and it's like he's trying to not be so rough around the edges

AU where the Justice League forms like usual, except Batman maintained his “totally a myth” status and has in fact been active for years before the JL forms. He’s very cautious about trusting them, but still joins, and the others sort of accepts that as long as they trust that Batman has a really hard time with trust, it will all work out in its own weird way

Then, one day, in the middle of a JL mission, the League gets in a tight spot. Out of nowhere, this blue and black blur swoops in and saves everyone’s ass. Maybe breaking some shackles that were proving very difficult, maybe disarm a bomb that the League was just a hair’s breadth too slow to reach without help, but whatever happens, the shadowy figure pauses just long enough to say, “Hey, Batman, you know you there are these things called cellphones now and you can just call sometimes, it doesn’t have to be this dramatic?” and bounds away after shouting ‘let’s do brunch! Bring your new friends!’

Batman is mortified.

No one lets it go.

The entire rest of the mission, the whole League is asking so many questions. Who was that? Do you know him? How do you know him? What’s going on? I didn’t know there was a vigilante in this area?? They don’t let up until he talks.

“That was Nightwing.” Batman is mumbling. The JL forces him to bring them to the Brunch. Brunch happens to be in a run-down apartment on the edge of a bad neighborhood, at five in the morning, in costume. Nightwing introduces himself as Batman’s lovechild with justice.

“I did not realize Batman had a child,” Martian Manhunter says, calmly enough that no one’s sure if he’s accidentally plucking a really loud thought out of the air or if he’s trying to make a joke.

Nightwing stares for a moment falling over laughing. He doesn’t get up. Batman starts trying to apply anti-Joker venom but Nightwing just kicks him and laughs until he cries. He keeps trying to wipe his eyes and his mask keeps getting in the way, so he asks everyone to leave so he can please get a hold of himself

He is still laughing when they leave. Everyone is confused. Batman is furious.  Nightwing manages to breathe long enough to say, “We’re just so glad you’re socializing now, Batman.”

Superman turns to look at Batman very slowly. “…’we’?”

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Prince Aladdin

i just rewatched aladdin with the roommates and it got me thinking

aladdin wishes to be made a prince, but all genie does is get him a lot of stuff and money. that’s not what a prince is. a prince is the son of the king, someone in line for the throne. someone with a lot of money is just - rich. so what i think is:

genie goes okay, that’s a big one - and i can do it! but not on my own, not if you want to do it right. not if you truly want a chance to marry your princess for real, as a prince. and aladdin is a foolish, moral, kind boy - and he agrees. he’s fallen in love with jasmine, an innocent all encompassing love, and he’ll do anything for this sweet, clever girl he only knew for a few hours. so genie takes him across the desert, far from agrabah, and plops right in the middle of a skirmish and is like okay, good luck! and aladdin is like ?????

but there’s assholes with swords attacking a young girl, and aladdin doesn’t even have to think about that, just like when he stood in front of the whip for those little kids. there are three men against him, but he’s fast and clever and has been against a dozen trained palace guards. so it’s not easy to get out of there alive, especially with the little girl to protect, but he manages it with only a thin slice on his upper arm, and he’s endured worse for less. so he picks up the little girl and says “i think we should get out of here, hmm?” and she’s in a pretty red silk getup with tiny jewels encrusted on her like stars against sunset. and she nods and throws her arms around his neck. she won’t talk, only points in the direction of home, but aladdin’s okay with that, he’s used to quiet, scared kids. so he keeps up a steady stream of stories of agrabah, which seems almost like this other desert land. but there are more men with swords and aladdin is like what the fuck is going on, but he hides the girl in a corner and fights them too. and that’s how it goes all the way home. there’s no one on the streets really, and they all scatter when the men attack, and they keep on attacking, he fights his way all the way through the city with the girl on his hip or hidden away.

and he should have known, of course, but he was tired and bruised and bleeding by the time he realized the little girl is silently guiding him to the palace and he’s like why can’t you princesses stay inside??? but he walks up and the guards get one look at the child in his arms and whisk him through and multiple people try to take the girl away but she won’t budge from him, a stubborn pout to her lips as her hands remained locked behind his neck. and he’s finally tossed into a throne room where a tall old man is sitting in agony and two young men pace in front of him, each at least a decade older than aladdin. “they’ve taken our sister!” one of the younger men hiss, “i don’t care about their power or their connections, they’ve taken esfir, and we must go get her!”

“uh,” he clears his throat, “hi?”

and all three men whirl on him and the old man stumble-runs to him. esfir finally lets go of aladdin to picked up and twirled around by her father. the two men are rahim and shapur and they look in wonder at this dirty boy of fifteen who’s returned the girl to them, and he speaks with an accent and clearly is not from here and they get the story from him - he’s traveled across the desert because those in his own country want him dead. “you know,” rahim says as the king clutches at esfir in desperate relief, “you could have held her for ransom. you almost died saving her, and we would have paid handsomely to have her returned safely.”

and aladdin gives him a flat disapproving look, appearing in this moment four times his age, and says “people are not objects or bargaining chips. especially not lost little girls.” and rahim and shapur share an impressed conspiring look and they each grab one of his arms and lead him away. “hey! what are you -”

“do be quiet little brother,” shapur says cheerfully, “we really have to get you out of your rags.”

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The day after the battle, Hermione Granger got up before the sun did. The Lake was covered in fog, and she was used to having somewhere urgent to go, to be, to fight. 

She closed the tent flap up behind her. Hogwarts had something like enough beds, but Hermione hadn’t had it in her to climb those moving staircases, to step through the painting’s open frame and make her way to the Gryffindor girls’ seventh year dormitory. Her bed would have been there, months untouched except for the bras and scarves and bottles of sparkly purple nail polish Parvati and Lavender had strewn onto every open surface. 

The fog rolled in off the Lake and Hermione stood at the damp shore and shivered until the sun rose and burned it all away. 


-


The day after the battle, they buried their dead out on an island in the Lake, the day after the battle. Madame Pomfrey fretted and hovered, but every injured witch, wizard, and squib made it out to those conjured chairs. They might sit with assistance– with spells, with braces, with a friend’s shoulder– but they sat quiet and they listened to Flitwick read out the names. 


-


The day after the battle, Ron Weasley stood on tiptoe when he stepped back into the Great Hall, looking over a sea of bent heads to find a cluster of red. They’d brought the tables back. 

The cluster was only a tiny blip of three– Bill and their parents were flitting about, helping Flitwick float steaming bowls of pasta down onto each table. But Ginny and Percy were sitting on either side of George, keeping up a lively conversation about Gilderoy Lockhart’s hair. 

Ginny was sitting half in Harry’s lap, like if she didn’t he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from getting up to help, or to pace the castle, or to walk out to the Forest and not come back. She was holding his hand, her freckled thumb running over the words written into his skin. 

Ron thought about sitting with Luna, instead. Percy tried to laugh at one of Ginny’s jokes, and Ron didn’t know how to be kind like that. Ginny held Harry’s hand. Ron had thought for a long terrible stretch of heartbeats that he had lost two brothers yesterday. 

He could sit with Dean. He could walk out to the Forest and punch Aragog in his ugly eyes, because normally when he walked away from everyone he loved it was because he was scared and maybe change was good for the soul. 

Ron pushed his hands through his hair. He crossed the Great Hall, swung into a seat next to Harry, and filled his plate with lukewarm pasta. 


-


The day after the battle, Luna Lovegood climbed up to the Astronomy Tower, because it was the furthest she could get away from everything. She laid on her back on the cold stone and cast balls of light and enchanted birds to chase each other across the ceiling until she felt like descending down to the ground again. 


-


The day after the battle, Neville Longbottom went down to the greenhouses to see what the damage was there. He had sat all night and all morning in the infirmary, fetching water for Anthony Goldstein and holding Dennis Creevey’s hand and folding extra blankets down over Professor Sprout’s cold feet. Madame Pomfrey had banished him to go get a spot to eat and some sleep, so he walked down to the greenhouses to see what was salvageable. 

Whole panes of greenish glass stood jagged and shattered. Protective spells had put out any fires, but stray blasts of magic had killed beds of vegetables and flowers and taken almost all the silver-green leaves off an olive tree that twisted in the corner of Greenhouse 4. 

Neville went in through the door, even though there as a broken hole in the glass wall big enough for him, and almost fell back through it when Hannah Abbott stood up from the row of pots she’d been crouching behind. Dirt streaked every crease of her hands. “Hey,” he said, and let the door click shut behind him. 

“Hey.” When she saw where he was heading, she added, “The olive’s still alive.”

The bark was rough under his hand, gnarled from decades of slow growth. He could hear the green magic whispering down its xylem. 

“I was thinking I’d try to mend up the walls, close this place up again,” said Hannah. “But I wasn’t sure I could do it alone." 

"Alright,” said Neville. When Professor Sprout argued her way out of the infirmary and thumped downhill with the wind throwing her cloudy hair in her face, she found every pane of glass healed and Neville and Hannah asleep on the softest patch of moss in Greenhouse 2.  


-


The day after the battle, Parvati Patil sent an owl to Lavender Brown’s parents. 


-


The day after the end of it all, Hermione skipped lunch and found her favorite secluded corner of the library instead. The chairs stood silent and sober, all gouged dark wood. The high windows threw light gleaming across the polished table, catching on the dust motes drifting through the air above it. 

She dumped her carry-all down on it and reached inside– up to her elbows, her shoulders. She tried not to feel like it was eating her alive and she pulled out protein bars and unicorn horn and crumpled wanted flyers. 

She wasn’t sure when it had gotten so cluttered– sometime before the night in the ditch outside the little Scottish village with the awesome curry shop. Sometime after the time they hid out from a storm in an unknowing Muggle’s barn, wrinkling their noses at the itch of hay as they ate their dinner. Hermione had taken first watch, listening to the thunder roll over the shallow hills outside, and she’d gone through her bag pouch by endless pouch. Harry had twitched in his sleep with every flash of lightning, but everything in her bag had been where it was supposed to be. 

She summoned a wastepaper bin to hover beside her and got to work. Quills and ballpoint pens went in a neat heap to her left. Books she stacked by subject matter around her, except for the ones she flew back to their homes on Hogwarts shelves. She checked potions ingredients for decay, tossed the bad ones and wrapped the good ones back up in their oiled cloth and ziplock bags. 

She ate a protein bar while she piled duct tape and the radio and a travel-sized magnetic foldable Muggle chess set and a depleted first aid kit all up around her. She threw the wrapper away and wondered if the smell would ever come out of the bag’s insides, or if she should just buy another one.  


-


The day after the battle, they started putting the stones of the castle back into place. They put bones back together, first, skin and knit muscle and tendons. McGonagall escorted every statue and suit of armor back to where it belonged. 

Sue Li sat atop a pile of rubble and ate the biggest chocolate bar she’d ever seen her life. She thought she could still taste a film of Polyjuice on her tongue, but she told herself that was dumb. She dropped little pebbles down the ragged tumble of stones, counting their bounces and calculating averages, until Astoria Greengrass showed up with a glass of water and a pasty and put them down beside her. 

Astoria got her hands dirty every chance she got, put her back into sweeping up glass shards or hauling bandages or Wingardium Leviosa-ing stone blocks the size of a horseless carriage. She would stay in the castle as long as she could, finding odd tasks and errands and corners to lurk in. When she finally went back to the Greengrass family estate, it would be to pack her bags, kiss the old house elf on the cheek, and steal her dog away with her. 


-


The day after the battle, Ron went out to Hagrid’s cabin in the stubborn chill of the afternoon and sat in his pumpkin patch. He didn’t go knock on the rough-hewn door, and Hagrid didn’t come out, but after twenty minutes Fang trotted into the yard and patiently got slobber all over his shirt. 

Ron watched the sway of the shadows beyond the Forest’s edge. Buckbeak’s old tying post stood among the twining squash vines and their giant fuzzy leaves, the metal ring hanging empty against weathered wood. He thought about Ginny brushing her thumb over Harry’s scars and wrapped 
his hands over the pale marks that curled around his wrists. 

When the air started biting and the sky started darkening, Ron pulled himself back to his feet and climbed up to the library. He had never lived there, never really liked its labyrinth of stacks and dusty air, but he knew the way there better than he knew the way to the Quidditch pitch or the Room of Requirement or all those other places he liked so much more. 

It was empty, except for Hermione, and he was glad. She squeezed her last book into her bag and looked up at him, shoving her hair back off her forehead. 

“They doing dinner down there?” she said, her dry throat rasping on it. 

He shrugged. “Mum’s organizing, I think. It– helps, I think." 

She nodded, looking down to do the clasps up slowly, one by one. 

"I just wanted to go back to the tent,” said Ron. “Be alone. It’s quiet." 

"I won’t get in your way,” she said. “It’s still pitched down there." 

"I know,” he said. “With you, I meant.”

“That’s not alone,” she said. “I’m not quiet,” she said. She clasped and unclasped the bag. 

“Words. Accuracy. I never claimed to be the clever one." 

"But you are, Ron–" 

"Hermione,” he said. “Come with me? You shouldn’t be sitting here alone. Come home.”

They went down the grass through chilling air. Ron could hear his mother in his head, telling him to take her bag and carry it for her, but he just reached out for her hand. 


-


The day after the end of it all, Ron laid on the floor of the tent, counting stitches in the canvas, while Hermione read Hogwarts, A History like she didn’t have it memorized. She read her favorite parts aloud, stopping mid-sentence when the tent flap rustled and opened. 

“Ginny’s sitting on Neville until he agrees to sleep in a real bed and not a pile of shrubbery,” Harry said, stepping inside and shutting it up behind him. “She got Luna to help because she says otherwise Luna will just fade into a corner and not come out for food.” He hunched his shoulders. “I’m not intruding, right?" 

"Don’t be daft,” said Ron and patted a bit of floor next to him. “C'mon, join in, Hermione’s trying to bore me to sleep. I suspect it’s an act of caring concern.” Hermione threw a pillow at his head without looking up from the pages.  

The day after the battle, they fell asleep in a tangle in the center of the tent that they had lugged across their country, across these long, cold days of the war. They had danced here to the radio, had chewed protein bars, played chess and bled and yelled at each other. 

But the war was over and they were growing into it, slow, staying up too late as they leaned into each other and whispered on this threadbare rug. They meant to wobble to their feet and get to bed, but Harry was clinging to Hermione’s hand and none of them wanted to go. 

They would get too old for this– hard floors and the way Harry’s neck was cricked up on Ron’s bony shoulder. Hermione’s snoring would get worse and Ron would have to sleep with four carefully arranged pillows to stop his back from aching in the mornings, but Harry would always have a place here. He had slept on Ron’s bedroom floor at fourteen, leaned on Hermione outside his parents’ broken home. 

In the weeks after the battle, Hermione would track down her parents and move back home, and they would all help the Weasleys rebuild the Burrow. Harry would move in Andromeda Tonks’s spare room. “We’re almost like family, after all,” she’d say briskly, shooing him into the house and showing him where she kept the tea, Teddy’s diapers, and the whiskey. They’d come for visits and talk through the night in each of those homes, curled up under Molly’s quilts or out on the Granger’s back porch swing or over fingers of firewhiskey with Andromeda. 

In the months after the war, he and Ron would get a flat while they went through Auror training and Hermione would crash there five nights out of seven. Her university textbooks would take over their countertops, shelves, tables, and floor and Harry wouldn’t tease them (too much) for how hilariously long they tried to pretend it was the couch Hermione slept on. 

Every home Ron and Hermione lived in, for the rest of their lives, would have a place for Harry– a spare room or a patch of floor or an old sofa. He would know how Hermione took her coffee, and his favorite cereal and Ginny’s favorite oatmeal would always been in the cupboard, and their children would have giggly cousin-sleepovers in magical tents they pitched on the living room rug. 

When the kids came shrieking in to wake them at absolutely unacceptable, ugly hours, Ginny would groan curse words they’d repeat gleefully among themselves, but Harry would let them grab his hands in their little sticky ones and pull him barefoot and messy-haired out into the morning.

tsundere (m)

Originally posted by nnochu

⇢ resident advisor! yoongi x reader, college au

⇢ word count: 11.2k

⇢ summary: according to the rumours, min yoongi is a bad apple- doesn’t take grades seriously, drinks as if he has two livers, a certified bad boy™. when you get paired up with him for a project, you’d never expect that someone like him would have a thing or two to teach you about life itself- and how it should be lived. 

⇢ warnings: angst, smut

🎵 song recommendation: something just like this by coldplay x the chainsmokers

a/n: finally something that isn’t pwp????? :”) 


Panic races through your veins and fills up your airway, causing your breathing to double itself, chest heaving in an attempt to calm yourself down. No, this can’t be happening, you chant to yourself over and over. The clock on your laptop is glaringly bright in the near darkness of your room, and the numbers burn themselves into the back of your eyelids. When you close your eyes, the uncomfortable stinging of your contact lenses makes your eyes water and at this point they might as well be tears of desperation.

It’s not like you’ve never had writer’s block before, you reason with yourself. You just have to start writing and edit along the way. Your own voice of reason is drowned out by the anxiety that echoes all the possible consequences of not acing this paper. It’s nearly 4 am and the essay you have so far in front of you is not enough to get an A, you know it in your bones but you can’t come up with anything better either. You could just submit this as it is, but anything less than an A on this paper would pull you down from the cusp of that ever elusive first class honours. And you can’t afford to graduate with anything less than that. The very thought of it sends a fresh chill of panic that creeps down your spine and jolts your fingers into a typing frenzy, spilling thoughts and ideas onto your screen till you reach the end of the page.

But when you read over what you’ve written, it doesn’t make sense at all, just incoherent rambling sentences strung together into a never ending paragraph. In frustration you shove your laptop away from you and push back your chair, reaching for your keys and phone. Sneaking a peek at your roommate’s still form across the room, you let yourself out of the room silently, feeling your tensed shoulders relax immediately as the cool night air embraces you with open arms.

It’s a little chilly to be out in just a long shirt and sleep shorts, but since there’s no one awake to catch you dressed like this, it’s the least of your concerns for now. The balcony that is attached to your room affords a little privacy, and it’s one of the perks of occupying the corner room on this floor. The tranquillity of the cold, autumn night directly contrasts with the millions of theories and concepts running through your mind, and any attempts at clearing your mind are failing pathetically. The residential halls are eerily silent at this time of the night, and as you glance down over the protective railings, you consider how easy it would be to just climb over, just one leg over and then-

“Late night?” You whirl around at the interruption of a raspy, gruff voice sounding from behind you. Your eyes are met with a figure clothed in an oversized sweatshirt and jeans, but it’s only when you squint in the darkness to survey his face that you realise who he is.

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The Kissing Booth

A SnowBaz fanfiction


Simon

Once a year, usually in the spring, Watford stages a carnival for the students.  It’s usually quite humble, mainly consisting of booths selling small magic trinkets, or snacks like cotton candy, sweets and other classic carnival fare.  There’s always the tiny petting zoo over near the Cloisters, and some years Watford even scrapes enough together to bring in a carousel.  Most of the booths are run by student volunteers, and though everything is by donation, all proceeds go to whichever charity the student body has voted on.

           I go every year, mostly for the caramel apples and sweet cider, but this is the first year I’ve been behind the scenes of the carnival and helped at a booth.

           In truth, I didn’t even sign up for it, but Agatha hadn’t had a break all day and needed some cotton candy of her own.

           I should have told her to find Penny, or Trixie or even Minty.  Anyone but me.

           It doesn’t take long for the word to spread that Simon Snow has taken over the Kissing Booth, and mortifyingly the line has doubled in length.  Mostly first or second-year girls, blushing and stammering or swaggering up to the counter with a pronounced sway in their step, with the odd boy interspersed through the line.

           It’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to me – that honour goes to the time in second year that Baz stumbled upon a spell that made my clothes slowly dissipate, garment by garment, in the middle of the dining hall – and after the first two or three quick, cold kisses I start to calm down, but I’m counting the minutes until Agatha comes back.  How she endured hours of this, I cannot comprehend.  That’s just Agatha, I guess.

           A redhead drops her donation into the tin and her eyes flit around, meeting me for only a split second at a time, her cheeks aflame.  I try to look as non-threatening as I can and lean forward enough that she can close the rest of the space.  She darts in with a kiss that’s no more than a peck before running over to a giggling pair of who must be her friends, a triumphant grin on her face. She must have been dared.  Poor girl.  I hope I wasn’t her first.

           “Well, well, well.”

           My stomach lurches at the cold drawl I know only too well.

           “What are you doing here, Baz?” I say in as civilized a tone as I can manage.

           He stands there with his arms crossed over his chest, his mouth in a twist that’s a bit too amused to be a sneer.  “When I heard that the Chosen One had taken over the Snogging Booth, I simply had to see it for myself.”

           “Well, now you’ve seen it, so now you can go.”

           “Saving the World of Mages one kiss at a time,” Baz murmurs with a chuckle.  “Not exactly what I was envisioning.”

           “I’m only covering for Agatha,” I retort, “she’ll be back in five minutes if you’re wanting her services.”

           He scoffs.  “I’d rather not snog your girlfriend, thank you very much.”

           “She’s not my – forget it,” I shake my head.  I’ve told him at least a dozen times, but it never stops him.

           “She must have been really desperate for a break to put you in charge,” Baz drawls on, his voice smooth like honey but with too much of a bite to be sweet.  “You’d think she’d at least pick someone attractive for the Kissing Booth.”

           It stings, but I don’t flinch.  “What, someone like you?” I spit back too fast.

           His eyebrows shoot up in delighted surprise as I realize my mistake.  “You flatter me, Snow,” he purrs, and I feel my cheeks heat up, but I furrow my brow tighter and hope it passes for anger.

           “Is there a reason you’re still here?” I growl as the burning spreads from my cheeks to my ears.  

           “As a matter of fact, there is,” Baz says, and his gray eyes look cool enough to staunch the flames at the tips of my ears, but the more I glare into them the more the fire rages.  “I’m here to torment you.”

           “Great, well you’ve done that.”

           “I wanted to see what you’d do.”  He leans on the edge of the counter, bringing his face far too close to mine for comfort. “What would the Mage’s Heir do if his nemesis showed up at the Kissing Booth?”

           “You can torment me any time,” I shoot back, “you’re holding up the line.”

           “Oh, yes, well,” he feigns conern, “I wouldn’t want to keep anyone from their kiss.”

           “Then go away.”

           His eyes narrow and he pretends to think.  “Mmm, no.  I don’t think so.”

           “Baz, I’m warning you.”

           “Terrifying,” he drones, “but this is too much fun.  Besides,” his eyebrow flickers up, “don’t you owe me a kiss?”

           I flash him a smirk of my own.  “Aw, Baz. If you were so desperate for a kiss, you could’ve just asked.”

           Baz, to his credit, doesn’t bat an eye.  “You think of that comeback yourself?”

           “There’s a fee, you know,” I ignore him, barely having to raise my voice above a murmur for him to hear me, he’s so close.  “You haven’t paid the fee, so I don’t owe you anything.”

           He doesn’t drop his eyes from mine, and the cool gray takes on the spark of a challenge.  Out of my periphery I see him reach into his pocket, and there’s the clatter of coins dropping into the tin.

           I should punch him.

           I should spit in his face.

           I wanted to see what you’d do.

           I take him by the lapels and crush his mouth under mine.

           He makes a muffled sound of shock.  To be fair, so do I, but mine is more angry than it is surprised.  I kiss him hard and rough, and it’s a bit of a juxtaposition because his mouth is oddly soft.  A face like his, you’d expect his lips to be made of marble, cold and unmoving, but he’s the farthest thing from unmoving.  I can’t tell if he’s struggling or if he’s kissing me back but his lips are so, so soft and I want to bruise them, mark them, bite them…

           I only stop when a series of wolf whistles reminds me that there are at least ten people watching us.

           Trying to salvage the illusion of control, I break away harshly, still gripping him by his collar.  The cocky smirk has dropped from his smooth features and now his face mirrors mine, a matching scowl, like I’ve crossed a dangerous line.  I probably have.

           “Was that what you wanted?” I growl.

           He doesn’t answer, just holds my gaze another few seconds before pushing back from the table, his lapels slipping out of my hands, and stalking away.

*** 

I don’t see Baz at the carnival after that, and I stay as long as the booths are open, perusing the same counters and feigning interest even after having looked through their contents three times.  I keep Penny company where she mans the popcorn booth, drizzling caramel over every few cartons, and I even get bored enough to hang around Agatha back at the Kissing Booth for a little while, until one too many patrons have asked if I’m available for service.  When she and Penny are freed we pet the goats at the petting zoo, the ones that Ebb has graciously volunteered for the event, and take a few spins on the carousel.  Only once the light has begun to fade and the signs are being lowered from their booths do the three of us part ways.  Even then, I offer to help Ebb get her goats back safely.

           Basically, I’m doing anything I can to put off going back to the room, but eventually I can’t avoid it any longer.  I’ve wandered the grounds enough times that the sun has properly disappeared behind the distant hills and I can barely see the ground in front of me. Even then I’m tempted to consider crazy alternatives like spending the night at Ebb’s place, but I’m pretty sure that would be against school rules anyway, and besides, I’ll have to face Baz eventually.  There’s no undoing what’s happened.

           When I finally trudge back into the room, he’s staring out the window at the moat, presumably trying to intimidate the merwolves, but he turns at the sound of the door.  His expression, though I don’t see it for long before I look away, is hard to read. Wide eyes and a furrowed brow, like he’s still mad at me for my stunt earlier, but there’s a bit of a questioning edge there, too.  Almost a where were you edge.

           Normally I have to start any type of conversation, but tonight he wastes no time. “What the hell was that, Snow?”

           There’s no question as to what he’s referring, and I can’t help but get angry again.  “Me? You’re the one who had to start something!”

           “Well, you didn’t have to react so drastically,” he mutters, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall by the window, the moonlight casting its glow on his skin and making him even paler than usual, almost transparent.  I half expect fangs to slide out from his lips for no reason and complete the picture.

           His soft, soft lips.

           “You were egging me on,” I seethe, the memory igniting the rage that I’d felt in the fractured moment before kissing him, “it’s your fault anything happened.”

           “Proud little hero,” Baz says with the slightest smirk, “can’t back down from a challenge.”

           “You know I can’t, not in front of people.”

           “Wouldn’t want them to think the Heir is a coward.”

           I feel like a balloon in me is swelling and deflating at once.  “But that’s just it, Baz,” I insist, anger momentarily aside.  “If they think I’m afraid, what reason do they have to hope?”

           He doesn’t answer right away, and for a second I think maybe he understands. I want so badly for him to understand.

           “No reason,” Baz eventually says, turning to look out the window again, “not with someone like you as the Chosen One.”

           I want to groan, to kick something, to shake him by the shoulders and make him look me in the eye and for once not fight me.  Have we ever in our lives made eye contact without there being some challenge between us?

           “Why did you have to get in that line?” I shake my head.  “There are so many other ways of tormenting me, lower-stakes ways.”

           “To be fair, I’ve already exhausted most of those,” Baz murmurs with a little shrug of his shoulders.

           “When have you ever been fair?”

           “Touché.”

           I’m tired of standing here at the door, so I kick off my shoes and sit down on my bed, trying not to think about how much closer I am to him now, still at the window, looking as vampiric as ever.  His gray eyes are positively silver in the moonlight, and the black of his hair looks silkier than ever, as if it’s soaking the rays directly into him. He almost glows.  I have to laugh a little, because more than once Baz has mockingly compared me, with my bronze curls and sky-blue eyes, to the sun, but he himself wears a halo of night.  If I am the sun, then Baz is most certainly the moon.  Distant, cold, mysterious, almost too pristine to touch.

           His gaze returns to me suddenly.  He raises an eyebrow in a wordless inquiry, and I realize I’ve been staring.

           “What exactly was it you expected me to do?”

           “At what point, Snow?” he gives a humourless laugh.  “You had more than one opportunity to react.”

           “When you paid the fee.”

           His tiny smile disappears.  “It doesn’t matter.”

           “It does.”

           “Drop it, Snow,” he says, the hardness returning to his eyes, and I know I’ve cornered him.  Drop it is Baz’s way of betraying himself, of saying there’s something that he doesn’t want to tell.

           “Was I supposed to kiss you?” I ask.  For some reason I have to know.

           “No.”

           “Then what?”

           “I don’t know, Snow, punch me.  Push me. Beat me to the ground.  Something.”

           My brow furrows in confusion.  “Wait. You wanted me to hit you?”

           He shrugs, more with his head than his shoulder.  “One of us has to get hurt, right?”

           I rise to my feet, and I’m face-to-face with him again, only his eyes are different this time.  Whereas at the booth he had betrayed no hint of doubt at our closeness, now there’s a flicker of something in the silver, something that feels a lot like the way my heart is racing in my chest, and it dawns on me.  He was putting on a show at the carnival, acting like nothing I could do would get to him, just as I had been.

           If they think I’m afraid, what reason do they have to hope?

           One of us has to get hurt, right?

           And suddenly it makes sense.

           There’s only a few inches between us, so it feels almost natural when I lean in and press the gentlest of kisses to his lips.

           He doesn’t kiss me back this time, but he doesn’t move away either.  “What was that for?” he asks when I draw back a second later.

           “You act like we’re so different,” I say wonderingly, “but we’re the same.”

           “How?”

           “What do you think we’d be if we didn’t have to fight each other?”

           I don’t miss the split second of longing in his eyes.  “Keep dreaming, Snow.”

           “Because I bet it would involve a lot more of this.”  I bring a hand up to his neck, my fingers instantly lost in the wavy tips of his hair and it’s exactly as soft as it looks bathed in moonlight.

           Baz closes his eyes like he has to collect himself.  “You’re the hero.  I’m the villain.  What more do I have to say?”

           “Fuck that,” I chuckle, “we both know that’s not true.  You’re a boy, and I’m a boy.  That’s all.”

           “Tell that to the rest of the world.”

           “I don’t care about the rest of the world,” I shake my head adamantly, “I want to know what you think.”    

           “About what?”

           “If there was no act, no reputation, no role to play,” I murmur, “if we were just two boys, what would you do?”

           Baz returns my gaze a moment, searching my eyes.    

           Then his lashes close and he’s kissing me, and my eyes drift shut again like I’m sighing in relief.

           I let my fingers tangle higher up in his hair while my other hand grips the front of his shirt like earlier, only without the anger of the afternoon.  He angles his head further and guides the kiss deeper, his hands gently gripping my waist and pulling me closer.  I melt against him, my mouth moving with his, my head swimming with his citrusy scent, and I can’t hold back the moan that escapes my throat when he takes my bottom lip between his teeth in a gentle tug. Suddenly I’m floating, weightless, and Baz gives a muffled sound of surprise when I press back a little harder.

           When we finally break apart, both of us gasping and dizzy, I immediately want more, want to line his neck with my mouth, want to feel his breath hitch when I reach the base of his throat, want to hear my name in his sigh.  Would he sigh Snow or Simon?  I want to know.

           “Please,” I whisper, dotting a kiss to the corner of his mouth, “can’t we just be two boys?”

           When I meet his eyes, they’re full of more longing than ever.

           In response, he kisses a soft, slow triangle pattern on my cheek, and I recognize the pattern of the three moles by my eye, and I can’t help but smile.

“We can try.”

the rough times of the day

“GUUUHHH”

Another wave on sickness rushed through Bendy as the last bit of his last meal was again rejected by his body now laying in the bucket before him which he was gripping for dear life. Tears where starting to collect them self’s at the edges on his eyes and the bitter sting left behind by the thick black liquid dripping down his chin made him want to throw up again but there was nothing to throw out anymore.

“come on Bendy big breaths” his brother said in a soft voice, gently petting his back to help him through the pulsing pain wreaking his body.

Bendy gripped the bucket a bit tighter feeling something all too familiar slowly crawl its way into his senses sticking his nerves with a fear of what’s about to come next

“oh no”

Boris pulled his hand back a little so it was hovering above Bendy’s back but not touching him.

“Bendy?”

A scream ripped itself from Bendy’s throat, a hot shot of crippling pain wreaking through his abandon as if his body was rejecting its own stomach. His arms shot out to his lower body gripping into his own skin so tight that if he wasn’t crippling under the pressure of his disease slowly destroying his body, he would have feared he tear open his skin.

Bendy was vaguely aware of the bucket tipping over and falling out of his lap, spilling the black stuff everywhere and leaving behind an gut wrenching sour smell.

“I’M GONNA DIE, I WANT TO DIE”

Boris quickly placed his hand back on Bendy’s lower back and let the other find its way to the others knee, little tear welled up in his eyes, not being able to bear looking at his brother in so much pain.

“n-no Bendy don’t say that be strong oke, you’ll be oke.. j-just hold on”

Another scream was forced out Bendy, still gripping into his stomach, the red hot pain ripping both his mind and will apart like it was a piece of paper.

“BROTHER I CAN’T IT’S TO MUCH I CAN’T PLEASE JUST LET IT END”

Bendy sobbed, it was too much to handle. The heat it was too much he was losing his damn mind, He couldn’t he just couldn’t.

“bendy”

A pair of arms wrapped themselves around Bendy’s shoulders, pulling him quickly but gently against Boris chest that was shacking from the sobs and hiccups going through him.

“please it’ll be oke brother just don’t lose hope please”

Boris held Bendy closer to himself like his was trying to squeeze away the illness that was wreaking his brother. 

Bendy breathing picked up some more, swallowing big gulps of air like he never had taken a breath in his life. trying to shut it out the feeling of his nerves burning and screaming out in bloody murder. Trying to push through and passed the crippling hot pain and the feeling his lungs where getting skinned alive.

If not for himself he was trying for somebody who still needed him, the person he cared about most in the world, “for Boris” he told himself .

Slowly ever so slowly relaxed even if it was just a tiny bit, the pain died down enough for him to regular his breathing and lean against Boris, too exhausted  to move.   

“it’s oke”

Boris squeezed Bendy a little closer to him, tears now freely going down his face.

“it’ll always be oke, I know you’re strong enough Bendy”

A little smile showed itself on Bendy’s lips when Boris started wiggling his tail happily, glad that his brother was more or less oke now.

“I’m not strong” Bendy said with a weak voice that was still tuckered out from all that screaming. “you’re the only reason I keep fighting Boris” he said with a soft sigh, now relaxing fulling against the other, leaning his head against Boris chest.

——————————————

i tried 

you probaly get a fuck ton of these already but meh i thought you might like this one

(sorry i’m a shitty writer)

anyhow this is based on that little comic when bendy was pretty much dying but not quite

welp here you go have fun with it 

fic by idk-likesomeone

  • response:

thank you for this awesome fic! 

actually I didn’t get any fanfic about this AU; you’re the first bruh!

I added a little art if you don’t mind ^^

the spy au that @philosophium ordered !!


Andrew slips through a slit in the crowd, brushing through the sleek trains of expensive gowns, rich wool suits jackets catching on his own. He’s on his second flute of champagne, and the tartness keeps him focused. His attention is on the flavour and the rim of the glass and the warp of faces through it. His earpiece crackles and whispers.

He can see his mark on the opposite side of the room, surrounded by servers and liars and pretty things. One of them is all three, Andrew can tell: a waiter’s vest, a seam of over-applied foundation, and bright blue eyes.

He’s distracting, flighty, a rubber band pulled all the way back. He looks like the memory of a case file, and a name occurs to Andrew one second before Kevin hisses it into his ear.

“It’s fuckin’ Charlie Pilot. Don’t engage, Minyard, we’re not here for him.”

Andrew doesn’t make any effort to reply, just takes another pull of champagne. He’s not really watching the troupes of entertainers or the clockwork security or the velvet and silk blooming under bowing chandeliers. He’s not even watching the man he’s either going to rob or kill, who’s laughing and weedy, red in the face from the alcohol. He’s stuck on Pilot –  next to his target, holding a heavily stocked tray of appetizers, his expression pleasant and empty.

He’ll be an irritant to what should be a straightforward plan, if he keeps hovering. Andrew takes a loaded step forward and the voice in his ear complains.

“Don’t even think about moving in until Pilot leaves. He’s probably doing reconnaissance for Matt. I bet he doesn’t even know about the file.”

Andrew watches Pilot’s face tick, the way he blinks like he’s on a timer, the way he’s worrying the inside of his cheek with his teeth.

“I bet he does,” Andrew murmurs, and he drains the last of the champagne. He plucks his tie pin away from the fabric and drops it in the empty glass, leaving it on a passing tray.

“What— what the fuck Minyard, we’ve lost visuals. Do you hear me? Andrew? Andrew?”

Andrew weaves through the rest of the golden crowd, ignoring the buzz of Kevin’s reprimands in his ear. He finds a new spot on the outskirts of the crowd where Pilot has installed himself.

“Do you know how fucking expensive those cameras are? You’re such a piece of shit operative,” Kevin says. “When you inevitably come back without the intelligence and without our equipment, it’s costing us to keep you around, do you realize that?”

Andrew’s more focused on the way Pilot’s shoulders are turning to face him, the slim line of his tailored pants, that eyelash-thick smudge of un-blended make up.

“Shrimp?” Pilot offers, swaying the tray in his direction.

“No,” Andrew says, but he stays uncomfortably near, feeling along the edges of his boundaries without finding any seams. Pilot’s composure is still and reserved as a frost-ravaged garden.

“Have a good evening then,” Pilot says graciously, turning back towards the host that Andrew should be sizing up but hasn’t even looked at. He glances at him for a sliver of a moment, finds himself uninterested, and looks back at Pilot.

Andrew catches him suddenly by the arm, but relaxes his grip just as quickly, caught off guard by his own impulsivity. His own disguise is just an invitation and sun bleached hair; he isn’t playing a character like Pilot is. He’s neutral for a living, but Pilot is a new weight on his scale, unbalancing him so that he can’t quite settle at zero.

When their eyes meet, the polite, curious waiter snips out of existence. Charlie Pilot stares at Andrew, with eyes like the bluest part of a fire.

“There’s a conflict of interest,” he tells Andrew calmly. “And your interest will lose.”

“I’m not interested in anything,” Andrew says broadly.

“Hm,” Pilot says, unconvinced. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t lie,” Andrew says. He’s always saying it; it’s a novelty that employers enjoy and enemies challenge, amused.

Pilot raises his jaw, mouth twitching. “No, you wouldn’t, would you.” His eyes flicker to the side of Andrew’s face, where Kevin is breathing furiously through his earpiece, then down to the grip he still has on his forearm. He lowers his tray down until the rough edge is pressed to the root of Andrew’s hand threateningly. “You’ll want to let me go, Andrew, or you’re going to end up needing a longer armband.”

Andrew feels genuine surprise squeeze his fingers around Pilot’s wrist. He hadn’t noticed the black fabric extending a whiff beyond his crisp white sleeve. He lets go, and Pilot tucks his shoulders back, satisfied. His hair is too dark to match his freckles, Andrew notes quietly. It is, perhaps, what the make up was meant to cover up.

“You are not going to win, Charlie,” Andrew says. “We’re the more capable team.”

Pilot smiles indulgently. “‘Charlie’,” he repeats, mouth curling around the name. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been Charlie Pilot.” He jostles his tray from one hand to another, and loosens his collar with his freed hand. “And I don’t think you understand how much farther ahead we are than you. If you’re looking for information, we already have it. If you’re trying to find the connections this place has to the Yakuza, we’re the ones undoing them.”

“Who’s we? I don’t remember seeing anything about loyalty in your case file. You’re just a runner.”

Pilot looks briefly bothered by this, and he juts his chin again. “I’m loyal to whoever’s doing the work that needs to be done.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Who are you?”

He looks down, at Andrew’s empty hands, at the hip where he’s hiding his gun. His expression is warped and sad when he looks up, like the real filling in his strange costume is finally oozing out.

“You can call me Neil,” he says, and drops the whole tray of food so that it clatters and rolls into the host’s feet. There are gasps and yelps, partygoers dodging and stooping to catch the runaway platter. Andrew looks impulsively down to track its progress, and when he looks sharply back up into the knot of activity, Neil is gone. Of course he is.

He doesn’t have time to think about where he might have disappeared to, just steps neatly into the opportunity that’s been afforded to him. He uses the distraction as a doorway directly into the offices behind the coddled host.

Kevin is asking repeatedly for updates, and Andrew fishes the earpiece out and tucks it into his breast pocket. He likes to be alone for this part, when the most important door closes behind him and everything makes as much sense as a ticking clock.

He keeps thinking of Neil’s reaction to ‘runner’, of the vulnerability trussed up in his persona. He finds himself sick to his stomach wanting to know what his real hair colour is.

He tries every door in the polished row of them, finding all of them locked. He picks the lock on the door farthest from the burble of the ballroom behind him, and cracks into what looks like a room built for business arrangements and drinking. There’s a snifter next to a half dozen tumblers on a cart along the wall, and extensive cabinets under the desk.

He feels his way along the underside of the desk, and opens each drawer, idealistically left unlocked and unprotected. He finds useless information and shady information and heaps of anonymous, unlabeled tapes.

He finds the safe in the floor, facing up patiently under a wingback chair and a panel of floorboard. He stoops so that he’s face to face with it, shrugs his jacket off like a dead skin onto the floor, and puts the heart of a stethoscope to the face of the safe.

He’s sweating, spread out surreptitiously on the floor, but the safe is flimsy. It cracks in under an hour, the party wilting two rooms over, pressure taking him by the hair. Andrew flicks the door open impatiently, unwinding the stethoscope from around his neck.

It’s filled top to bottom with paper, and he reaches for the first file, carding his fingers through the spill of sheets.

Got you, it says. Over and over again, in unassuming little typescript. And on the next page, got you.

Andrew’s fingers flex. The next file is the same, and the next. A million taunting, twirling repetitions: got you. Got this. Got here first.

The safe was already cracked. The list of names was already stolen. Neil’s face winks and swarms when he closes his eyes, furious. If you’re looking for information, we already have it.

He roots around for the bud in his pocket and pops it back into his ear. He leans back, splayed away from the spill from the safe, the stacks of failure. He enunciates clearly into the microphone sewn into his collar.

“We have to find Neil.”

Keep reading

Our Little Secret-Part Five

Summary: You and Dean figure out how to tell Sam. Later the two of you try something that Dean hasn’t really done

SERIES MASTERLIST

Characters: Dean, Sam, Reader

Pairings: Dean x Reader

Square Filled/Kink: Face Fucking for @spnkinkbingo

Word Count: 4300

Warnings: Smut, fingering, oral, rough sex, squirting, language

A/N: I’m sorry. I was going to wait until tomorrow afternoon to post this, but I couldn’t help myself. Thank you so much for reading. I absolutely love writing this series and sharing it with you. Any feedback is always appreciated.



“You want to tell Sam?” He’s got that crease on his forehead, “I thought you didn’t want him to know.”

You smile, stretching your neck, kissing right below his ear, “But you do.”

“You’re okay with it?” He’s confused, “You’re sure?”

“Yeah,” you nod, “I’m sure.”

You’re not sure, not at all, but you kinda need to take the chance.

Dean pulls you up, pressing his lips against yours, kissing you deeply before breaking away.

You giggle, “I guess it will be easier too, we won’t have to come up with excuses for getting a different room.”

Keep reading

cinderdrilla  asked:

hit me up w/ some voltron goodness 8)

Lance puts his foot down, and Shiro/Slav have a long overdue talk.

Shiro never figured Lance for the snapping type. They all had their moments, under the constant stress of intergalactic rebellion, but Lance kept a reasonably calm lid on it – his self-titled “rivalry” with Keith aside. Looking at him now, there is only surprise at the way he’s holding himself, the set of his expression: Lance looks both nervous and pissed off.

‘Keith – could you give us a minute?’ he says, in a deliberately calm voice. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Keith hesitate, as if reading the tenseness of the situation and worrying that it might get out of hand. ‘Now, Keith. Go check on Slav’s sector.’

Reluctantly, and with a suspicious look at them both, Keith exits. Lance looks even more nervous when he does. More so when silence settles on them, and he raises a brow at Lance. Well? says the look, say what you have to.

‘I just… you’re way too hard on him,’ Lance repeats, a far cry from the irritated way he’d snapped Can’t you just cut Slav some slack? ‘He’s trying to help, Shiro. I-it’s not… he doesn’t mean to annoy you. It’s just how he… is.’

‘Excuse me?’ His previous calm turns to surprise. He keeps his voice low, not meaning to menace – but Lance scowls a little deeper, mistaking it for nonchalance.
Don’t, Shiro. You sound just like Iverson when you do that, a-and he was an ass,’ Lance says, voice rising only in pitch. Angry and nervous, like a cornered cat. Shiro takes a small step back to give him breathing room, but Lance stays tense. ‘Slav only wants to help. You treating him like a nuisance isn’t – it’s not fair, okay. He can’t help being jumpy; he was a prisoner for ages –’

It takes a second or two for that to sink in. When Shiro goes quiet, when his stare goes vacant as he processes this, Lance steps forward, speech picking up momentum as he grew more defensive.

‘– and it’s not easy to adapt out here,’ there’s a note of hurt in his voice, and it hits Shiro more than the chastising. ‘Slav got taken from his people and thrown into a war just like we did. He’s handling it different. YOU handled it different, we all did. I thought you’d understand him because of it, since you both got tortured by the Galra.’

That’s almost an accusation, and now Shiro fully understands what has Lance so fired up, so recalcitrant. And that understanding brings with it a sense of guilt, especially with the way Lance had said I THOUGHT you’d understand.

Keep reading

Harder (Smut)

MASTERLIST

A/N: This took me so long to finish. Here’s a mix between some jerking off and some passionate sex. I’d love to hear what you think. 

Word count: 3,295

After Karen and I picked up Shawn at the airport, we went straight back to their house to spend the night. Though Shawn would have rather gone home, he’d finally given in after a couple of hours pouting childishly in the car from the airport and back to Pickering. 

It wasn’t that I didn’t understand he wanted to spend his first night back in his own apartment, but his cousin were graduating tomorrow and driving all the way back and forth two days in a row was just stupid when Karen and Manny had left Shawn’s old room untouched since he moved. 

Keep reading

The End of the World

12x10 coda

Long after the beer in their bottles had warmed, long after Sam had excused himself to ‘do some research,’ Dean and Castiel sat at the table in silence. Dean shot furtive glances at Castiel, who had taken to rubbing his thumb around the opening of his bottle.

The silence was deafening.

“It wouldn’t be the end of the world, you know,” Cas said abruptly.
Dean blinked. After today, Cas could be referring to just about anything.

“My death,” Cas continued, thumb moving in slow, methodical circles around the top, “It wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

“Cas…” Dean’s voice was rough, thick with worry. He’d heard enough of what the angel, and Lily, for that matter, had said to him. Not to mention nobody could hold a self-grudge quite as well as the angel.

“You saw how today went,” Castiel continued evenly, “You almost died. Again. Because of me.”

“Pretty sure you weren’t the one coming at me with an angel blade,” Dean replied, weakly trying (and failing) to interject a tone of humor.

Cas scoffed. “It doesn’t change the fact it was my mistake that dragged you into the mess to begin with. It was my mistake Lily Sunders was dragged into it too and…” he paused, thumb on the edge of the rim, balancing over a precipice it seemed. Cas sighed, his hand fell away from the bottle. “Perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing for you if I was gone.”

The floor seemed to fall away and Dean had to stifle a gasp. He’d spent most of his time nursing a not-so-subtle anger at Cas and when Cas had returned it, Dean had taken that as a sign that Cas was fine. And yeah, Cas offering to let Lily take him down would have been worrisome, but Cas was smart, he was kind, he was just saying what she needed to hear…wasn’t he?

Castiel proffered a small smile, looking up at Dean at last. “At least you wouldn’t have to worry about my stupid ideas anymore, right?"  

It’s said with some humor, like Cas expects Dean to agree and smile right alongside him. Dean just felt sick to his stomach. Taking a shaky breath, Dean stood. Made his way to Cas. Knelt at the angel’s feet, anchoring himself by putting both hands on Cas’ knees as he looked into the angel–his angel’s eyes.

"I would never recover.”

Cas blinked. “What?”

“If you die, man. I…I wouldn’t recover.”

Castiel sat frozen in place, his hand still next to the empty beer bottle.

“It might not be the end of the world, but it would be the end of my world. Cas, I had to face that today, with the banishing symbol and you have no idea–” Dean was breathless now, trying to say the things he could rarely bring himself to even admit, “I know the angels say we treat you bad. And I–I do and I’m sorry, man, but I can’t lose you. Not again.”

Hanging his head, Dean tried to say the other things, the other, far more secret words. The sort of words that the angels would likely claim corrupted Castiel beyond repair. So he wouldn’t say them. He couldn’t. A silent I love you was all he could give Cas.

But as he struggled, a strange thing happened. The faintest of touches on his hands. Dean looked down, really looked, to see Castiel’s hands hovering over his own. They locked eyes. Castiel let his hands drop firmly atop Dean’s.

“You’re worth falling for, you know.”

I love you too.

anonymous asked:

What if Harry went really rough on YN last night and she keeps saying she's fine but the wobbles and marks say otherwise

Harry would be so fucking smug about it.

The next morning she swings her legs off the bed, rubbing at her eyes with the palms of her hands and stifling a huge yawn, thumbing over the deep purple bite marks scattered across her thighs and smoothing her fingertips over the bruises on her hips, remembering how hard he’d gripped them.

There’s a dull, satisfying throbbing in between Y/N’s legs, pulsing so deep it laps at the pit of her stomach. It’s like he’s still balls deep inside her, tucked up into her tummy with his sweaty hips spreading her fleshy thighs open, slamming her into another dimension. It paints a small, fulfilled smile across her tinted lips, making her feel all warm and bubbly inside.

“Y'look hot like that.”

Keep reading

The Alpha And The Beta

Originally posted by berezneva-tw

Characters: Y/n, Derek

Pairing: Derek x Y/n (FEMALE READER)

Warnings: Mostly smut, pissed off reader at first, then just smut, fingering, pussy eating, Daddy Kink, Alpha/Beta kink(not the A/B/O kind), more smut, anal, rough sex, unprotected sex, added sickening fluff at the end, cos why the hell not?

Word count: 2300

Summary: You finally get sick of Derek’s constant need to train. But when you decide you’ve had enough, he decides he’s not about to let you leave so easily.

A/N: Ok, so…requested fic by anon-hi. could you do a derek hale smut (female y/n) where she’s a new beta in his pack+ derek and her are sparring together. y/n gets tired, tells derek that she doesn’t want to train anymore bc its frustrated how he keeps beating her, starting to shout and swear. derek gets mad at her before pinning her down by her wrists and basically telling her off which she finds sexy. he smells her arousal and he starts teasing her about it and they have rough sex where derek is being really dominant ???? Ok, so it’s basically sticking to the request, but I added some more stuff. Also, sorry this took sooo long!! Hope u like it!!

Tagged peeps: @sallyp-53 @greyravenvixen @helvonasche @chelsea072498 @the-latina-trickster @aingealcethlenn @squirrels-angels-and-moose @lucifer-in-leather @kumaartz @sinceriouslyamellpadalecki @mogaruke 

Masterlist


“Fuck!”

Your back slammed against the mat, your breaths coming out in pants, body covered in sweat.

Aching muscles and a pounding head had you completely tired out.

“No more”, you panted, rolling over and attempting to stand, but your legs were like jelly, buckling under your weight as you fell to your knees again.

You didn’t care how pathetic you looked, deciding to crawl over to the bottle of water in your bag, your throat dry.

“Really?”

You rolled your eyes at his voice, looking over to see Derek, drenched in sweat, but barely out of breath.

“Fuck you, dude! You’re like 50. You’ve had time to adjust”.

You got to your bag, rummaging through it, until your hand gripped the bottle.

You didn’t hesitate to rip the bottle cap off, drinking the water as though you’d been in the desert for weeks.

Derek watched you, shaking his head with disappointment.

“Get up, y/n. We’re not finished yet”.

You looked at him, eyes wide and nose flaring.

“No!”

“No?”

You crossed your arms like a petulant child.

“No. I’m doing anymore today. We’ve been training non-stop for days. I’m sick of it! You don’t go easy. You’re mean. You shout all the time. And you’re sweaty as hell”.

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Title: At Last
Summary: The day Sakura found out she was pregnant was quite one to remember indeed.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Naruto.
Prompt: That Day
Rating: M
A/N: While I don’t believe they planned to have a baby on the road, this is still a fun and cute scenario to think about. I had lots of fun writing this :)


It wasn’t exactly how she’d ever pictured she would find out: sitting in the middle of a forest, tending to a campfire, watching the love of her life training aggressively against the trunk of an old tree, the warmest smile to her lips—and then, a faint thrumming sensation, odd and completely unfamiliar, sparking low in her belly.

Bemused, Sakura looked down on herself and blinked, touching a palm to her abdomen. An infection, perhaps? she mused, brows furrowing. Shaking her head, the thought was dismissed near-instantly; no, that wasn’t possible—in all her years of experience, she knew with certainty that infections had never been capable of throwing chakra paths off route so much.

Growing evermore perplexed, Sakura simply summoned forth the most basic of her medical techniques, setting about a curious exploration to her body. It was only seconds before she found herself stiffening rigidly, brilliant mind blanking and green eyes snapping wide, rendered entirely speechless by her discovery.

It wasn’t an infection—she’d been right about that. And it wasn’t an instability in her chakra channels either—in fact, there was absolutely nothing wrong with her.

No, she was simply… pregnant.

Her heart stuttered in her chest. A flurry of warmth washed over the whole of her. Pregnant, she thought again, feeling the sweet pulse of this new chakra.

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The Morning After

(This is an older request, thank you anon!)


The kitchen looked alien and strange to Harry. Perhaps because it looked like it had never been used or perhaps because Harry had never seen it in daylight before.

He glanced nervously back at the bedroom door, which he had moments before eased closed behind him trying not to make to much noise and wake the blond still curled up in the bed. Harry opened one cabinet after another dismayed to find most of them empty. One held dishware and another had half a shelf of cereals and sweetened fruity quick oats that only required hot water, the rest held nothing.

Everything he needed to make coffee was all left out on the counter, even a single green mug with the Slytherin crest on the side. Harry hesitantly dumped a scoop of coffee grounds in and started the machine, it was strange looking like it was going to explode any second, as many wizard devices did. It hissed at him in what he hoped was a making coffee sort of way and not seconds away from a kitchen full of shrapnel and coffee grounds sort of way.

Harry’s fingers tapped a nervous staccato on the fancy white marble counter. He had never spent the night before, neither had Draco. They hadn’t really talked about it. There was a lot they didn’t talk about. If it weren’t for the fact they both worked at the Ministry and ran into one another quite often this ‘relationship’ of theirs would have never made it past the first drunken one night stand.

He pulled opened the chill box, a blast of cooling charms washing over him as he examined the contents. There were at least six different takeout containers stacked to one side and Harry was certain some of them had to be going wiffy by now, even with cooling and preservation charms. There was also a load of fresh produce, carefully wrapped meats and a small basket of eggs.

On top of a bell pepper there was a note written in a curving elegant script. Harry unstuck it, a smile growing as he read it. The note was from Narcissa, along with all the fresh food apparently. She chided Draco for eating too much takeout and reminding him about their sunday brunch plans. He set the note on the counter and grabbed eggs, the bell pepper, onions, and mushrooms to make an omelet. Or omelets he corrected himself, feeling a tremor of anxiety as he remembered where he was.

He found a knife that likely had never been used and charmed it to start chopping everything. He washed the frying pan just in case it too had never been used. The butter in the pan warmed and melted as the cook top heated at the tap of Harry’s wand. He smiled a little ruefully, it figured Draco would have the best in wizarding tech, even in a kitchen he probably never used.

Harry didn’t really think as he cooked. His mind wandered to Ron and Hermione’s recent marriage, as it often did these days. They were so happy in their new home, with their new life. Meanwhile, to most of the world, Harry appeared to have been single for almost a year now after many years of rocky broken relationships. His friends knew he was seeing someone, they also knew it was an uncertain casual relationship, though neither Harry or his friends had said as much or so directly.

Harry folded one omelet, sliding it onto a plate and putting a stasis charm over it before starting the next. He just… wanted more. His relationship with Draco was good, wonderful even, but it was missing so many things, like proper dates, morning afters, talks about the future. He didn’t need promises of forever or even marriage just- his eyes drifted to Narcissa’s note- just a promise for next week or even tomorrow.

Behind him, the door clicked open but there were no following footsteps. Harry looked over his shoulder. Draco was standing in the doorway his hair mussed, wearing a pair of sleep pants and loose shirt made of modal as soft as silk. He was frozen in place, his eyes wide with shock. Harry felt his stomach sink and turned back to the stove, plating the second omelet mechanically.

He felt numb. The question hovered on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud; Do you want me to leave?

The floor creaked faintly.

Harry turned off the stove.

“Harry-”

Harry throat felt so dry it hurt but he managed a faint, “Yeah?”

Arms slid around his waist, pulling him back slightly as Draco pressed a soft kiss against the juncture of Harry’s neck and shoulder.

“You stayed,” Draco said softly, his voice sounding a little rough around the edges.

Harry shivered faintly, sliding his hands over Draco’s.

Draco pressed his chest to Harry’s back and Harry could feel his heart racing.

“That’s alright?” Harry asked leaning into Draco.

“I never thought… you would want to,” Draco said carefully.

Harry felt some of the tension leave him and a tentative hope take its place, “And if I wanted morning afters? And dates…” his voice dropped, “a future, together?”

Draco shivered.

Harry turned, first his head and then his whole body, taking Draco’s face in his hands. He wiped the first hint of a tear from the corner of Draco’s eye.

“Everything,” Draco said hoarsely, “you can have everything.”

Harry smiled and leaned forward, stealing a soft chaste kiss, “Just you. I just want you.”

@infinite-atmosphere LOOK WHAT YOU’VE STARTED NOW I WARNED YOU

Small pec worship drabble heavily inspired by this because wow hello can I nap on those please?




“Still working at this hour?”

“Gabe …” Jack sighed warningly as Gabriel appeared stealthily behind him – he pressed himself up against Jack’s back in a warm, insistent move that was evidently meant to distract entirely. Gabriel’s hips pushed forward to cradle against Jack’s ass, his broad torso flush against his back as he spooned up against him.  

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The One Who Worries

WWriter - @dammntwilightsaga

Requested - no just one to start off the blog - Send me Requests!!

Warning – pregnant!reader (is that even considered a warning? lmao), Mentions of Paul’s short temper,I don’t know what it feels like to be kicked by a baby so it may or may not be exaggerated (sorry to those who have been pregnant!), pure fluff

Disclaimer - I do not own any of The Twilight Saga’s characters and/or ideas all credit goes to the creator and producers of Twilight (I actually watch the scene I use from the movies on youtube or another source to get the dialog right. Although I may switch up who says/does what for purposes of the imagines, I do not own any of it.)

Summary – Paul’s imprint is 7 months pregnant with their first child and when she feels slight discomfort Paul freaks out believing she and their child is in some type of danger

POV - third person; set in New Moon

(Characters’ ages are raised to at least 18)

(Y/H/C) your hair color

(Y/E/C) your eye color

A/N - Request are open :)

Originally posted by leahlahote

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pretty please

♡ smut

masterlist 

// harry really likes to make y/n watch him touch himself

-

His eyes are closed, just like his fist around his cock. He pumps up and down, occasionally brushing his thumb over his wet tip. A low moan left his parted pink lips and y/n couldn’t help but follow suit. She tries to pry her wrists apart from the fabric holding them together, however Harry’s knot tying skills seemed to be no match for her. Y/n’s knees begin to hurt as she’s been kneeling and patiently watching Harry pleasure himself for so long. Was this punishment? Harry hadn’t said it was. Y/n also hadn’t done anything wrong- at least she thinks she hasn’t. Perhaps Harry just likes watching his babygirl beg for him. He knows how much y/n loves his cock. He knows she’d do anything to wrap her pretty little mouth around his shaft. “Daddy, please,” she finally whispers.

Harry only chuckles. “Oh kitten, I think you can do better than that.” He continues to move his hand up and down himself, only faster this time. His head falls back and his craving for y/n intensifies. He needs her to beg. He bucks his hips up and grumbles, “Fuck babygirl, you feel so good. so good around me.”

Y/n lets a cry come out as the wetness between her legs grows with each pump of Harry’s cock. “Daddy, please. Pretty please let me touch you, I need you.” She bites her lip and prays that it’s enough for Harry to comply.

“Daddy touchin himself making yeh wet, kitten?” A smirk curls onto Harry’s lips while he walks over to y/n. He stands so close to her but not close enough. Harry tugs at his cock some more, careful not to over do it. “Fucking beg for it, beg for my cock, babygirl.” Y/n shakes her head, unable to find her voice. She tries to speak but she can’t. The muscles in Harry’s forearm working so hard are too much of a distraction to even form a sound. She gives up, reaching and stretching to put her mouth on Harry’s tip.“Now love, what did I say ‘bout that, hmm?” He taps himself on her lips before he pulls away. “I need to hear yeh, baby girl.”

She moans. Y/n moans so loudly, just the idea of Harry sliding into her, fulfilling her needs is almost enough to make her come. “Please, daddy. I just wanna taste.” She pouts and oh, does she try to steal Harry with her puppy dog eyes. Harry wishes he could continue, God does he love being begged for. However y/n’s moan in particular set him off- he wants y/n to make him come. Too many times has his tired old hand have to do it when the two of them are apart. Harry gestures for y/n to get closer. She scoots over on her knees and Harry grants her permission with a nod as she looks up at him. Y/n wraps her lips around his tip and she moans against him. She bobs her head and Harry presses his hand to the back of her head to push her down further. Y/n coughs around him, gagging at the pressure. Her eyes begin to water and Harry let’s her go.

“Good girl,” Harry praises. Y/n lulls her head around him, sucking gently. She receives a low hiss from Harry when she licks from the bottom of his cock all the way up to the tip. She places a kiss on his swollen tip, and Harry let’s out a moan much louder than he wanted to. “Fuck, pet, you’re gonna make daddy come,” Harry admits. Y/n continues with her movements, trying her best to take all of him but she can’t without Harry’s help. Her core is aching as she’s been denied pleasure this whole night. Harry gets so worked up just hearing y/n beg for him. He likes to know he’s wanted but God, does he love when he gets to make her feel good. Oh, how he loves to see her writhe under him as he pounds into her. She was being such a good girl, so patient and obedient for Harry. He thinks her core must be burning, begging to be touched. Harry could practically see her dripping down her thighs. “Want daddy to come in you, kitten?” Harry finally asks.

Y/n nods. She nods rapidly. She wants to ask to be untied but Harry is finally about to give her what she wants so she doesn’t want to push it. Harry tells y/n to get up and turn around. He graciously unties her wrists and brings both up to his lips, kissing them gently- however y/n thought the black ribbon was much nicer than handcuffs or rope. “Lay down on your back, love,” He commands her. Y/n does as she’s told and backs up to the headboard. Her legs spread open, giving Harry the best view of her wet core. Harry licks his lips, pumps his cock through his hand a few times and kneels down on the bed in front of her. “Daddy’s gonna make yeh feel real, good,” he says. He slowly slides himself inside of y/n and she lets out an immediate moan at the contact. Her knees bend and Harry wraps both of his arms around her back, bringing her chest to his. Her neck falls to his sweaty shoulder, hair falling over his back. Harry grabs a fistful with his hand to bring y/n’s head up. “Look at me, babe. eyes open. Let me see how good I make you feel,” he demands. He thrashes into y/n, her lips part like the sea and Harry takes this opportunity to attack them. His lips devour hers, alternating between carnal kisses and rough tugs at the bottom lip. Y/n’s response is gratifying. When Harry knows he’s making y/n feel good, he feels good. His thrusts become messier as he nears his orgasm. “Fuck baby, you feel so good around me. Shit I’m gonna come,” Harry warns.

A hand- maybe it’s y/n’s, maybe it’s Harry’s- finds its way to y/n’s clit and begins to rub small circles. Y/n’s mind is fuzzy and she realizes it can’t be her own hand because one is grabbing onto Harry’s arm for support and the other is lost in his sweaty hair. Her whole body tenses up, her eyes are open but it’s like the only thing she can see are stars. Harry’s thrusts are so sloppy at this point that he lays himself down and brings y/n with him, only she’s sitting in his lap. “C’mon, kitten, don’t make daddy do all the work,” he sighs.

Y/n’s works herself up and down Harry’s cock, taking him all the way. Even though she’s so close to coming, she still finds enough strength to keep her movements at a quick pace. Harry props himself on his elbows so he can see y/n’s breasts bounce with each movement she makes. “Daddy I’m gonna come,” she tells Harry. Her hand works its way up to one of her breasts and the other rakes through her hair, pushing it out of her face so Harry can see her. His eyes grow wide before they squeeze shut.

“Daddy’s gonna come too, kitten. Come for me,” Harry encourages. He takes to y/n’s clit again and that’s what sends her over the edge. Both of her hands press against his chest as her head falls past his shoulder. She screams out, spews Harry’s name a few times and she’s sure the neighbors had heard the last one. Her eyes stay shut as Harry takes over the movements, slowly thrusting in and out of her. Harry comes not long after y/n- in fact they were right on top of each other. “Mm, love, you always make me feel so good,” he praises her.

Y/n crawls off of Harry and lays next to him on the bed. The sheets are an absolute mess but God knows neither of them have the energy to change them. Y/n turns to Harry and she leaves small and tender kisses all over Harry’s sheen skin. “Hmm,” she begins. “I…love… you… so… much…” y/n concludes. A kiss was left on Harry’s arm in between each word. His arm finds it’s way around y/n’s neck and he presses and kiss to her temple. He tells her they should go to sleep but he also tells her that there’s a new episode of Big Brother that he’s been dying to watch. So, instead of sleeping, Harry and y/n finish their night with Big Brother and maybe a little more sex…


fin.


[authors note • lord have mercy on me please…. i have this one fluffy imagine written and it’s literally just about peanut butter and jelly sandwiches so idk if i should post it lol. thank you for reading!!]