloody James Bond with one sleeve slightly larger than the other. (A result of Liam’s unfortunate penchant for fidgeting). 

He’s wearing a suit and she’s wearing a dress and his sea blue eyes light up like the freaking Fourth of July when he sees her. He wrestles the single flattened rose from his pocket that he’d bought on an urge in the park, and painfully argued with himself over whether to give to her. She knocks over a pile of dirty plates trying to find a vase and he scratches behind his ear while trying to hide a smile at her nervous rambling. (”Where is that damn bowl for keeping flowers, what is it called again? I swear this is not like me, I’m usually much more organized”-She’s not, he’s seen her desk many many times at work). 

They never make it to the restaurant. She leans against him on the lilting subway ride, trying to hide the fact that she can only reach the handle on tiptoes. The moment their feet touch the park pathway, he spins her out and around to the tune of some far off park musician. Her heels catch on the gravel and his tie is flung backward over his shoulder and a good many people are making u-turns to avoid passing the entirely inappropriate for this time of day behavior of the couple. But neither care when he bends closer to muffle an expletive about her bloody death shoes stomping on him again and she answers with a giggle. Her laughter and his resulting smile brighter and warmer than the sun on their faces. 

And by the time they begin making their way home, the sky is oozing darkness and only a few question the attractive couple with their hands twined together and slow, leisurely stride. And when the boy with the black stud in his ear races to hold open the apartment door for the girl with the golden ponytail, not a single person wonders at their entering together. And when he brushes pretty, accented words across her bare shoulder, suit jacket hanging from a corner of the bed and her heels digging into his back, clothing is the last thing on either of their minds. 

anonymous asked:

I'm sorry to disturb. I'm really slow. But may I ask what 'ammo' did Dean gave to Sam when he said "accidents don't happen accidentally."?? I'm a little confused and again...I'm slow

Oh, well you see in scenarios where there is inter-sibling communication… and you say something stupid, [especially if you are the OLDER/Eldest Sibling], then they tend to take it on-board and use it against you in future.

E.g. When Dean realised he’d said, ‘Accidents don’t happen accidentally’ (an oxymoron; negating sentence/statement), he’d just given Sam future argument/taunting ammunition.

Siblings have this way of just… bringing up every stupid thing you’ve ever said or done, in conversation or casual taunt, for the rest of eternity.

You NEVER hear the end of a verbal, situational or behavioural fuck-up, I SWEAR…


To give an example:

>Years from now, Dean could be walking from one room to another with a plate of bacon in his hands; he trips over a beer can that has carelessly rolled across the floor…

He goes down, limbs flailing gracelessly, the plate shatters; slow-motion expression of horror crosses the face of the eldest Winchester as bacon momentarily levitates all around him… like a breakfast-y Matrix scene.

Dean, you okay in there?” Sam calls, his footsteps trumping into the room like an oncoming horde.

Dean rolls over with a groan, swiping at the greasy mess of bacon bits all over his person, carefully avoiding slicing his hands on shards of dinnerplate that went down with the breakfast-ship, all hands on deck.

His younger, though taller, brother appears in the doorway, eyes wide at the chaos and mouth gaping as he tries to work out what to ask first.

With a muffled expletive, Dean pushes himself up on his elbows, adopting the serious-older-sibling tone of voice as he rasps, 
S'okay Sammy… just a little involuntary ninja-attacking of the floor, apparently someone out there thinks I shouldn’t have bacon for breakfast or something and arranged this happy little accident…

His expression sours into a scowl as he stands up, instantly freezing his every muscle in horrified recognition of the malicious gleam that has settled in Sammy’s eyes. Dean raises a finger in warning, “Sammy, Sammy NO…”

The other’s expression, and subsequent shit-eating grin, practically demonic as Sam walks over to Dean and whispers, “Accidents don’t happen accidentally, Dean…” and walks off, leaving the eldest Winchester absolutely fuming at the fact his brother had not only seen the opportunity, but taken it too.



-My Sibling does that to me all the damn time, I tell you what…