and his little shimmy

ifeelbetterer  asked:

Gotg prompt: how did Rocket learn to speak Groot?

“Repeat after me, Quill: I am Groot.”

“I am Groot,” Peter said dutifully. He felt like an idiot, but there were only a limited number of ways to while away quiet nights on the ship when neither of them could sleep. If it was him and Gamora, or him and Drax, they could spar, but he’d only tried sparring with Rocket once. It took weeks for the bite marks to heal.

Rocket’s oddly expressive – for a raccoon – face wrinkled in an expression of disgust. “Do you even hear yourself? That is nothing like what I just said.”

“Dude, that is exactly what you just said.”

“No, I said ‘I am Groot’ and you said ‘I am Groot’.”

“Which is … the same?”

Rocket stared at him for a long moment, then pointed at his snout. “Read my lips: I am Groot.”

“Was I supposed to repeat that, or …”

Rocket showed some teeth. Peter shut up. There was a moment of silence and Peter was just about to put his earbuds back in and quit with the language lessons when Rocket said suddenly, “Quill, if I say, 'I am Groot,’ just like that, what do you hear?”

“Is this a trick question? Especially the kind of trick question that’s gonna end in you pissing on my bed?”

“That was only once, and you had it coming –”

“Rocket –”

“No, for the love o’ cheese, it’s not a trick question. Just say 'I am Groot’.”

“I am Groot,” Peter said. “I feel like a complete jackass right now, in case that was your intent – hey, where are you going?”

“Jus’ need to get a thing!” Rocket’s voice trailed behind him.

Peter flopped back down in the chair in the mess and put his earbuds in. He was actually getting sleepy, and considering going back to bed, when Rocket jumped up onto the table in front of him with something clutched in his paws.

“What’s that?” Peter asked, sitting up. He palmed off the Zune and took off the earpieces. He had to hand it to Earth tech: the new music player was a lot more convenient to carry around than his late, lamented Walkman.

Rocket’s device was a thin, flat screen about the size of a hardback book; he had it clutched with a paw on each side while readouts rippled quickly across it.

“Okay, now say 'I am Groot’,” Rocket declared, studying the screen.

“Come on, man, do we really have to go through this again?”

“Humor me.”

Peter sighed and slouched in his chair. “I am Groot.”

Rocket’s ears pricked forward. “I am Groot,” he said, and tapped the display with his paw, causing the tiny, scrolling lines and numbers to freeze. “Did that sound the same to you?”

“Well … yeah?”

The flat pads of Rocket’s fingers danced across the display, and he laid the screen on the table between them. “Know what you’re lookin’ at?”

“Squiggly lines,” Peter said automatically.

“Did your mama drop you on the head a lot as a baby, Quill?”

“No, but Yondu did occasionally.” Peter rested his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. As much fun as it was to mess with Rocket, he did actually think he knew what the raccoon was getting at. “That wiggly line is some kind of … uh … noise – wiggle – curve, right?”

“That’s real precise.”

“I was abducted from Earth before we got to algebra in school. Cut me some slack here.”

“Excuses, excuses. I was raised in a cage and my mother had an IQ of 3.” Rocket touched the display, zooming in on it. “Point is, I don’t think it’s just that all a’ you two-legged bunch is too obtuse to understand perfectly clear speech –”

“Thanks.”

“– like I used to think. It’s more like, my ears hear at higher and lower frequencies than yours do, so I get different overtones. Put simply for the simple, I can hear things you can’t.”

Peter leaned forward, intrigued. “So, wait – you mean all this time, all his 'I am Groot’s sound different to you?”

He realized what he’d said as soon as the words left his mouth, and got the flat 'I am dealing with morons’ look from Rocket that he’d instantly realized he had coming. “How am I supposed to understand him if they don’t, Quill, I ask you?”

“Okay – point – but … so why does it sound like 'I am Groot’ to the rest of us?”

“It sounds like 'I am Groot’ to me too.” When Peter glowered at him, Rocket held up a paw. “No, I ain’t messin’ with ya. This time. No, that’s what the translation unit picks up, 'cause it ain’t so smart about some of the less humanoid languages. It’s just, I hear it like …” He hesitated and waggled his paw. “It’s like your music, right? All those up and down tones at the same time. Groot can do that. Your throat, my throat, can’t.”

“Singing?” Peter said after a minute. “Groot’s singing?”

“I refer you back to the part about bein’ dropped on your head.” Rocket pursed his lips and let out a sharp whistle, making Peter jump – there was still some part of him that couldn’t quite hear whistling and not expect a death arrow to follow an instant later. And he might not be the only one, because Rocket stopped abruptly, closed his mouth, and then said, “Quill, do this,” and hummed softly.

It wasn’t really a tune. “You just want me to hum?” Peter asked. “Like, generic humming?”

Rocket curled his lip and the hum became more of a snarl.

“Right, humming,” Peter said hastily.

The funny thing was, the instant his soft hum of response hit the right harmonics with the note Rocket was humming (and the raccoon did have a good sense of pitch; Peter had always suspected so) he understood exactly what Rocket was getting at.

“Ohhhhh. When Groot talks, it’s like a symphony. Is that what you mean? And the 'I am Groot’ part is the part in the human audible range.”

Rocket’s ears and tail went up cheerfully. “Yeah, ezzactly. He’s tryin’ to communicate, it’s just he didn’t get any farther than 'I am Groot’ when he was learning. It’s as hard for him to do the talkin’ part for the translators as it is for you and me to do his kind of talk. He can hear us just fine, though. Actually to him, understanding our talk is dead easy.”

“So how do we understand him?” Peter asked. “Can you, I dunno, juice up the translator so it picks up a higher range of frequencies, or something?”

“I dunno. That’s not a bad idea.” Rocket tapped his claw against his teeth before picking up the screen thing and hopping off the table. “Have to think on it. Don’t wanna explode your heads or anything.”

“Yeah, well, on that lovely note, I’m goin’ to bed.” He actually was tired enough now to fall asleep in spite of the inevitable nightmares (the bitter cold and darkness of space; Ego’s face dissolving in his hands; his friends crushed by rocks or blown apart). The music helped as it always had, a melodic bulwark against the dark, wrapped gently around his heart – but it could only do so much.

Rocket grunted absently as he trotted off, already engrossed in figuring out the problem.

The thought occurred to Peter as he wandered back to his quarters, thumbing idly through the songs on the Zune, that these sorts of mechanical puzzles served the same purpose for Rocket as his music did for him: something to make his mind go quiet.

The music did that … and so did letting Gamora beat the stuffing out of him in the ship’s small exercise area. Or getting language lessons from Rocket. Or –

“I am Groot?”

Peter jumped as small hands grabbed hold of his pants leg. Groot shimmied quickly up to perch on his shoulder.

“Hey, little buddy.” Peter opened the door to his quarters and left it open so Groot could come and go as he wanted. Or so he could hear if anybody got into a fight or whatever. He flopped wearily on his unmade bed, careful not to dislodge Groot. “You know, I’m not sure how much of this you can understand right now, but Rocket’s teaching me to speak your language.”

“I am Groot?”

“Well, to understand you more than speak it, I guess I should say.” He was lying on his back now and he couldn’t really see Groot except out of the corner of his eye, but he could feel the little tree shifting around in the hollow where the collar of his sweatshirt rested against his neck.

“I am Groot,” Groot said insistently, almost in his ear. Small hands patted at the side of his face and his earlobe.

“Yeah, yeah.” Peter pinched one earbud between two fingers and held it where Groot could get at it. The little hands took it out of his fingers. Peter settled himself comfortably as Groot squirmed somewhat ticklishly against his neck, and sorted through the songs. “How 'bout Elton John tonight, buddy?”

“I am Groot,” came the sleepy answer.

“You know, little guy,” Peter murmured, as the first strains of the music began to play and Groot snuggled comfortably against his neck, “whether or not Rocket can get his new gadget working, I think we understand each other just fine, don’t we?”

“I am Groot!”

Guilty Kiss

( The reader teases Peter a little too much, and things get out of hand. )

A/N: My love for Peter Parker ( and Tom Holland ) knows no bounds. And I’m still sobbing over Tom Holland. TBH if I had a boyfriend like Peter, I would tease him every moment I get. Except that I’m usually the flustered shy one. Requests are open, BTW, so send them in!  

Taglist: @mainspidey | @x-wing-starwriter | @tomsleftbrow | @tryn25 


“Where is my evac, Clint?” Your voice is tinged with irritation as you switch on your comm-link. Breathe, (Y/n). Don’t yell. “Clint? Please tell me that you aren’t sleeping on the job.”

Your heels click against the tiled floor of a long, narrow passage. You’ve disabled the two guards stationed at the entrance of the archives before they could raise the alarm but there’s no telling how long it would take before someone competent realizes what’s going on.

“I’m here, I’m here. Sheesh, can’t a guy step out to get a cup of coffee for one second –”

Somewhere in the distance, an alarm erupts, screeching through the airways. Dang it. The patrol must have found the bodies.

“Not when I’m in blind in a Hydra facility. So help me, Clint –”

“Alright, alright, no need to get huffy with me. Besides, Spidey’s got your back.”

A smile flits across your face at the mention of Peter. The awkward, adorable boy is easy to be with, and is even easier to love, and you like him. A lot. You’re sure that Clint can hear the smile in your voice when you say, “He’s securing the perimeter. So no.”

“I’m in Wing C. I think.” Ripping the emergency map off the wall, you consider the corridors and say, “Yeah, definitely Wing C. Files are with me.”

“Nice job, kid. Get to the roof, and I’ll pick the two of you up from there.”

The affectionate nickname sends a wave of warmth crashing over you, and your smile widens. “Sure. See you in ten.”

“Peter, you there?” Turning off your comm-link, you pull your phone out of your pocket, dialling his number by heart. You hope he’ll pick up. “It’s me.”

He does. Peter’s voice sounds as though he’s holding his phone at arm’s length. He’s put you on speaker too; you can hear muffled screams and thumps on Peter’s end, but none of them sound like him. In fact, it sounds as though he’s having fun.

“Spider 1 to Agent 1. Copy. Over.”

You make a mental note to never, ever let Peter watch anymore James Bond movies. His “spy lingo” is downright atrocious.

And for the millionth time since the two of you had started dating, you start to laugh. “You have seriously been watching too many spy movies. Is the perimeter secure?”

“Hey, you watched them all with me! Over.”

He’s avoiding the question, you realize, and your smile falters the tiniest bit. “Peter?”

“Um.” His voice is sheepish as it floats over the speakers. “Um, yeah, it’s secure. More or less. Over.”

“What’s less?” You ask, pinching the bridge of your nose and bracing for bad news.

“Less as in one of the guards may have called for backup before I could stop him. So prepare for incoming. Over.”

“Thanks, Spider 1,” You drawl out sarcastically, your voice rising above a symphony of rapidly approaching footsteps. As yet unnoticed, you duck behind a now abandoned security desk, keeping your voice hushed. “Now could you please get over to Wing C? Our ride’s waiting.”

“Copy that. Spider 1, out. Over.”

There’s a loud commotion. A group of men whisk past you. Six go down the hall you’d come from, and one mutters, “We aren’t paid enough for this.” Some enter the elevators. They’re all dressed haphazardly, as if they’ve been roused from sleep and had had to hurry. There must be a facility close by. Like army barracks, maybe. You’d have to be careful to avoid it.

You gaze longingly at the doors to the stairwell leading to the roof.

Two men stay behind and assume their positions, forcing you to inch your way around the desk to continue to hide your presence. You sit for a moment, trying to decide on your next move.

There’s only one thing to do, really.

Crawling to the end of the desk, you peek out around the edge, noting the exact positions of the guards. Yanking your ICER ( ‘Incapacitating Cartridge Emitting Raygun’ ) out of your thigh sheath, you cock your weapon and fire. Sticky pellets containing 50,000 volts find their way into bare skin. Their bodies perform involuntary twitching dances; they’re unconscious by the time they hit the ground.

Your heels click as you stride forwards, picking your way over motionless arms and legs. The door to the stairwell flies open, a black-clad figure appears in the doorway. Oh, well. Too late to hide now. Shrugging, you walk closer, but no one else comes to stop you. Fixing a pleasant smile onto cherry red lips, you ready your ICER.

“Hey, baby,” The mook leers, eyes lingering far too long on your chest and legs for your liking. “Did you come here to play?”

Gross. Your smile slips. You’ve just taken out two of his underlings, and that’s the best he can come up with? Forget the ICER; you’re going to enjoy beating this guy up. You aren’t going to give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, you tuck your ICER back into your thigh sheath and shift into a defensive position.

“That’s funny, babe. Where did you learn that? On TV?”

Okay. One response. A stinging anticipation winds through you as you stalk forwards. “Why don’t you come over here and find out?”

When he makes his next move – a punch that practically oozes contempt and confidence – you’re ready. You duck, avoiding impact, and he swipes air. You deliver a vicious kick, buckling his knees. As he goes down with a yelp of pain, you elbow him in the back of the head. Yeah. Forget honour. You’ll go with dirty.

He attempts to rise. You waste no time in leaping onto him, planting yourself on his neck and pinning his shoulders to the floor. As far as most deaths go, this one isn’t all together unpleasant; at least this creep is being suffocated by the thighs of a girl, which is more than he deserves.

“My name is not babe. I’m (F/n) (L/n), and I am this close to crushing your misogynistic skull with my thighs.”

His face is turning a funny shade of puce. You let him suffer for a few more seconds before you pull out your ICER and stun him.

“Holy shit.”

Peter’s soft, awe-filled whisper catches you completely off guard. From your place atop of the Hydra mook, his face still crushed between your thighs, you offer Peter a wicked grin, which makes his heart stutter in his chest. He gulps audibly, a gesture which does not go unnoticed by you.

Relax, Peter,” You purr, looking up at him from under thickly dusted lashes. “How long have you been here?”

“Long enough to see you crush him with your thighs,” Peter manages, his gaze ping-ponging from the mook unconscious on the floor to your unconventional seat, your face radiant and flushed and pretty. “I don’t know why I rushed over.”

“Because you love me?” Batting your eyelashes, you smile a sweet, sweet smile, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. “And your life would have a noted lack of (Y/n) if I wasn’t around?”

Much to your surprise, Peter actually nods. You can’t see his face under his mask, but you know Peter’s smiling over the blush that paints his cheeks. Huffing out a laugh, you release the male from your clutches, straightening your skirt and thigh highs. Unlike Agent Romanoff, who prefers skin-tight spandex during combat, you’re particularly fond of skirts, which allow for ease of movement.

That, and it’s easier to take down people when they’re busy ogling your bare legs.

Peter’s trying not to stare. The operative word being ‘trying’. He’s manfully covered the eye-holes of his mask, but his fingers are splayed too widely for them to truly be effective at blocking your figure out.

You keep a neutral, pleasant smile on your lips as you stand, the one that Peter hates because he can’t tell what you’re hiding. An idea is forming in your head, the gears in your mind turning. You feel a bit mean for what you’re about to do, but the desire to see Peter squirm wins out.

Slowly, deliberately, you hitch your skirt up so that it settles high up on your hips, revealing the wide gap of skin between your stockings and your skirt. Your tongue darts out to swipe across glossy lips as you walk over to Peter, swaying your hips strictly more than necessary.

You’re rewarded with a strangled squeak. He’s given up his charade of “a little peeking”, and is unabashedly staring at every shimmy and shake of your hips. You’re sure Peter knows exactly what you’re playing at, but he doesn’t have it in him to tell you to stop, it seems.

Peter’s stammered protests are swallowed up when you push up his mask to press a kiss to his lips. It starts slow at first, but soon speeds up into something wild. His hands settle on your hips while yours try to tug his shirt off – only to remember that he’s in spandex, not cotton. You groan in frustration, Peter hastily untangles himself from you and hastily backs away.

(Y/n)!” Peter sounds scandalized as he tries to protest again, his voice dazed and accusatory all at the same time – although he doesn’t sound all that mad that you’d technically seduced him into an impromptu make-out session in a Hydra base. “We’re still – We can’t!”

“I know, I know,” You say on a laugh, giving him a last, quick peck on the mouth before Peter tugs his mask back into place, hiding cheeks tinted pink. “I’m sorry! I couldn’t resist.”

Dropping your voice into a conspiratorial whisper, “I’ll take care of your, ah, problem later at home, okay?”

You dance off down the hallway with a laugh, your skirt still hitched up high, swishing around your thighs as you go. Peter groans from behind you, and you wave cheerily at him over your shoulder.

You can’t wait to get back home.

Homecoming

heyo, look who actually did something for once, haha. Sorry, this literally took me twenty years to write, but I think it’s a very good improvement for me in my writing skills, so I hope you all enjoy it!

requested by: @daydre3ams-away

pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

summary: Peter and (Y/N) are going to homecoming together, just as friends since neither of them had a date. What happens is not everything as (Y/N) hoped it would be.

warnings: slight angst, curse words, heartbreak (don’t worry it may or may not work out ;)

Keep reading

I’m Mad

A/N: Had this one sitting in the bottom of my drafts finished! Thought you would all enjoy this!

Warnings: None

Summary: You get mad at Finn for spending more time with Seth then you.

Word Count: 1000+

Originally posted by superkixbaybay


You stood, your arms folded over your chest. Finn stood across the room, smiling and talking with Seth. They both were back from injury. You had been on the road the whole time by yourself. 

You flew home to Finn whenever you could. But the last time you saw him was four mouths ago. You thought the first person he would want to see would be you. Just when it looked like they were finally done talking, they began walking out of the common area.

 “You okay?” You looked over your shoulder at Roman. “No. Finn got here over an hour ago and hasn’t even noticed me.”  You watched as the door swung shut behind the two friends. You let your arms and shoulders drop in disappointment. “Why don’t you go and see him. Maybe he’s waiting for you.”

You turned around and glared at him. “Who’s side are you on?” Roman put his hands up. “I’m not on anyone’s side. I was just saying you could always go see him.” Roman said, chuckling. 

“This is no joking matter! Seth is stealing my boyfriend!” You said, pouting. Roman now was full blown laughing.  “Seth isn’t stealing your man. He’s just hanging out with him.” You through your hands in the air. “All the time! He hangs out with him all the time!” 

Roman placed a hand on your shoulder. “Just go see him. I’m sure he’ll forget all about Seth once he sees your gorgeous face.”


Walking quickly down the hall, eyes scanning everywhere for Finn, you finally heard his laughter coming from the very end. Once you got down there, you pouted. Seth and Finn were sitting on a crate. Finn was in his ring gear, Seth in his. You frowned. Had he really forgotten about you? 

“You see the game last time? It was amazing!” Seth said, scrolling down his phone. “Not much of it. I was on the phone with, Y/N.” Seth nodded his head. “You see her yet? I caught her in the hall before you showed up, she was excited to see you.” 

Finn shook his head. “No, not yet.” You frowned. “I did catch the end of the game, though. It was pretty good. “ Your frown deepened. Did he really care more about the game than you? Finn and Seth began talking about the players in last night’s football game, leaving you to walk away, head hanging.

You went back to the hotel after your match, which was before Finn’s. So you didn’t have to worry about running into him after his match. 

You were angry and sad that he would treat you like that. Did he really not think you wanted to see him right away? You waited so long for this day, for him to finally be back, both in the ring and your arms.


You laid in your bed, the blankets and pillows from both beds around you. The pillows were creating walls, the blankets keeping you warm and hidden. 

Well kinda, your head stuck out from all the white bedding items. You flicked through the channels on the hotel TV. The door opened and you heard the whooshing sound of a suitcase being rolled across the carpet. 

You didn’t look at the door, instead, you sunk further into your little pillow house. Now, with the blanket pulled over the top of your head, your eyes were only visible. Finn stopped and looked at the massive pile of pillows and blankets, raising a brow. 

Finn kicked off his sneakers and shrugged himself out of his shirt, jacket and pants, leaving them on the floor next to his suitcase.

Crawling onto the bed, Finn tried to shimmy his way into the little fort. “You aren’t welcome in here.” You grumbled, sticking your hand out and slapping his body away. “Ay! Why not? Ya aren’t happy to see me?” 

You squirted your eyes at him. “I should be asking you that!” You said. Finn pulled his eyebrows together. “What are ya talkin’ about? Of course, I am…Well, I would be if I could see ‘da beautiful face of yours. Bring ya face out so I can look at ya.” 

You shook your head and pulled the blanket over your eyes now. Leaving him to look at nothing but the white comforter.

Finn tilted his head. “What’s wrong, Love? You can tell me.” You sighed and mumbled it out. “You have ta’ speak up, I can’t hear you.” 

“I’m mad!” Finn chuckled. “Why? What happened?”  You sighed again. “You didn’t even come see me when you got to the arena. I was waiting for you. You spend all night with Seth. You didn’t even text me once!” 

You snuggled deeper into the blankets when you felt Finn’s hands searching for you under the blankets. “Love, ‘m sorry. I just thought ya’ would want to go out to dinner, since that’s what we always do. I didn’t think…’m sorry.” Finn said, hands still trying to find where you were under the blankets.

“You spend all your time with Seth. Whether it’s on the phone, FaceTime, in person. You don’t even FaceTime me on a regular basis.” 

Finn frowned, hands finally finding you. “Come’ ere.” Finn began tugging at your hips, pulling you from your fort. Finn pulled you into his lap, his lips attaching to your forehead right away. 

You snuggled into his chest, missing the feeling of him. “Ay. There is da’ lovely face.” You smiled and looked up at him. “Hi.” Finn smiled. “Hi.” Laying your head against his shoulder, you heard him talk. 

“M’ sorry for not coming to ya. I should’ve.” You ran the tips of your fingers against his chest, nodding your head. “Yes, you should’ve.” Finn kissed your forehead again. “Forgive me?” You smiled, giggling a little. 

“I forgive you…but only if you snuggle with me under the blankets. It’s cold in here.” Finn laughed and nodded his head quickly. “Of course. Now get me a kiss.” Without a complaint, you attached your lips to his.


Sun and Moon

Thanks to @bahare-uzuchiha for hosting SNS week and placing @dez-da-narusasu-addict and me together as writing partners. We had a lot of fun writing this! This is probably late for all the days, but SNS is always relevant. ;)

Summary: When Sasuke finds a mark on his chest, identical to the one Naruto has carried for years, he isn’t overjoyed by the fact that they are soulmates, he is terrified. Terrified that the marks are wrong and Naruto doesn’t want him, not like that.

Rating: T

Sun and Moon

Sasuke had always noticed it. It had been so innocent looking. Naruto’s soul mate mark took the shape of a sun whose rays were similar to flames, but at the center there was a  half-crescent shape, reminding Sasuke of a moon. The mark that was almost unnoticeable on his blond friend’s tan arm stood out starkly against Sasuke’s pale skin. The mark suddenly lost all its innocence in Sasuke’s mind.

Naruto’s mark had always existed, at least for as long as Sasuke had known the boy. Now, at nearly twenty, Sasuke’s own mark had decided to make an appearance on his chest, a little below his collarbone. In his bathroom mirror Sasuke continued to stare at the mark in amazement, reaching his hands up to touch it before quickly retreating as if the flames from the sun had burned him.

The irony was surreal. Sasuke had come to admire his best friend years ago and that had, no matter how reluctantly, slowly but surely developed into romantic feelings for his friend. Sixteen year old Sasuke had longed for something like this to happen. But those were childish fantasies that the years had driven out of his mind. The Sasuke of today was… well it was complicated. While a small amount of happiness had started to bubble at the sight of his mark and what it ultimately meant, it was quickly crushed and replaced with dread.

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ok but like what would’ve happened had irene not been there…sherlock like…sitting on his bed with a little bounce and looking at that bottle of wine like “don’t think you’re going to need that for this part” and john is like, “did you honestly get impatient just on the way home from the shop” and sherlock shimmies out of his jacket with a little blush like “is that a problem?” like he’s pretending to be smart but he really is actually a bit nervous and tbh he just couldn’t take the tension and he wanted to give this a go before he lost his nerve and john can tell so he puts the wine down on the bedside table and steps in close and takes sherlock’s head in his hands and says, as he leans in all slow and teasing like, “nope. not at all. not…a problem…at all” and kisses him

Strangers

More of my shitty ass writing!

Title: Strangers

Summary: A stranger at a bar wasn’t your first choice of a partner, but this one doesn’t seem so bad.

Character: Finn Balor

Fandom: WWE

Warnings: Teeth melting fluff, unrealistic expectations, sex, lots of sex, latex free(FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WRAP IT BEFORE YA SLAP IT), lots of language in here and honestly probably some really shitty dialogue. Completely unedited as writing is hard.

Notes: PLEASE FORGIVE ME. THIS IS REALLY RUSHED AND THE ENDING FRUSTRATES ME. It also was supposed to go out on the Lord’s day because this is how we roll at this blog. QUICK TAG: @ambrosegirlforever if anyone else wants to be tagged just let me know!

Enjoy the Finn sin.

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Spy Universe - Woozi

Anon requested Hacker! Woozi reacting to meeting the reader while working on his job. I was so inspired! Possibly willing to write more of this style of thing, so send request if you want!

EDIT: now we have a whole spy universe 

Jihoon glares at the pixels on his screen, crackling voices coming to him through the ear piece that he has popped halfway out of his ear so that he can hear the soft music playing in the background.

He thought there was no way this mission could go wrong. But now…

Well, even with his expert hacking work on the near impenetrable computer system of the house the team has just infiltrated, and even with the flawless plan the constructed in advance, they might not be able to get this right and extract what they want in time.

Keep reading

38.

Bucky pulls open the door, still half asleep, and is immediately greeted with a grinning archer, wired and vibrating and inexplicably floury. Shit.

“Fuck, Clint -” he kinds feels bad for the way his tone makes the other guy droop, but Clint plus kitchens is a recipe for fire and fury and possibly maiming.

“Look,” Clint says, “I tried, and therefore no one can criticise me.”

“Yeah?” Bucky says, heading for the bathroom and the med kit he keeps there. “And how often does that work out for you?”

“So far not even one time,” Clint says, regaining his sunny grin. He regards the med kit and huffs a thoughtful breath. “Y'know, I should probably be offended by this.”

“There a reason you’re not?”

“Super soldier healing,” Clint says, and does a little shimmy as he spins on his heel, and not for the first time Bucky remembers that the band-aids are purple and subtlety’s never exactly been his thing.

Bucky takes in a couple deep breaths as he follows Clint out into the common area, hitching his ratty boxers up as he goes. There’s no trace of smoke in the air, which is reassuring; maybe FRIDAY crashed out the ovens in time. There is something, though, something sweet and warm and comforting that smells somehow like home should.

“My tenants are reconsidering the benefits of Tracksuits,” Clint tells him over his shoulder. “Three fire alarms this week, five the week before. But I think I’ve got it?”

They round the corner into the kitchen and it’s a mess, sure, but in the usual powdered surfaces and used up bowls kind of way. Nothing’s obviously broken, or mutating, or on fire. And on the table are a couple trays of cinnamon rolls, lumpy and misshapen and smelling like heaven, and the growl of Bucky’s stomach sets Clint off grinning down at his hands.

“Those are my favourites,” Bucky says blankly, and Clint’s pale skin is pretty perfect for showing off the faint blush that joins his grin. He shrugs one shoulder.

“Yeah, I heard you telling Steve.”

Wait.

“You… made these for me?”

Another shrug. “I tried, anyway.”

“Fuck, Clint -” Bucky drops the med kit, fuck the med kit, and grabs a handful of Clint’s shirt, right over the streaks of flour that are decorating his hip. He yanks him close, inelegant and stumbling, and tastes the powdered sugar at the corner of his mouth, eases Clint’s lips open, tastes warmth and comfort and something like home.

too busy dreaming of jumping on your...

Ethan Nestor x fem!reader

*NSFW*

is there another word for the “we’re dating kind of sort of but no one knows so our only choice is to have car dates and car sex” trope??

lyric that inspired all of this: boy you’re so sexy/just like a cadillac/just come and get me/cos i can’t hold it back/people on the street watch us in the back seat, oh

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Word Up!

Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader
Characters: Sam Winchester, Female!Reader, Dean Winchester, Unnamed Roommate
Summary: Based on the song Word Up! by Cameo ( x ),( x )
Warnings: Major fluffy shit.



You had long since missed the feeling of Sam’s hands on your body. Your neck, your stomach, your waist, your hips, wherever. You rarely saw Sam, his life on the road left no time for a girlfriend. But every so often he would be close enough, and you’d spend the night together. Sometimes, you would spend whole weeks together. You had even travelled to his bunker, but your lives were just too different. You couldn’t just up and leave, you had commitments. A life.

Earlier on that night, you’d been in the bar. It was where you had initially met the Winchesters, and where you were typically reunited.




When you had met Sam Winchester, you had been young, free and stupid. Still in college, working for your beer money. Flirting with random strangers for tips, living off caffeine and gum in a shit apartment with four other people and a broken mattress. Technically, when you met Sam, it wasn’t broken, and it had been the two of you that had broken it.

At the time, Sam collapsed on top of you, the both of you breaking into drunken giggles that soon turned into passionate kisses.

The first night you had met Sam, the pair of you had wound up dancing on the bar to Cameo’s Word Up!, not caring about the consequences, purely about each other. That night had been entirely physical, the pair of you somewhat carefree and not all too bothered about relationships. You had no time for psychological romance, just wanting a night with a stranger.

The next morning, as you lay next to a sleeping Sam, tracing patterns onto his bare back with the tip of your fingers, you wondered how it would feel to have something more with the man. To have a baby, with Sam’s eyes and the freckles that dotted your nose, to have a beautiful house with ivy climbing the stone walls and a log fire for the cold months. To come home to your little family every night. To fall asleep in Sam’s arms and know you would wake up in them the next morning.

Your roommate had burst in, shattering your little bubble. Sam had all but leapt out of the bed, shimmying into his jeans in order to protect the little dignity he had left. You’d shared breakfast, giggling into your coffee and glaring at your roommate’s impressions of your shock, the highlight of the morning being Sam laughing so hard he had snorted coffee out of his nose.




You had all but forgotten Sam Winchester and his burning touches when you’d received a text from an unknown number to come to the bar immediately. You found Sam there, waiting with open arms and a double of whiskey.

That night was spent reminiscing, filling each other in on what you had missed. It was in fact your whimsical desire to braid his hair that had led to the two of you making out that time. The combination of your teasing touches and the way your hair smelled proved to be too much for Sam, and he had swept you into his arms and loved you just as passionately as the first night you had met.

Once again, your morning had been burst in on by your roommate, this time with hugs and forehead kisses, and scoldings for leaving the first time. He had left later on that afternoon, promising to return to you.




The week you had spent in the bunker had been the best week you could remember for a long time. A week with Sam, day and night. In fact, that was the week you realised you were in love with him. You, Dean and Sam had been watching The Princess Bride, and Sam had fallen asleep. Naturally, your first instinct was to draw on his face. Fifteen minutes and three sharpies later, Sam had gained a fairly artistic moustache and some questionable ‘confessions’ scrawled across his forehead (your personal favourite, “i cry during sex”, to which you would neither confirm nor deny). Sam had been beyond furious beyond waking, and chased you all around the bunker, before cornering you on the sofa. He tickled you ruthlessly for what you were certain was hours, until you agreed to help him remove it. You and Dean had collapsed into giggles upon seeing the gargantuan man storm into the kitchen, his face smeared with streaks of fluorescent green. It was then that you realised that you had fallen irrevocably in love with Sam Winchester, as you shook with mirth at his Bruce Banner-esque appearance.




When you moved into a house, Sam had been the first person you called. He and his brother appeared not twenty four hours later, beer and Game of Thrones in hand, rambling on about housewarming as you embraced the pair. You and Sam spent the night in the best of ways, on a mattress on your floor, trying desperately to suppress your giggles. The last thing either of you wanted was to give Dean ammunition for his relentless teasing. Your ex-roommate had been thrilled to hear Sam was in town, but had spent the night beating him with a Chuck Taylor upon discovering Sam had polished off the pop tarts she had stashed under your floorboard.

This time, Sam had appeared in the bar (that you had bought in his absence, much to Dean’s delight) to see you flirting with a biker. He knew it was all part of your job, and that it meant nothing to you, but it still made his blood boil. But nevertheless he had stayed tucked in the corner, reading and occasionally taking a swig from his beer, waiting for you to come on break.

Your break had been spent in the maintenance closet (Again, you were planning to keep your classy choice of location from Sam’s prying older brother) showing each other quite how much you had missed each other. The staff had questioned the peculiar purple marks on your neck, but you had brushed it off, throwing a wink at Sam.

The second you closed the bar, the two of you had bolted, eager to make up for lost time. As soon as you had entered the threshold of your home, Sam was all over you, memorising your body with his fingers, his lips. Each hickey from earlier on was matched with a bigger, darker mark, your fingers tangled in his soft hair. You held him tight in between faint murmurs of how much you’d missed each other, never wanting to let go of him.

The two of you had stumbled into your bedroom, falling onto your bed with a thump as your knees hit the bed frame. Sam crawled above you, taking you in. Your head resting lazily on your shoulder, hair splayed out on the pillow as you watched him curiously, a coy smile playing on your lips. Maybe another night he would kiss every inch of your body, but he had used every inch of his restraint watching you work that afternoon. Instead, he traced the veins on your neck with his fingertip, his lips following the digit. His kisses lingered on your skin, barely a brush of lips on skin. No words could explain the connection between you, but he preferred it this way. The physical way.

Whilst he was distracted, you pushed him onto his back. He landed on your pillow with a breathless laugh, watching you fiddle with the buttons on his flannel. You hummed as you straddled his hips, shrugging your jumper off. It landed on the floor with a slight thud, soon to be joined by the rest of your clothes, and Sam’s too.

You pushed Sam away from you lightly, leaning back away from him. Hurt flooded his eyes, his mouth opening with an unsaid question. You laughed, brushing the side of your face with your knuckles. Much as you loved Sam’s long hair, you weren’t so fond of the taste, and accidentally biting your lover’s hair was anticlimactic, to say the least. He grimaced, tucking his mop of hair behind his ears as he leaned down to press his lips to yours.




You awoke the next morning, wrapped in Sam’s flannel. He lay next to you, his chest bare, the sheets wrapped around his waist. The waistband of his boxers was just visible, the grey starkly contrasting with his golden brown skin. You turned to him, running your fingers up and down his stomach lightly, smiling to yourself.

“That tickles,” He murmured sleepily, opening one eye. You bit your lip to conceal your smirk, resting your hand on his upper chest. The rise and fall of his chest was vaguely fascinating, and you found yourself transfixed as you watched his pectorals expand with his breaths. He was truly stunning, and you could get quite used to that being the first thing you saw in the morning.

His hand draped over your thigh, pulling you into his chest. You squealed at the sudden movement, horribly aware that Sam had been observing your gawking.

“Your starin’ was startin’ to creep me out.” He said, leaning up on one elbow. You rolled your eyes at his words, poking him in the stomach. You would be lying if you said you didn’t feel a little smug at his overly vocal complaints of his pain, simply snuggling into his chest and pulling the duvet over yourself, your elbows jabbing into his stomach.

Naturally, Sam retaliated to your actions, pressing his knee into the back of your thigh. You kicked back, your ankle colliding with his shin. Your squabbling continued for some time, ending only when Sam caved and got up to make coffee.




You loved to dance. Your dancing skills were nothing special, but the unbelievable feeling of power that flowed through your veins as you moved to the beat, all eyes on you, was unmatchable. Sam had long since been your favourite audience, and you loved the way your bodies fitted together as you moved in sync. The two of you had spent many a lazy Sunday morning spinning to an upbeat 80s electro record, stepping on each other’s feet and squabbling amicably.

This time was no different. The vinyl disc spun on the turntable, your hips twisting to the heavy bass. Sam’s hands gripped your waist, pulling you into him as he watched you move, your hair spinning, the energy radiating off you practically electric, spiking his heart rate with every teasing brush of skin.

“Come on baby, tell me,” You murmured, grabbing a handful of Sam’s shirt. “What’s the word?”

That did it for Sam. He pulled you into him, your lips meeting with frenzied passion. He was desperate, almost savage with desire, and you couldn’t help but giggle. He rolled his eyes, tugging at his shirt as you fell back onto the couch.




Your couch was much too small for all of Sam to fit on, but he still tried, much to your amusement. His knees were curled up into his chest, his head resting in your lap as you ran your finger through his hair. A thin sheen of sweat covered what you could see of his skin through his tight fitting shirt, his eyes half closed as your fingers kneaded at his scalp. You had once joked about Sam being the puppy you had never been allowed, but as you looked at him, it occured to you quite how much of a labrador your Sam was.

“How long can you stay?” You asked quietly. The question had been nagging at you since you had met in your bar the previous night, but you couldn’t quite work up the courage to say it.

“A week, maybe two.” He murmured sleepily. A whole week with your Sam. Hell, a whole fortnight if you were lucky. You knew it would pass all too quickly, and once it did, you would once again find yourself heartbroken, staring at the side of the bed once occupied by the giant man, eagerly awaiting his return. But for now, you would embrace every minute with him, before it passed.

(Happy Valentine's day)

A/n: new installment of one bad night series.

Warnings: smut, nsfw sexy sex, all of that.

Their lips hardly broke contact getting into the door. She pushed the jacket off of his shoulders fervently. He chuckled as he helped her take it off of him. He pulled off his own shirt and she stepped back looking at him in awe. He gave her a grin, she shook her head and pulled him back into kissing her. She could feel his hands finding their way up the back of her legs and under her skirt. He moaned into her mouth as he grabbed her ass. She yelped and bit his lip playfully. He grinned against her mouth. “I missed you so much.” He breathed as her hands splayed over his abdomen running over the muscles. He missed the feel of her warm soft hands running over his skin. They were smaller than his but held all of the power. He mewled against her touch as her hands wandered toward the cusp of his jeans.
“You missed me a lot I can feel it.” She said ghosting her lips over his tauntingly close causing him to chase her lips with his own. She smiled as he kissed her. She pulled away abruptly and took off her pretty, fuzzy, red sweater. She stood in front of him in a bright red bra with a heart in the middle right in between her breasts.

He raked his hands through his hair anxiously as she shimmied out of the skirt. The little bright red thong had a matching heart. He bit his lip at the sight of her. “Come to bed with me.” She purred. “Y/n you’re killing me.” He whined as he followed her. He watched her ass as she trotted to the bedroom. He carefully caressed the swell of her ass as she opened the door to her room. She turned and raised an eyebrow challenging him. He grinned. He loved the challenge. He waited until they were in her room to kick out of his shoes and jeans. She sat on the bed and watched him. The covers were rosy and pink this time. She changed everything for the holiday. He smiled at how romantic and sweet she was. He knelt down in front of her and pressed sweet kisses on her knees. “You are so sweet, and beautiful. I wish I couldve done more for you today. ” he kissed her upper thigh. She smiled. “Baby, I’m just happy you’re here.” She said as she ran her fingers through his hair. “Now come up here.” She said softly. He chuckled and continued to kiss her thighs before crawling up onto her bed. He hovered over her as she backed up more onto the bed. They kissed heatedly as she wrapped her arms around his neck. He gripped her thighs firmly digging his fingers into them and letting out a soft groan. “I missed you so much.” He said against her lips before kissing down her jaw and toward her neck. She arched into him grinding her hips against his feeling how desperately hard he was. “I can tell.” She sighed lettling her hand trail down his hips and into his briefs. He gasped before biting her neck in response to her touch. She stroked him languidly as he sucked a deep mark in the crook of her neck. She loved the way his scruff felt against the soft peach like skin of her neck. It sent currents of desire rushing through her. She brushed her thumb over the tip of his cock causing him to twitch in her grasp. “Babydoll if you keep that up, I’ll cum in your hand.” He warned. So she did. She brushed it back and forth looking at him with feigned innocence. “Oh? Really?” She teased grinning at him from ear to ear. He scoffed at her before sitting up and turning her over. She let out a shriek as he ran his hands up the back of her thighs and up her bottom. He peeled the silk red thong down and she wiggled out of it. He leant over her and shoved her hair out of the way to whisper in her ear. “Do you always have to do the opposite of what I say?” He chuckled smoothing his hand over the swell of her ass. She sighed wistfully at his touch. “Sometimes.” She answered. At that he laughed and gave her ass a quick swat. “You’re perfect. ” he said before kissing her cheek. She could feel him shifting on her bed and in between her legs. She hiked up her ass to meet him arching seductively. He chuckled from behind her and planted a lingering kiss on her bottom. He kissed up to the small of her back and up her spine sending her nerves into a frenzy as his scruff brushed against her back. She groaned and pressed against him. He smiled and lined up with entrance. “Fuck ” she sighed. He kissed her shoulder and held her by her hip rocking slowly before picking up the rhythm. The room was abundant with noises of pleasure from both Y/n and Chris. If anyone came to her apartment theyd probably turn tail and leave with the sounds they were making. He slid his finger against her clit as he rocked back and forth causing her to yelp. She could feel the rush about to hit. Itd been so long since they’d been together she was fit to burst. Her walls fluttered around his cock as he deepened his thrusts. She managed to pant “yknow. It you keep this up I’ll cum.” She teased. He thrusted slowly back and forth deeper than before. “Still so sarcastic.” He grunted before speeding up. She cried out gripping the sheets. “Go on dollface, cum for me.” He said as he continued to thrust and rub harsh circles about her clit. She rolled her eyes in pleasure the. The sound of his voice. The sensations of his touch. The way he moved inside. That was it. She came in harsh angry waves. All of the pent up sexual energy pour out of her sending him into his own. He pulled out swiftly before cumming on her back with sharp strangled noises. As he finished he reached over to the rose gold box of tissues by her bed and cleaned her off before cleaning himself. He leaned down and pressed kisses in between her shoulders. He disposed of the tissue in the pink trash bin by her bed and fell to her side. She collapsed slowly, carefully folding her body and fighting her shaky legs. He wrapped her up in his arms and kissed her chuckling softly at her. “What?” She chirped. “Nothing. You’re just so cute and funny and sexy. Im glad I’m back.” “Im glad you’re back too, noodle. ” she said kissing his nose. “Happy Valentine’s day ” she said softly drawing shapes on his chest. “Happy Valentine’s day.” He answered kissing the top of her head.

Sleeping With a Friend

Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition

Pairing: Dorian/Vax(Inquisitor)

Summery: Friends with benefits seemed like a good idea…at first. Things get a bit more complicated when Dorian catches feelings. Sera remains eternally unimpressed.

Note: Inspired by this song that @latefortevinter linked to me proving conclusively that we have a hive mind psychic connection.

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My son is what professionals call “functionally nonverbal.” He can talk. He does so all the time. But you, and to some extent I, cannot consistently understand him. He has Down syndrome, and like many people with the genetic condition, his language development is generally delayed. More specifically, though, Nico also has apraxia, which makes planning the muscle movements involved in speech difficult for him.


[…]


I downloaded “Hamilton” one day after it became free to listen to it on the way back from a late-night gig and see what the fuss was about. A few days later, Nico played it, and rather than instantly turning away from the rapid-fire rap and erudite wordiness of the musical, he seems to have joined much of America in being hooked.


Nico engages with “Hamilton” as language, not merely rhythm and beat. He chooses a setting in which he can watch the lyrics move, tapping them to repeat key phrases he especially likes. He laughs at the jokes. He makes jokes. When he said “Awesome! Wow!” he mimicked Jonathan Groff (who all parents know as the voice of Kristoff in “Frozen”) pretending to be an English king pretending to speak with an American accent. Nico had never said that line before, and when my head jerked up, he was giggling at me, ready to join in my laughter when it came. We laughed together before I went over to hug him.


In fact, his ability to tell jokes around music seems to be empowering, allowing his natural sense of humor to flourish in ways more sophisticated than a good tickle. He grabs at a moment in “Hamilton” when he knows he can get a laugh. When the men of the show all sing, in unison, “With the ladies!” Nico does, too, raising his hands in the air and urging us to join in. Before “Hamilton,” he found a moment in “Death Valley Queen,” a song by the Irish rock band Flogging Molly (I’m an Irish rock musician), when the music surged from quiet to scream to the lyrics, “I have always loved you.” Nico would sit, fist in front of his face, poised like Rodin’s Thinker, then surge to his feet and shout, “Rock and roll!” as the music crested.


October is Down Syndrome Awareness Month. I’m not a big fan of disability awareness campaigns, generally, unless they lead us toward accepting people for who they are, for tearing down our own internal ableist narratives about normality or function. That’s my goal here, to take an anecdote about the surprising role played by streaming music technology that has allowed my son to reveal new depths of understanding. But those depths were always there, he just hadn’t shown them to me, or I just didn’t see.


The day after the first “Awesome! Wow!” incident, we were walking to the bus stop and Nico was making a lot of noise. His hands were up, he had a little hip shimmy as he walked, but I couldn’t figure out the context. Then I caught the rhythm and said, “Shaboom?” He said, “Boom,” and he smiled, realizing I knew he was singing “Hamilton’s” “Right Hand Man.” He signed by touching his fingertips to his chin, and verbally said, “Thank you.”


He seemed pleased I was finally getting better at listening.

tempo, pulse, repeat

@i-homeostasis mentioned something about an unofficial AsaNoya weekend and since writing is about the only thing I do these days have a thing :D

Yuu isn’t entirely sure if he’s hallucinating.  It’s been a long week of rehearsals and solo practices and far too many hours spent pacing in his small dorm room.  He scrubs his face, presses his closed eyes until stars burst behind his lids and even tugs at his hair a little, and remembers he still needed to get it cut again before Saeko makes good on her threat to just shave it all off like Ryuu’s the next time he stops home, but when he opens his eyes he’s still seeing the same thing.

“Okay believe me when I say I never imagined saying this to you of all people, especially in this tone of voice, but, Asahi, where are your pants?”

The man in question goes completely still and then slowly drops his gaze down to his bare legs.

“I, uh, forgot them.”

Yuu can’t help the snort of disbelief that slips from him.  “You forgot your pants?”  

Asahi’s dorm room is just a floor below Yuu’s so it’s not a long trip but he finds it hard to believe that Asahi - who sometimes still gets embarrassed about wearing too loose of a tank top while exercising or having to change uniforms on the bus - made it out of his room without a key article of clothing on, let alone all the way up here.  Though to be fair at least he’s wearing boxers and not something more form fitting.  Not that anyone, least of all Yuu, would complain.

Asahi rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.  “Nanase was over again and I only needed to hear Oikawa’s voice raise half an octave through his bedroom door to decide it was time to leave.  I heard too much last week when they didn’t think I was in my room.  Way too much.”

The door across the hall opens and Yuu watches Kenma step out, spot Asahi, blink hard a few times, and then sigh as he locks his door before hurrying down the hallway.  Asahi stares resolutely at the floor until the door to the stairwell thuds shut and he meets Yuu’s gaze.

“Can I maybe come in?”

Yuu startles and ushers Asahi inside.  He had been too busy staring at the way the blush was creeping down Asahi’s cheeks to make the offer and he kicks himself for being so uncool about it all.

“I, uh, obviously don’t have anything that will fit you but I’m pretty sure Tachibana has something.”  He digs through a box of clothes he remembers his roommate talking about giving to another friend because he doesn’t wear them anymore and manages to find a worn pair of sweats that he tosses over to Asahi.  He tries - and fails - not to watch Asahi pull them on.  They’re old and worn but they’re a little small on Asahi and he has to do this intriguing little shimmy to get them to settle on his hips.

Asahi smiles gratefully and Yuu is a little in love.