and she is curling up to go to sleep

procraesthetics  asked:

I wonder what would happen if Dudley grew up in the wizarding world but still as a muggle? like kind of reverse AU where his parents are dead and he has to go to Lily for whatever reason? do you think he would become bitter like Petunia about magic?

Lily remembered her sister, how there had been a time she was curious and delighted about magic, before it slowly sank in that she could look and not touch.

The last thing Petunia had said to Lily before she died was a chilly goodbye, ending a holiday dinner where they’d had a shrieking row in the entryway. Petunia had said freak and Lily had hissed better than this, better than this being my whole fucking world, Tune, do you even see yourself, are you happy–

And now here was Dudley Vernon Dursley fussing himself to sleep as Lily walked the halls of the Godric’s Hollow house. His tiny soft hands with their tiny soft fingernails curled under her chin, the same way Harry always had.

She passed James, who was gently bouncing his way up the hall the opposite way. “I think he’s asleep,” James mouthed over Harry’s tousled head. His hair was the same mess, bent down to peer at his sleeping son.

Lily stopped where she stood, her nephew heavy on her chest, her husband smiling, her sister buried. “James,” she said. “How are we going to do this?”

“Oh,” he said. “Hey. Don’t you cry, you’ll start them off– unless you need to cry, I mean, you go ahead, hey, sweetheart, hey, it’s alright, you just let it out.” He stepped forward, shifting Harry gently to his other shoulder, and pressed his forehead to hers. “We tuck them in, okay, that’s what we do next. Then we go to our own bed, okay, and go to sleep, and when we wake up it’ll be a new day.”

“A new day,” she said. “Another day– James, that’s the– I’m so tired.”

“So let’s sleep. It’ll look better in the morning,” he said. “And if it doesn’t look better this morning, it’ll look better in the next one.”

“You promise?”

“Better than that. I’ll show you. Every day,” he said and kissed her cold forehead.

Dudley had not shown up on the Potters’ doorstep with the milk bottles. Lily had gotten a phone call from the landline she still had installed in Godric’s Hollow, about an accident, and she had gone down to the Muggle police station to identify the bodies.

The cupboard under the stairs was filled with spiders, broomsticks, and the sewing machine Lily’s mother had given her when she married James– that’s all. Dudley slept downstairs. Uncle Remus taught Dudley and Harry to knock out coded messages through the wall their rooms shared.

In the backyard, beside a rickety porch and an ambitious hedge, James taught them to fly– first on little tot brooms where their toes brushed the grass the whole time, then out of the barrels of practice brooms James used for lessons and coaching Little League Quidditch.

When the boys turned ten, five weeks apart, they both got shiny new Nimbuses on Dudley’s birthday (which came first), and a set of enchanted Quidditch balls on Harry’s, to share. The Bludgers were enchanted to be very kind but Dudley spent long afternoons whacking them far afield while Harry chased the Snitch at his back.

Harry had a scar on his forehead, like a jagged bit of lightning. Dudley had no scars– the car crash that had killed his parents hadn’t touched him where he sat strapped into a car seat in the back, chewing on a stuffed dinosaur toy.

Lily did not believe in lying to the children. She was bare years off being a child herself, and spare moments on the far side of a war. When Dudley asked about his parents, she told him there had been an accident. She pulled pictures off the shelf and wrote Petunia’s old university friends for more.

Photographs came by mailman, the images still and unnatural to Dudley’s eye. Every day he’d gone out to play, for years, he’d been waving at the picture near the back door of his aunt and uncle on their wedding day, and they waved back every time.

“She was very clever,” Lily said. “Your mom liked to know everything.”

“And my dad?”

“Vernon liked… cars?” James offered. “That’s the word, right, Lily?”

“I didn’t know him very well,” Lily said. “He liked drills, I think; he worked for a firm that made them, and he talked about that a lot.”

Dudley brushed his thumbs over the dull edges of the photos. When Lily went off to Auror headquarters the next morning for work, James bundled the boys up and took them on an impromptu invisible tour of Grunnings Drill Manufacturing Inc.

They tiptoed down halls and past water coolers and ringing fellytones. They held hands under the Cloak as they dodged around the machines on the manufacturing floor, thumping and pounding and whirring away loudly enough that Harry and Dudley could whisper to each other under the noise. An elevator took them all the way up to the top floor. Harry whistled cheerily and eerily along with the elevator music while the Muggles slowly edged toward the doors and pressed floor buttons lower than they’d originally wanted.

There were boxes and cabinets and folders and desks and staticky monitor screens full of numbers strewn in endless grids. “Merlin’s knuckles,” said Harry, who was seven and a half and rather proud of this expletive. “People can look at this all day, their whole lives, and not die?”

“Work is hard work,” said James.

“At least mum gets to curse things.”

“But my dad liked it?” Dudley said, peering at a white board that was bleeding enthusiastic marker. “There’s a lot of things, here. Maybe he liked knowing things, too.”

When the boys asked about the scar on Harry’s forehead, Lily and James looked at each other. “You know how sometimes we sit with Uncle Remus and talk about a war?” James said. “Or with Ms. Amelia or Mr. Mundungus.”

“Mr. Mundungus is kinda smelly,” Harry said helpfully.

“It’s not nice to say so though,” said James, and Lily made a face.

“Are we raising them to be nice?” Lily said.

“I’m trying,” said James.

“You talk about a war,” said Harry and shrugged. Dudley nodded.

“There was a very bad man, in those days,” said James.

“Voldemort,” said Lily, and James made a face.

“He was so scary a lot of people don’t like to say his name, even now,” said James. “And he was coming after us because we had been fighting against him, in the war. He came to the house and he tried to hurt you, Harry. But it didn’t work. It hurt him instead, and gave you that scar.”

“Is he going to come back?” said Dudley, who was paler than his normal pink.

“No one’s heard of him since then,” said Lily.

“Where were you?” said Harry, because all his life they had been right there.

“Oh,” said Lily, but her throat closed up.

“We were at Dudley’s mum and dad’s funeral,” said James. “Our friend– our friend Sirius was watching you two. The bad man, he came to the house. He. Well. I.”

“Sirius died,” said Lily, one hand squeezing James’s knee and the other reaching down to brush hair off Dudley’s forehead. “You lived, Harry, and Voldemort vanished. And that’s why sometimes people stare in the streets, baby.” James tweaked Harry’s collar absently.

Two days after they had buried Lily’s sister, the Potters had stood together in the first chills of November and buried James’s brother.

Sirius had been burned off the Black family tree years before. Lily and James had talked to his cousin Andromeda, to Remus, and then they had laid him to rest in the Potter family plot. At the wake, they’d told old jokes about squirrel breath, shedding, and man’s best friend. Remus had fallen asleep on their couch and stayed for a month.

It took a two hour row with HR for Lily to get two passes to the Ministry’s Bring Your Kid To Work Day.

“He’s a Muggle.”

“He’s not,” Lily snapped. “He’s family.”

She had to get permission, sign a million forms, and she also had to take the boys in early so that Dudley could get smothered in the spells that would keep the Anti-Muggle wards around the Ministry from activating on him. “If a Muggle stumbles in somehow, they just see a funny-smelling supply cabinet and turn back around,” Lily told Dudley. He nodded and dragged Harry off by the wrist to go look at the fountain.

The windows were pouring sunlight into the underground room– the maintenance workers had just gotten a win on their contract negotiations and had banished the grimy rain-spattered windows of the previous weeks. The light hit the falling water, the golden statues, and the small excitable crowd of Ministry dependents who were gathering in the atrium. Dudley was fishing about in the fountain for Knuts to toss back out again, elbow-deep, and Harry was laughing and coming up with weird wishes to make on them.

Lily hadn’t said son. She’d said family, and that was true enough, wasn’t it? She didn’t say son– she had a son, and she had a nephew, a ward, another child who came to her after nightmares and scraped knees. It was not less, it was just words.

Lily worried about stealing more things from Petunia. Tuney had shrieked at her, in ladies’ restrooms and suburban foyers, had hissed at her in grocery store aisles and family dinners, because Lily got everything. And now Lily had her son.

Lily could just imagine it– could just see Petunia’s face twisting and chin stabbing at the air. You could have anything, and you took my son– my son!

“You left him to me,” Lily whispered, but that wasn’t quite right. “You left,” she whispered, and that wasn’t quite right either, so she strode off toward the fountain to ask the boys if they wanted to go see the Auror spellwork ranges. Dudley’s sodden shirt sleeves dripped all over the Ministry floors. Harry’s hair fell down into his eyes and they both grinned bright enough to rival the spelled sunlight.

Keep Reading (Ao3)

Keep reading

hear me out now

polydins

pidge, shiro, lance, hunk, and keith all in a happy, healthy, consensual relationship with one another where none of them feels less or more significant. they all love and value each other equally, no one is more favoured than anyone else. 

  • they all share one room now. they moved into a suite on the castleship because it has a bed big enough for all of them to snuggle in
  • everyone fights for a spot next to hunk at night because he is absolutely the king at snuggling
  • shiro is surprisingly petty during these scuffles. dudes got sharp elbows
  • pidge is too smart to take part in the fighting - while the others are squabbling, she curls right up under hunk’s arm and they watch together
  • hunk doesn’t stop it because it makes him feel loved
  • shiro still suffers from ptsd on a very severe level and wakes frequently from his sleep with night terrors
  • he used to dread that - waking up and trying to calm himself down, but he could never really go back to sleep
  • now it’s better. the night terrors still happen with as much frequency, but by the time he wakes up he’s aware that he couldn’t be more safe
  • he’s sleeping surrounded by four paladins of voltron
  • one of them could enslave the entire universe with just her laptop
  • one can bench press him for six solid hours and never get tired
  • one is capable of cutting through an entire squad with one hand tied behind his back
  • and one could plan all of those events in his sleep, and shoot a fly from across a football field with his eyes shut
  • and each time it happens, all four of them wake up and crowd in close to him and snuggle him all over. they press kisses against every inch of him and they hold his hands 
  • lance will sing sometimes
  • after the first few weeks of initial awkwardness abt their relationship, they all become surprisingly touchy feely with each other
  • they’re always touching (esp. always touching shiro somehow)
  • voltron becomes stronger than ever
  • keith and lance don’t stop arguing but it’s mostly just because they’re used to it now
  • it typically ends in really steamy makeouts
  • shiro and pidge like to watch it all dissolve
  • shiro initiates afternoon naps like all the time
  • when lance is feeling insecure (read: always) they make it their personal mission to shower him with affection
  • shiro will scoop him up and kiss him till he goes red in the face 
  • hunk and pidge are a force to be reckoned with when they get Ideas
  • keith loves kissing hunk and will do so every chance he gets
  • lance is the only one who can convince pidge to sweep everything off her workbench and make out 
  • after a hard battle, shiro isn’t content until he can drag every one of his paladins into a pile and spend at least an hour decompressing
  • as long as hes got physical contact with each of them then he’ll be okay
  • they’re all in love with each other okay
  • all of them are in love with all of them and they wouldn’t have it any other way
  • nsfw headcanons later? obviously
fall

or…lena doesn’t stop believing in the one person who believed in her

(or…the terrible thing i wrote to get rid of writer’s block and it’s long and sad but has a happy ending)

Supergirl dies on a Wednesday.

Sometimes, when she’s alone in her office in the wee hours of the morning, still in yesterday’s clothing and unsure when she’d last eaten, she thinks about that, the utter normalcy of losing National City’s hero on a Wednesday. Somehow, the death on such a boring day of the week provides a sort of stark contrast that Lena has trouble wrapping her head around. After all, surely the hero and pride of National City would fall in a blaze of glory on a Friday night, a Sunday afternoon, even a Monday morning during rush hour.

But a Wednesday? Some time between mid-morning and noon? When nothing was happening except for the drudge of the week, the tireless churning of society?

She doesn’t understand it—has tried to come to terms with it with very little success. In her weakest moments, when she’s staring down the end of a bottle of whiskey or wine (before Jess or Maggie or even James Olsen pry the bottle from her fingertips and help her get home), she thinks the very banality of Supergirl’s death is evidence of its unnecessary nature, its needless, pointless, meaningless, asinine

Supergirl dies on a Wednesday.

By Friday, the President herself comes to National City to mourn the fallen hero. She talks about the few short conversations she’s had with Supergirl, how everyone should be inspired and follow Supergirl’s wonderful example. A true hero, an exemplary citizen.

(Lena doesn’t go to the ceremony. She and Alex spend that afternoon in Kara’s apartment, sitting on Kara’s couch, Alex stoically staring at the television screen with silent tears running down her cheeks and Lena gripping her hand so tightly she thinks she’ll break fingers.  

After that, Lena doesn’t see much of Alex at all.)

Keep reading

“Yuuri, the baby is sniffling. I think we should take her to the hospital.”

“What?!” Yuuri screeches, vaulting out of bed because it’s four o’clock in the morning and the only things that made their way into his sleeping brain were baby and hospital.

Viktor is hovering over him like some sort of predatory bird, holding the baby. Their matching pairs of eyes are both fixed on him. It looks kind of like they’re one creature with four eyes and Yuuri is still partially asleep.

“Holy shit, never do that again,” Yuuri snaps, nearly punching the switch on the lamp.

The baby sneezes.

“Sniffles, Yuuri,” Viktor says gravely, slowly rocking back and forth. Viktor does that constantly nowadays, even when he’s not handling the baby. Yuuri caught him holding Yuri’s skate bag the other day, gently bouncing and patting it while staring with zero focus in his eyes and intense concentration on his face at the closest wall.

“Does she have a fever?”

“No, but I–”

“Did you listen to her chest? Is she breathing normally?”

“Yes, but–”

“Does she seem distressed?” To Yuuri’s eyes, she just looks perplexed. Perplexed and maybe a bit upset to have been removed from her warm bed and now have a bright light shining into her face.

“No, b–”

“Then it can wait until the morning.” Yuuri turns off the light and takes her from Viktor’s hands, curls up on his side with her wiggling in his arms. “Hello, sweetheart. Let’s go back to sleep.” He kisses her head and waits for Viktor to slowly shuffle around the bed and get in behind him.

“You can’t fall asleep with her in our bed,” Viktor tells him fretfully after a moment.

“I’m aware,” Yuuri says slowly. “Did you know that I’ve read the exact same parenting books that you have, Viktor? Did you know that?” He kisses her again. “The feeding alarm is going to go off in a few minutes. I’m resting my eyes until then.”

There is blessed silence for almost a full minute before Viktor says, “I just think–”

“I will strangle you in front of your child,” Yuuri hisses.

“Shutting up now.”

Six years later, Viktor watches their second child run head-first into a wall and does nothing but shout, “Shake it off, bunny!” from across the room. Yuuri avenges his younger self by dropping their third child into Viktor’s lap and announcing, “He needs to be changed.”

It’s one of those diaper changes that ends with Viktor standing in the shower with the baby, unsalvagable clothes (Both baby’s and Viktor’s) in a trash bag by the bathroom door. Yuuri films it.

princevolker2788  asked:

Dragon Age: Inquisition companions reacting to a young inquisitor (3 to 9) asking if they can sleep next to them after a nightmare concerning Redcliffe Castle. Especially if said companions were the ones who died protecting them as Dorian brought them back to the present.

Cassandra: She blinks at them through the darkness of night, and after a moment’s hesitation, consents and allows it. She’s awkward, but they go to sleep quickly, feeling safe near her. She eventually drifts off as well, feeling pity for the young one.

Iron Bull: He’s a little worried he’ll roll over on them, so he lays there motionlessly as they cuddle up against him and quietly go to sleep. He eventually drifts off, frozen in place, minding the spot the child chose to sleep in against him.

Blackwall: Awkwardly, he shrugs and allows it, unsure of himself as the child curls up against him and goes to sleep. He had heard about what happened in Redcliffe, and he understands their wanting to be with someone, but… him? He feels peace settle over him as the child begins to snore, quiet pride and quiet duty, and he follows suit.

Sera: She wordlessly pulls open the cover and lets them crawl in, and the two sleep soundly as she gently puts an arm over them to reassure them that she is real and they are safe.

Varric: He allows it, for once quiet as slumber threatens to take him back. He grunts as they push against him, and he relinquishes a sigh. “You’re safe, kid. We’re all okay.” The words settle them as much as he wishes it would settle his nerves, and he drifts off as they do.

Cole: He doesn’t sleep, but he lies down and lets the child cuddle up against him. “Warm and comforting, arms of love pulling me close, warding demons off, you feel safe. You are safe. I’ll do my best.” He lies there as long as they sleep, and feels happy for doing so– he helped.

Dorian: He’s a little worried and unsure of how exactly to comfort them. “Are you sure you want to sleep in my bed? Not with Cassandra or… someone else?” he asks warily. The child insists and crawls under the sheets. Dorian sits there for a moment, a bit befuddled, but the child starts drawing quiet little breaths as they fall to sleep, and he follows suit quietly.

Solas: He quietly allows it. “Come, da’len; I will ensure no demons serve you nightmares. The majesty of the Fade will guide us to peaceful slumber.” His words soothe them, and both drift off in peace.

Vivienne: Normally, she would adamantly refuse, but the child is teary and shaking, so she sighs and lifts the sheet up. “Don’t plan on making a habit of this.” she warns. At the same time, she feels something bubbling in her chest, something like warmth and quiet pride, and she drifts off to sleep peacefully.

Josephine: Like Sera, she quietly holds the sheets open, remembering times she had to do this with Yvette or any of her younger siblings. She has performed this duty many times, one of comfort and love, and she feels their panic fading away as they curl up against her. Both drift off quickly.

Leliana: Without so much as a word or a glance up, she holds the sheet up and allows them in before drifting off to sleep, her arm settling over them quietly. They feel extra safe– nothing can hurt them when the Spymaster is there.

Cullen: He’s half-asleep, and a bit too incoherent to process what’s going on, but he gives in. He finds the next morning that his own nightmares were fewer and of less intensity, and he only prays the poor child felt safer, too.

Here’s a representative gif for all of them:

Originally posted by cutepikachu

Mirror For The Sun - Part 10: Los Angeles (End)

Masterlist  -  Series Masterlist  -  Part 9 

Summary: (Bucky POV) Nat tricks you into leading a road trip with Bucky, Sam and Steve. Her plot is partly to get the boys to travel for fun for once but mostly to get you and Bucky together. You and Bucky, who seemingly despise each other.

Warnings: swearing

Word Count: 5226 I’m excessively wordy. Deal with it.

Author’s Note: Here we go! This is the last part! It is longer than it probably needs to be, and there are some parts I don’t love, but hopefully you like it. :)

Originally posted by stuckybarnesrogers

Laying on the couch in that massive hotel suite with her stretched and exhausted body half on top of mine, all I can think about is how warm and soft she feels like this. I can feel everywhere that our skin meets like I’m glued to her smooth warmth, her cheek pressed flat against my chest, eyes closed, her fingertips lightly tracing over my neck and shoulders, occasionally sending a shiver running across my entire body. I don’t want to move or think, I just want it to be quiet like this, swirling lazy circles over her back like this. This is how it should have been days ago, this is how close I want her all the time.

Keep reading

catfruits  asked:

Okay, so, I'd love to read a little something by you set in a world where Lavender made it out of the Battle of Hogwarts. Maybe not okay, but alive?

Once upon a time, Lavender had wanted everyone to look at her. She had been the kind of kid who put on dramatic plays for her stuffed animals, for any visitors to the house, and for any neighbor or passersby she could snag from the front yard.

Dating Ron in sixth year had been fun, most of all because everyone had kept sneaking glances at her. She had heard her name in curious whispers and she had grinned and giggled into Parvati’s shoulder.

Everyone was looking now, or pretending not to. She heard the whispers– oh it’s that poor Brown girl. Can you imagine, if it was your daughter, if it was you? Oh and she was so pretty before, too–what a pity–almost makes it worse, doesn’t it?

“You know Professor Lupin was a werewolf?” Hermione said, ten minutes into a very awkward lunch she had asked for in an equally awkward letter.

Lavender pushed a sauteed carrot through a little puddle of pasta sauce. “I think everyone heard about that one. Someone told the papers, or something, right?”

“Er, yes,” said Hermione. “Snape did. Which is what I– I mean, it’s related. Oh, I wish you’d gotten to talk to Remus about this. He was a lovely man.”

“Not as lovely as Lockhart,” Lavender said and she and Hermione spent a moment in wistful remembrance. “God, I feel old,” Lavender said.

“Anyway, Snape,” said Hermione. “Snape and Lupin. When Lupin was at school, Snape would make him a potion that would… tame him, on full moons. He could just curl up in his office and sleep by the fire. If you’re interested, I’m trying to learn how to brew it myself.”

Lavender shook her head. “We’re not friends,” she said. “Never have been. So why are you doing all this?”

Hermione looked like she was trying to say “we’re friends,” but she couldn’t get it out. “I was there, once, when Lupin turned without the potion. I was so scared. I thought we were going to die.”

“Afraid I’ll sniff you out on a dark night?” Lavender said, face twisting as she sank back into her wicker chair.

“No, I–” Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, and all the hesitation was making Lavender more and more uncomfortable. Even at eleven, Hermione had bulldozed through things. She didn’t waver. “I was so scared, but I think it was even worse for him. It hurt, but he looked so scared, too, I–”

“I know how it feels,” said Lavender, very quietly, and Hermione snapped her mouth shut. Lavender took a big sip from her tea. It was still steaming– it had not taken long to exhaust small talk, between the two of them.

Hermione cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m trying to do the right thing. I’m trying to make amends. I’m trying to– make things better. Do you want this?”

Lavender put her mug back down, shaking out scalded fingers, and said, “Yes.” Then, because her mother had raised her right, she said, “Thank you.”

“That sounds like a weird conversation,” said Parvati, whose door Lavender went and knocked on after she and Hermione had split the bill with the precise-to-the-Knut math of the vaguely acquainted and recently employed.

Lavender kicked through the fall of autumn leaves that had collected in front of the porch swing. “She was trying to be nice, I think.”

“She’s not very good at it,” said Parvati.

-

Her father wept. He tried not to but he was a crier, always had been.

“You were so brave,” said Lavender’s mother, cupping her cheeks in her warm hands and not even flinching at the scar tissue under her palms. “We are so proud.”

Lavender’s mother was a Muggleborn, daughter of a math teacher and a door-to-door salesman (“now there is a profession that requires some magic,” her grandfather used to tell her).

Her father was a wizard and he was trying hard not to cry, bending down to pet the dogs weaving between all their ankles. Lavender bent down, too, scratching behind Fiddlestick’s floppy ears while Mopsy cleaned her cheek forcefully. “Hey,” she said, and her father looked up, trying to firm his wobbly chin.

“You know I’m proud of you, too,” he said, trying not to tremble on it. “I just…” He reached out to squeeze her knee gently. “You did everything right. You did everything good. I’m so proud of you, chickadee.”

“I know,” she said, and she did. He was a Gryffindor, too.

-

It took Hermione more than a month to figure out the potion sufficiently well enough that she’d let Lavender try it. She was founding a non-profit for nonhuman rights, too, after all, as well as doing a fair few local speaking gigs, petitioning the Wizenagamot on a half dozen issues, getting an advanced degree, and supposedly, at some point, sleeping.

It took more than a month, so Lavender spent another night locked in her parents’ newly fortified cellar. She didn’t remember much, but she woke up with her throat sore and her nails ragged. The door was gouged from the inside. She wondered if she had been screaming. She wondered if that’s what the howls were. She felt like screaming, maybe, a little.

The door cracked open the moment the moon had dropped down below the horizon, outside. Her mother came in with a tray of her favorite breakfast foods– danishes and boiled eggs, steaming hot cocoa with the barest splash of bitter coffee in it.

Parvati came stomping down the stairs after her. “Graceful,” said Lavender. She winced at the roughness of her voice.

“Look who’s talking,” said Parvati. “Up, c'mon, eat your breakfast. We’re doing midnight manicures. Your dad says he’ll let us doll up his nails, too.”

The next full moon night, Lavender locked herself in the cellar again. “It should be safe,” Hermione had said. “It should. I mean, I’ve done all the tests. I followed all the instructions. It should work.”

Lavender didn’t remember, because she never remembered– she didn’t recall the cellar door unlocking and opening after ten minutes of post-moonrise silence. She didn’t recall Parvati Wingardium Leviosa-ing a comfy chair down the stairs, or her sitting down and pulling out a stack of Witch Weeklys, nor did she remember curling up on Parvati’s fuzzy button slippers and going to sleep.

But she did remember waking up in the morning, her cheek pressed into a soft pillow. She was tattered under a thick blanket, but she was human and looking upward at Parvati’s slack, sleeping face. Her dark plaits tumbled, curling, over the soft pink polka dots of her pajamas.

Lavender pulled herself up to sitting, stole the open Witch Weekly, and waited for Parvati to wake up.

-

“You’re going to be alright,” Professor Trelawney said and she wasn’t even looking at Lavender’s palm, just holding her hand tight in her cold fingers. “You’re going to be happy. You’re going to be fine. People are going to love you and stand by you and we will be there.”

The tower room was just the same as Lavender remembered it, down to the spicy-sweet tea and Trelawney’s big blinking eyes. Lavender squeezed her hands back. “I love you, too, professor.”

“You know, I think you can call me Sybil. It seems the time for it.”

Dean and Seamas’s housewarming for their ugly little first flat was a crowded mess, but the afterparty wasn’t. Lavender and Parvati came by with paint swatches, opinions, and hangover remedies. They ate greasy Chinese food on the floor, because it was about as comfortable as the couch.

They came back the next week, and the next. Parvati conjured a crackling fire in a big fruit bowl Dean’s mother had given him and they all sat around it like they were back at Gryffindor Tower’s hearths, procrastinating on homework.

On nights like that they sometimes talked about Hogwarts, but most of the time they didn’t. Dean had started drawing again and he walked them through his notebooks– his sisters, caricatures of the customers he dealt with in Ollivander’s wand shop, the snarky little comics he’d always scrawled in the edges of his notes. Parvati told them about the Auror trainees’ antics, going ut on their first field missions with their mentors. “All bravado and caffeine,” she said. “Bunch of show-offs.”

“So you fit in well, then?” Dean said.

“Nah, that’s Lav,” Parvati said. Dean and Seamas glanced warily at Lavender, but she just giggled and reached for another potsticker.

Seamas was considering going back to school. “Hermione’s been badgering me about it,” he said. “Says I have a talent for pyrotechnics, and there’s a whole major for fire magics at Brinxley.”

“What about you, Lav?” said Dean. “You still thinking about vet school?”

“What?”

“Oh, uh, that’s the Muggle word. Veterinarian– a medimagizoologist?”

“The schools aren’t too interested in a werewolf as a student,” Lavender said, shrugging.

“Not that that stops Hermione from showing up on the doorstep with half-penned anti-discrimination lawsuits she wants Lav to star in,” Parvati said.

“When does she sleep?” said Dean.

Little children asked about it in the street sometimes. “Mum, why’s her face like that?” “How come she’s walking all funny?”

Sometimes their parents turned to Lavender with eager bright eyes in the grocery store line, expecting her to answer. (“I got hurt, but I’m okay now.”) Sometimes they shushed their kids and gave her little apologetic half-smiles, glancing away from the raised lines of scar tissue. Sometimes they pulled their children closer to them and crossed to the other side of the street.

Harry Potter had a godson. Teddy Lupin was four the first time Lavender met him, just outside Gringotts. Teddy clung to Harry’s pants leg, peeking past his godfather’s hanging robe. “Why’d her face do that?” he said and Harry dropped a hand down into Teddy’s hair, which was bright green.

“She’s just like your dad,” said Harry.

“Puppy,” Teddy whispered, eyes wide with joy, and his skin shifted until scars stood out stark on his smiling chubby cheeks.

Lavender bit her lip and sank down to her knees in the street, holding out a hand. “Why aren’t you handsome, chickadee. What’s your name?”

Once, Lavender had wanted everyone to look at her.

She hated stories that told you to be careful what you wished for. Were you not supposed to want things? Was that the answer? She was nearly twenty two and she could make things fly with a few whispered words. She had lived through her seventh year at Hogwarts, had stepped out into that battle with her wand out and her eyes open. She had woken up–hurting, wounds tended, poison in her veins–to Parvati sleeping on Sybil’s shoulder at her bedside.

She had cried when they told her about the lycanthropy. She had cried over her bunny because a fox had gotten to it. Both times it had been with her face buried in Parvati’s shoulder and Parvati’s hands stroking her hair. She wished and she wanted– animals that never left you, bodies that never betrayed you.

Once, Lavender had wished that everyone would look at her, and now they were. Everyone was looking– so Lavender held Parvati’s hand in the grocery store at midnight, because they had both been craving green apples. Everyone was looking– so Lavender curled her hair and pinned it up, wore tank tops and little skirts on any day hot enough that she could get away with it, laughed aloud in public spaces. Everyone was looking– so Lavender knocked on Hermione Granger’s door one evening and asked, “What would it take to get me into magical vet school?”

Hermione had her bushy hair all tied back and a quill behind each ear. “A lot. There’s some statutes we’ve got to fight, and even if we can handle that you’ll still be under intense scrutiny for years.”

“I can work with that,” said Lavender, and Hermione grinned.

When Teddy marched down the aisle with the rings, his hair was a shimmering swirl of pink and purple to match the flowers woven into Parvati’s braids and Lavender’s curls.

The honeymoon would be short–a week in magical Paris in the townhouse of a Beauxbaton girl they’d befriended fourth year. Lavender had more medical textbooks packed into her luggage than anything else. Parvati’s bags were lined with half-finished reports that she’d owl to Auror headquarters from a rumpled Parisian morning, getting croissant crumbs in the bedsheets.

But for now the hall was filled with pink and purple blooms, white candles, familiar faces. Hermione stood in a violet bridesmaid’s dress, and Dean and Seamus in matching ties at Parvati and Lavender’s respective backs. Padma was luminescent with joy over Parvati’s shoulder. She had taken Lavender aside that morning for a short quiet walk in the mist and told her, “I know tonight’s what makes it official, but I’ve thought of you as my sister for years.”

When Lavender leaned forward and kissed her wife, her father burst into proud tears in the front row. He was a crier, always had been. Lavender buried her face in Parvati’s shoulder, smiling so hard she thought she might come apart. Her scars creased and puckered in her dimples, and she was beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

For the heck of it, I decided to rewrite and expand on my idea of how Coran figures out dealing with Slav.


The multi-armed alien is curled in a tight little ball under a console in the Lions’ hanger when Coran finds him, having been tipped off by Yellow and the muttered sound of dire predictions.

A strange fellow this Slav may be, but he knows how to deal with the sight of someone having bad nightmares, and very gently taps a hand clamped over an ear with one of the cold bottles he’s carrying. “Easy, it’s just me,” he says when that draws a yelp and a frenzied attempt to curl up even smaller. “Come out of there and rehydrate before you sweat yourself to nothing.”

“I have only a twelve per cent possibility of being able to die of dehydration in my current condition,” Slav mumbles, but slinks out of his hidey-hole nonetheless. 

The bags under his eyes are pretty spectacular.

Coran gently waves the offered bottle in front of his face, and Slav eyes it suspiciously before snatching it and cracking the seal, sniffing at the spicy-sweet contents. “Belai? Why would you keep this in stock?”

He shrugs. “It’s a good idea to be stocked for everything,” he says as if that actually answers the question instead of dodges it, and pretends not to notice the very obvious change in the way Slav looks at him.

Maybe he answered more accurately than he wanted to. Oh, well.

He takes a seat on a mechanic’s stool and his slithery little drinking buddy clambers up onto the console and takes a swig. “More bad dreams about other realms?” Coran asks once Slav has had enough that the question won’t send him into a complete frenzy.

“Oh, my, yes. Always. So many. And the percentages of them happening are so high. There is a ninety-eight per cent possibility that our rescue mission on Rurikora will end with seven children dead and ourselves in captivity. Eighty-six per cent-”

“Slav. Have you ever tried not thinking about the likely timelines?” Coran asks, and Slav looks up from his bottle with a head-tilt that reminds him of Allura when she was a toddler.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, try imagining something completely outlandish. Like… Pidge becoming Queen of the Turimonquans.”

Slav blinks at him, then snorts out a barking noise that sounds like a laugh. “But that only has an-”

“Don’t tell me the percentage.”

“W-what? But you said-”

Coran thinks, tapping a fingertip against his own bottle. “Tell me… tell me what her coronation outfit looks like.”

And that, he discovers, is the secret. Never talk about the percentages. Percentages bring anxiety, and an anxious, stressed Slav is a bundle of nervous energy that drives the entire crew off the handle. 

So instead, every time Coran gets that itch up the back of his neck that means a certain alien is somewhere in the Castle having a breakdown, he quietly fishes a couple of bottles of Belai out of the cooling chambers, digs Slav out of wherever he’s hiding-

-and they talk.

About other timelines, mostly. Worlds that never happened, or have the slimmest chances of happening. But never in percentages. Instead, Coran always asks for visions, images, what Slav sees as his mind reaches out into those pathways that wind before and behind them.

“There is a timeline where we all really do end up becoming space pirates,” Slav says as he rolls his bottle back and forth between his paws.

“Yeah?” Coran takes a drink. “What are you wearing for your pirating outfit?”

“For some reason, I have many, many earrings. I do not understand. It seems very inefficient to have so many earrings.”

“Maybe it makes you look tough.”

“Hm. I have always wondered what it would be like to be the frightening-looking one for a change.”

“I don’t understand how you can put up with him,” Allura mutters when she notices the alien curled up peacefully beside him in a snoozing lump. “If I have to kick him off the piloting controls one more time, I’m going to scream.”

Coran absently pets an ear, and Slav mutters in his sleep, not about probability, but about energy sails and swords. “Just have to give him the right outlet, that’s all.”

It was still dark.

Alec sighed and pressed his face against Magnus’ back, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades. The warlock didn’t respond. Alec wasn’t surprised. Magnus was practically drained after the last twenty four hours, and Alec wasn’t much better off himself.

Even after the fight against Valentine and finding each other after hours of not knowing if the other was alright, Magnus and Alec still had work to do. As a downworld leader, Magnus had to help with the identification of the dead, then he opened a portal so that the bodies could be delivered to their packs and clans, rather than leave them for the shadowhunters to dispose of. Then he had met with Luke and Raphiel, about what Alec still hadn’t asked. Magnus would tell him if he wanted to.

Alec had been busy himself. As the head of the institute he’d had to inform the families of the lost shadowhunters and help transport them to the large open space where their funerals would be held. Reports had to be written, damage control completed. Izzy was the infirmary, Jace was brooding, and the Soul Sword was missing. He didn’t know what he needed to deal with first.

Finally, when all that they could do was done, Magnus and Alec had walked to the warlock’s loft, hand in hand, not speaking. Once there, they had removed their shoes at the door and found themselves in Magnus’s huge bathroom.

Alec had undressed his boyfriend with shaking hands. He checked every inch of uncovered skin for injuries, his fists clenching in anger when he found light bruises where the vampires had gripped Magnus outside the institute. Magnus only murmured soothingly to him that he was fine, his nimble fingers going about removing Alec’s gear. If he found a cut or scrape anywhere, he made it disappear with a warm flash of blue from his fingertips before they stepped into the shower together.

Their touches under the hot water hadn’t been sexual, though. They had simply stood together, watching blood and dirt and sweat wash away. Alec had grabbed the shampoo and went for Magnus’ hair, washing out gel and spray until it was left limp and soft between fingers. Magnus had followed his lead, though his menstruations were to sooth Alec.

Alec had looked up into Magnus’s eyes, still ringed in thick black makeup. Makeup that wouldn’t wash away until Magnus wanted it gone. Alec had asked him, in way that he hoped made it clear it was up to Magnus, to take it off. And he had.

Because tonight they didn’t need to be the head of the New York institute or the High Warlock of Brooklyn. They just needed to be Magnus and Alec.

They had gotten out of the shower and dried themselves off before crawling into bed, Alec in shorts and a T-shirt and Magnus in a pair of Alec’s sweatpants. They laid facing each other on Magnus’s bed, their legs tangled and foreheads touching. They spent the short time before they fell asleep whispering ‘I love you’s and kissing.

Alec didn’t remember falling asleep, but now it was well after one in the morning. He wasn’t really concerned, he had made a habit of waking up in the middle of the night around the same time Jace and Izzy had started sneaking out of the institute years ago. He kissed the back of Magnus’s neck and rolled away from him, wanting a little space under the warm sheets.

Alec nuzzled his face into the cool pillow, then slowly opened his eyes to look at the clock. Instead his hazel eyes locked with a pair of dark brown ones. Alec immediately jolted awake, hands searching for a weapon out of reflex before his brain kicked in. He recognized who those eyes belonged to.

“Madzie?” He asked in a hushed voice as a million questions ran through his mind.

What was she doing here? How did she get here? Did Caterina even know she was gone? Why hadn’t she set off Magnus’s wards? Why was she staring at Alec like that?

“I had a bad dream,” The little girl said, as is Alec should have known. As if she had always came to his bedside when she had nightmares.

“Uh…” Madzie looked at the floor.

“Nana let’s me sleep with her when I have bad dreams.”

Finally, Alec’s sleep addled brain kicked in. Madzie had had a nightmare. She was scared. She was scared and her nana was gone. So she found the next person who she trusted. She found Alec.

Suddenly it didn’t matter that there was no way Madzie should have been able to portal herself here when she had never been to Magnus’s apartment. It didn’t matter that she had made it through powerful wards without disturbing Magnus at all. It didn’t matter that this was completely crazy. All that mattered was that Madzie was scared and she had came to Alec for comfort.

“Do you want to sleep with us?” Alec asked her. Madzie nodded, gnawing on her thumb nervously. Alec easily scooped her up and put her on the bed, between himself and Magnus.

Madzie curled into the pillows and pressed herself against Alec’s side, knotting her fingers in his shirt. Alec wrapped his arms around her and hummed softly in her ear.

He knew that Caterina was going to call in a panic in the morning. He knew Magnus was probably going get overexcited in one way or another. He knew the Clave was going to be furious. But he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Right now, all that mattered was the girl drifting to sleep in his arms.

Everything else could wait until morning.

sheerpoetry7  asked:

67: “My clothes look really good on you.” Neil/Andrew? Pretty please? 🙏🏻

It’s sickly hot on the day they’re supposed to play their first match of the season, a late summer heat that peels the cold morning away and sweats people out of their layers.

Neil’s mostly used to discomfort, so he puts his head down and gets on the bus. The rest of the foxes complain dramatically and threaten to strip until Wymack blasts the air conditioning and cuffs a few heads.

Everyone zips their sweaters off and ties their hair up, starting the laborious process of nest-making for the duration of the 9 hour drive to Cleveland. Every time Neil looks Andrew is aloof and pristine, like the sun isn’t any better at getting under his armour than anyone else. 

If you’re looking properly, you can see sweat turning the ends of his hair up and darkening his temples. It’s a strange indignity that Andrew wears like a calculated choice.

Nicky presses his icy water bottle into the base of Neil’s neck, and he gasps, clutching for the source.

“He lives!” Nicky says. “I’ve been calling you for five minutes.”

“We’ve been on the bus for thirty seconds,” Neil snaps.

“Thirty seconds too long,” Nicky laughs, leaning over the back of his seat so his arms dangle over Neil’s lap. “You wanna come talk strategy with Kev?”

Neil meets Nicky’s bright eyes, overly conscious of Andrew at his back, mussed by the temperature. He feels buttery nostalgia for the three hours they spent talking on the way to Baltimore, teeth pulling his lip in the empty bus, opening doors and considering it a win when Andrew didn’t close them.

“We’ve been pouring over stats for two weeks,” Neil tells Nicky, purposefully looking out the window to avoid his gaze. “We’re walking in ready.”

“Ahh, you’d think that. But apparently we have ‘blind spots’ that need seeing to. So says her majesty.” Nicky smirks, nodding at Kevin over his shoulder.

“Is he vice captain?”

“No,” Nicky says, mouth already curling in satisfaction.

“Then tell him to fuck off.”

“With pleasure, Neil Josten,” Nicky says, overly dramatic, winking back at him as he wanders to Kevin’s seat.

“Are you finally sick of it?” Andrew asks, and Neil lets himself enjoy the thrum of satisfaction he gets whenever Andrew initiates things. He turns all the way around in his seat.

“Of exy? No. Of kevin, yes.”

Andrew’s cool eyes trip over the foxes and windows and coughing AC units, landing on Neil and settling. Neil feels a yank in his gut like someone caught him by the waist while he was running full speed.

“Give me your bag.”

The feeling ebbs in a distracted sort of way, and Neil frowns. “Why?”

Andrew looks away, eyelashes light and fine on his cheekbones when he blinks. Neil knows from experience that another five minutes of heat would have curled Andrew’s hair and flushed his cheeks and neck.

He wants to see that. Like if he could take Andrew off the bus and kiss him in the thick heat, it would fix the feeling in his stomach.

“I want something,” Andrew says simply.

Neil rolls his eyes, but stands anyway. “That’s new.” He sways with the bus as he wrestles his duffel bag from the overhead compartment, dropping it on the seat next to Andrew.

Andrew unzips the top halfway and peels back Neil’s meticulously packed layers. The bus nearly topples him, so he settles back in and watches Andrew work, charmed.

He seems to find what he’s looking for, and Neil sees a flash of black fabric and the blur of Andrew rising out of his seat and into the aisle.

“Where are you going?”

Andrew slides him an unimpressed look and walks to the bathroom installed in the back of the bus. Neil watches him go, wondering wildly if he’s supposed to follow him.

He glances back along the groove of the aisle and finds Kevin ignoring Aaron and Nicky to glare at him. Beyond him, Matt’s grinning at Dan as she talks one of the newcomers through a play, and Allison’s curled up with a sleep mask and Renee’s shoulder.

He sits back against the sun-hot window and lets the jerky motion of the road keep him alert. He looks back towards the closed bathroom door and forward again, curiosity shivering over him.

Andrew emerges a second later, and Neil’s mouth goes cottony dry.

He’s put on Neil’s shirt. It’s the one that goes high enough to cover the scars framing Neil’s collarbones when he’s wearing it, but it leaves his arms open. It was part of this layered ensemble that Andrew bought him over the summer, but he almost only wears it to sleep because it shows the thatched burns on his ribcage. It’s breezy and comfortable and it’s not the first time Andrew’s stolen it.

But he doesn’t usually wear it where people can see, with his sweaty hair pushed halfway back and his arms pink from the sun he caught on the roof yesterday.

He sweeps back into his seat and pulls one knee up to his chest, and Neil watches the orchestration of his muscles matching up and tensing.

Andrew’s finger enters his field of view, too close to focus on. “Get that look off your face.”

“Get my shirt off, then,” Neil says before he can clap a filter on it. Andrew splays his arm all over his lounging knee, and Neil can see a pale triangle of skin under his arm, which shouldn’t mean anything to him. It shouldn’t.

“I didn’t pack for 100 degrees,” Andrew says, voice mild.

“Good,” Neil blurts.“My clothes look really good on you.” He swallows, and Andrew blinks at him, a bored predator.

“That’s the gayest thing I’ve ever heard, Neil!” Nicky hollers from four seats up. Neil’s mouth pinches with annoyance. “I’ve fucked guys, and that’s the gayest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“No one wants to hear that,” Aaron says, putting in earbuds and shoving over to the far end of his seat.

“I thought it was relevant context,” Nicky argues, and Kevin smacks him in the back of the head.

The front of the bus devolves into chaotic conversation, and Neil looks back at Andrew.

“I was serious.”

“I know you were.” This would be where he took a drag from his cigarette, if this was their rooftop. This would be where he kisses him. Neil watches him with that secret in his mouth, and when Andrew looks back, he can tell he’s thinking the same thing.

“It will not be a regular occurrence,” Andrew says. “Your wardrobe is barely fit for one person.”

“Right.” Neil smiles right behind his teeth, where it doesn’t show on his face. “I’m willing to take the hit.”

Andrew regards him over the seat back. “Aren’t you always?”

Neil leans in and drags his eyes deliberately over the column of Andrew’s neck on the way to his face. “I want to kiss you.”

Andrew tilts his head. “I can’t help you.”

Neil takes this without complaint, but he stays folded over the back of the seat. “This is enough,” he says, a foot between them, Andrew’s broad shoulders holding his shirt taut across them.

“Shouldn’t you be obsessing over the court by now?” Andrew asks, cleanly sidestepping Neil’s attention.

“It is a court,” Neil says, smiling. “It’ll still be there in nine hours.”

“And yet you drag us along three times a day to get your fix.”

“No one asks you to come.”

Andrew gives him a look and Neil huffs, looking at the ceiling like it’ll stop the thrill from showing on his face.

“But I’m glad you do.”

“You’re in a sharing mood today,” Andrew says, like he’s commenting on an unfortunate traffic jam.

Neil reaches out to finger the collar of his shirt, and he feels a hollow jerk go through Andrew when his knuckles brush his neck. “It must be the heat.”

anonymous asked:

can i prompt touch starved tony who loves any and all physical contact he has? someone puts a hand on his shoulder? amazing! someone lens into his side at movie night? the best! someone actually hugs him? omg! the avengers start to notice and perhaps do something about it?

Tony is a puppy. He soaks up affection like a sponge. (I threw in some Bucky because I wanted sleepy, helpless Tony.) Look out for under the cut!


Natasha noticed first. She had a leg up on everyone though, having been sent to spy on him. She’d noticed when Pepper would reach out to casually touch him—a pat on the shoulder, playing with his hair, sliding her foot up his calf—and Tony would look ecstatic. At least, as ecstatic as an emotionally constipated person could look. At first she’d thought it was flirting, and Tony was happy to finally have it reciprocated.

But then Jim Rhodes had stopped by and swept Tony up into a hug that brought his feet off the ground, and Tony had made a happy little noise that had… done something to her heart. While Rhodes was visiting, it seemed like they were always touching, whether it was an arm over Tony’s shoulders or Tony pressing his feet against Rhodes’s thigh.

Happy was touchy-feely with Tony, too. Even after boxing matches, when they were both bruised and sometimes bloody but always smiling, they’d lean their shoulders together, or Happy would be escorting Tony somewhere and keep a hand on his elbow. Tony didn’t even fuss, even though usually he would bitch about not needing anyone’s protection.

Keep reading

A Little More of This

Sometimes you just gotta write smutty bed sharing. You just gotta, because @alienor-woods prompts you too. Thanks bae, this is entirely dedicated to you <3

definitely nsfw. 


They get into a groove of it, push and pull and not that, I did it anyway, and somehow managing to make it all work. Well, “work.” Bellamy’s not sure they’re really getting any closer to saving everyone from the end of the world, but Clarke is so sure there’s a solution, so sure that if they just keep working, they’ll find something.

He loves that about her. Loves her certainty that borders on pigheadedness because underneath it, Clarke Griffin fundamentally refuses to give up on people. And there’s no way in the world Bellamy Blake can give up on Clarke Griffin. Not at this point. So he sticks with her, tries to help, tries to guide her and advise her and just support her when lack of sleep and heart crushing disappointment threaten to overwhelm her. And Clarke lets him, looks to him, leans on him.

Clarke’s habit of taking over his space hasn’t been lost on Bellamy. They’d picked right back where they had been in terms of their trust, their ability to get each other like no one else, their ability to listen to each other. But now, it’s more than quick shoulder squeezes and out of the blue hugs, Clarke a surprise in his arms. Clarke’s proximity isn’t to get his attention or to prove a point, not anymore.

He’s not sure what exactly pulls her into his orbit, right up close so that when he shifts his arms brushes her side, or that when she cranes her neck to look at him, she has to turn just a bit further because she’s so close. She touches him now, as if to reassure herself he’s right there, that she found her way home- home from the woods, home from the City of Light. She touches him like Bellamy is her only barometer of safety, like touching him reminds Clarke this isn’t a dream.

Keep reading

Touch of Your Love

 Hey guys! This is an imagine based on this textpost: “when his hands are so nice u just want him to put his fingers in your mouth.” When I saw it, I was like…. me @ Tom…? Basically, it’s as smutty and fluffy as they come, so I hope y'all like it!

Touch of Your Love

She loved his hands because they always engulfed her own.

She loved his hands because they were always warm, but never sweaty, or ever cold.

She loved his hands because they would always be there to guide her to safety.

She loved Tom’s hands because of all the things they did to her in the vehemence of their everlasting moments together.

They would wind themselves like vines against her skull, softly aiding her to wherever he wanted her the most. Sometimes, if Tom couldn’t wait, they’d hold her down against his touch while he worked his fingers, tongue, or hips against her.

Pressing her legs together, she cursed herself for thinking of Tom’s hands when she should be focusing on her professor’s lecture.

There was an in-class discussion occurring about Tennessee Williams’s play, ‘A Streetcar Named Desire,’ which happened to be one of her favorite plays, but she just couldn’t get Tom’s hands, and everything she’d like them to do to her, out of her head.

Her mind wandered to their morning together.

Whenever he was in town, they’d always stay together, no matter what the two had going on individually the next day.

Tom awoke earlier than she did, even though he didn’t need to be up yet because he had a rare free day from work, and he’d turned off her alarm and instead kissed her awake.

After he’d managed to untangle her from him, Tom had gently pushed her hair from the nape of her neck to pepper it with kisses. Then, he pressed hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses down her body, and over the sweater she’d stolen from him to wear bed.

Stirring slightly, she shifted in bed, causing the fabric of the sweater to reveal her midriff. Tom thanked the goddess of love for this blissful opportunity, and began trailing his fingers up and down her body.

She moaned in her sleep and Tom smirked, cracking his knuckles.

He dipped his calloused fingers into the sweet, pink panties she wore and tapped his forefinger against her clit, moving his mouth up to tease her neck with warm licks and kisses.

“Wake up darling,” his voice rasped against the base of her throat.

She awoke, wide-eyes and wet, with Tom’s untamed curls tickling her collarbones and Tom’s fingers preparing to curl inside her.

“Look at you, so lovely and ethereal.” Tom meant it too. He just couldn’t wrap his brain around how she always managed to look like an unearthly, delicate fairy when she awoke, while he resembled an exhausted bear. “Let me give you something to think about while you’re in class.”

Barely rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she burrowed her head back into her pillow and whined.

Tom didn’t make any move to further her pleasure, instead he propped himself up on one elbow to observe her clearer.

Wiggling her hips around, she tried to make Tom understand that she so desperately wanted him to give her something to think about in class.

“You know what I need.” Tom said.

She knew that Tom was waiting for her consent to go further, just as he always did. He always wanted to make sure that she was okay with what they were doing, so he always gave her time to agree or disagree.

“Please Tom,” she finally breathed out, curling her own tiny hand around his wrist.

With that, Tom moved in to kiss her, dragging her off the pillows, so that she’d be closer to where he needed her to be.

Her hair had fanned out around her head in an oh-so-fitting halo, Tom thought.

His mouth pressed urgently against her soft lips and his hands pushed her underwear down and she kicked them off the bed.

Tom hitched one of her legs around his waist, and cradled her hips to his own, his morning wood pushing against the warmth of her center.

Bringing a hand up to his mouth, he sucked three fingers into his mouth to slick them with saliva. She could’ve moaned at the sight.

Tom snuck his fingers back down to where she ached for him, and he pressed one against her clit.

“Fuck,” Tom groaned, doing his best to maintain his cool, “you’re fucking drenched for me. Did you wake up with this in mind, sweet girl?”

Her eyes rolled back when Tom slid a finger inside of her, doing his best to help her prepare for his others.

“Dreamt about you last night sweetheart. You were on this bed, lingerie and heels, all for me. Said you’d been a fucking bad girl and needed a punishment, so I had to drag you over my knee and spank you till your ass was cherry red.” Tom knew she loved being talked to in bed.

Tom couldn’t figure out why, but she was still shy and a little uncertain of herself when she was with him, and it made her feel better, and less embarrassed, to know how badly Tom wanted her too.

He rubbed the palm of his hand against her clit and used his other hand to press her bucking hips back down onto the bed.

Tom guided another finger into her and she gasped his name.

“And then I wake up, and see you looking like a fucking angel, all curled up against my chest, and it was too much, darling. I could feel you breathing, and hear you gasping in your sleep. And then I thought, I gotta fucking have you before you go to class, you’re too much, baby.”

Her thighs squeezed him closer to her and she kissed him, ever so softly, on the throat, her hands guiding themselves up to the nape of his neck.

Tom could tell that she was close, she always held onto him when she came.

“You’re getting close, aren’t you angel? Let me see you cum, darling, I need something think about after you’ve gone too. Come on, darling, let me see you finish.” Tom curled his finger inside her and mercilessly rubbed her clit.

She screamed and tried uselessly to lift her hips off the bed to force his fingers to delve deeper inside of her.

“Tom, please, please please.” Her eyes were fluttering, unable to stay open because she was too focused on Tom’s hands.

“What is it, m’love? Want another? Ask me politely and I’ll give it to you. You know that I’d give you everything, you just need to ask.” Tom kissed her lips and used the hand on her hips to trace hearts on her bare skin.

“Tom,” she was barely breathing, “please, I need another one.” She tried to shift her hips up to meet his hand, but Tom only smirked and held her down firmer.

“Of course, darling. All you had to do was ask.” And with that, Tom slid in another finger and began to use his thumb to draw the words, ‘I love you,’ on her clit and he wanted her shake, and moan, and grip his shoulders.

“Cum, my sweet girl, you’re alright, I’m here. Cum.” Tom ordered, and with that, she did.

Her legs shaking, and her body trembling, and countless ‘I love yous’ fell freely from her lips.

Tom wished that there was some way to bottle up those words, so that he could hear them, breathed into his ear whenever he wished.

He held her close and rubbed her back while she recovered from her early morning orgasm, and he counted each freckle that painted her skin.

“Wanna help me clean up?” Tom asked, bringing the hand that she’d gushed all over, up to her lips.

She tipped her head back opened her mouth, clearly understanding what Tom meant, and he dipped his fingers into the wet confines of her mouth.

Her lips closed behind his hand as she sucked and licked his fingers clean of her.

“Holy fuck,” Tom groaned, rubbing himself through his boxers.

She released him with a pop and Tom hurled himself at her, winding his hands into her hair as her pulled her on top of him.

Sitting so she straddled his lap, she smiled at him.

“I love you, I love you, I love you.” Tom murmured, looking up at her and lovingly stroking her thighs. “Go on and get ready, or else I won’t be able to let you leave.”

She clamored from his lap with shakey legs and crossed to the bathroom to begin her morning routine.

Tom laid back in bed, tugging at himself softly while she pranced around the room, removing shirt after shirt, before finally cheekily smiling at him over her shoulder as she settled on one of his sweaters.

He removed his hand from his pants and walked to the door to kiss her goodbye, promising to pick her up for lunch after school.

As she walked to her friend’s waiting car, she looked back and blew him a kiss before rushing to the vehicle.

When Tom had finally seen her off, he leaned up against the door and jacked himself so hard that when he came, he shouted her name.

Little did he know, that now, in her lecture, all she could think about was wrapping her pretty, pink lips around the length of his cock.

Sleepover-Sirius Black Imagine

Request: helloo i was wondering if you could do a sirius x reader where everyone knows they love each other but they don’t admit it & for some reason one day all the marauders are sleeping in the girls dorm (like a sleepover lol) but its v cold and they don’t have enough blankets, sirius and reader have to share and they wake up cuddled up to each other and just fluff?? 

Warnings: none

Requests are always open, hope you enjoy! xo


Sirius and Y/N had been in love since they first laid eyes on each other. The two were attached at the hip and seldom seen apart; in rare cases when they weren’t together, they were utterly miserable. Everyone knew they were in love-well, except them.


“Face it Padfoot, you’re in love with Y/N,” James said, smirking as he watched his best friend shoot daggers at the boy talking to her across the common room. 

“Shut it, no I’m not. She’s my best friend, I have to look out for her,” Sirius replied, clenching his jaw as the boy stepped closer to her.

“We’re her friends too, but you don’t see us getting angry just because some bloke is talking to her, Sirius,” Remus chided.

“I’m not angry,” he snapped.

“No, just jealous,” James chuckled, earning a pillow to the face.

Keep reading

Happy Thoughts for a Bad Night
  • McGonagall comforting all of the little first years when they have had a nightmare, assuring them that even brave lions depend on the pride for strength. 
  • Sirius Black was one of these scared little lions after he was sorted into Gryffindor 

  • He had a nightmare about returning home and McGonagall would not hear of one of her lion cubs calling himself a disappointment, assuring him that he was too “what do the muggles call it these days? I believe I have heard one of my students refer to it as Punk Rock” to be anything other than spectacular. 

  • Sirius Black making it his mission from then on to aid every young student who had a nightmare.

  • He would stay up for hours telling them stories of Dumbledore and McGonagall and all of the amazing things they had accomplished and adventures they had been on while they snuggled into the little nest Sirius had built for them on the floor out of pillows and blankets. 

  • He would act out grand tales of Godric Gryffindor slaying magnificent beasts, fantastically illustrating his death defying maneuvers with over exaggerated movements and faces.

  • Any child who was frightened, no matter how old they were, always knew that they could quietly rap on his door and hop on his bed for a good story and a feeling of warmth and security. 

  • Eventually, after the first month of rapping on their bedroom door, the other marauders started to pitch in.

  • Peter would gather the blankets, because he was the best at fort building, and would settle all of the kids in to get ready for the story.

  • Remus would pass out sweet treats and hot chocolate before tucking in closer to the younger ones, because Moony’s hot chocolate is the best and no one would dare drink the stuff if anyone else made it. 

  • James would help Sirius with his epic skits and would cast dancing shadows on the walls in the shapes of hippogriffs and lions so that the younger ones felt protected and safe inside of the haven these four boys built for them.

  • Eventually, because it’s Hogwarts, word spread and Lily, Marlene, and Dorcas decided that the girls needed the same type of system.

  • In the event of a thunderstorm, Lily and Sirius made a plan to bring all the kids downstairs to the common room where they would all sit together in a giant nest of love and comfort, until they either fell asleep again, or the bad feelings passed enough for them to climb back into their own beds.   

  • Lily would braid hair so the little lions could have a mane when they woke up in the morning.

  • Dorcas would bring her guitar and sing softly when the mood required a more relaxed form of soothing 

  • Marlene would charm night-light stars on the ceiling so that the room would never get too dark and scary. 

  • One evening, after a very very violent storm, McGonagall decided to go up and check to see if her little lions were okay. 

  • She found everyone curled up in the common room, in front of the fireplace with thousands of charmed stars and shadow protectors on the walls. and 7 very gangly 7th years sleeping in a circle on the outside of the little ones. 

  • Instead of interrupting the peace, she walked to a sleeping Sirius Black, smoothed back his hair from his face and whispered “10 points to Gryffindor for finding courage and love in the heart of a storm” 
Of All My Parents’ Friends

@heartthesouth asked: 

Imagine Roger describing 1960s Claire (and possibly his remembrance of 1940s Claire from his childhood) to Jamie.


One-shot; takes place just after the Gathering in book-verse (The Fiery Cross).

Bear in mind, this means Jamie and Roger are only *newly* on solid-ish ground after all the unpleasantness between them in Drums of Autumn. If you haven’t read the books, just imagine the very worst start a man could get off to with his father-in-law. (YIKES.) 

 -Mod Bonnie


Fraser’s Ridge, North Carolina

October, 1770 


Puiff-ee?”

The word sounded absolutely stupid coming out of his father-in-law’s mouth, which (infuriatingly!) made ROGER feel the foolish one. “C’mon, ye know. Poofy? Like—voluminous?—

Jamie Fraser snorted violently into his lunch of bread and pickle and Roger felt a wave of anxiety. Was the word somehow offensive in this time??  But surely ‘poofy’ was more easily misconstrued than—

But Jamie—seated on a log next to Roger’s boulder—came up grinning, still coughing on crumbs as he choked out, “Ye mean to say there was a time when Claire’s hair was MORE voluminous than it is NOW?” 

They both laughed and Roger drank in the relief of the camaraderie, flimsy as it might be. 

“Christ almighty,” Jamie swore with feeling as the laughter subsided, shaking his head in genuine incredulity, “however did she manage THAT?”

“I dinna ken exactly,” Roger admitted with a hopefully-easy shrug, passing the stone bottle of cider, “Claire’s was sort of—” he made a swooping gesture overtop his own crown “—um…I dinna ken how to describe it.. Kind of—”

“A bouffant,” Brianna interjected helpfully, plopping down next to Jamie (well, as much as a six-foot-tall woman with a sleeping baby strapped to her front could ‘plop’) and doing a quick sketch in the dirt with a stick.  

“Oh, aye, a *bouffant,*” He grinned, leaning over to kiss his wife and son, grateful for the buffer. “I definitely knew that’s what it was called.” 

“How does—? But—where do the curls go?” Jamie kept tilting his head from side to side like a puppy as he peered down, clearly having difficulty translating the rough illustration to his wife’s head. “And how in hell did she get it to stay all rounded and puffed up?” 

“HAIRSPRAY,” he and Bree said in unison, though he left the task of explaining aerosol cans and their uses to the engineer. 

By the end, Jamie was grinning like a fiend. “Claire would glue her hair into place every day for fashion??

“Yep!” Bree laughed, expertly cupping Jem’s head as she bent forward to reach for a hunk of bread, “unless she was doing an operation that day, obviously. Not much call for style under a scrub cap.” 

Shaking his head in gleeful wonder, Jamie turned back to Roger. “What else was different about ‘Sixties Claire,’ to your eye, other than the hair?”

“Oo, her groovy makeup!” Bree said through a large bite.

Gr–? Cosmetics, ye mean?” 

“Aye, just so!” Roger said, hoping to win some son-in-law points, meagre as they might be. “And ‘groovy’ just means daring in an admirable way.” 

“Well, that sounds like Claire, right enough. Does every woman wear the Greuvvy Makeup, then?” 

Bree shrugged. “Pretty much.” 

“I tell ye what, though,” Roger said emphatically, seeing the opportunity and seizing it, “Claire certainly didna need all that. Not one bit.”

It was like a horror film. 

Two identical faces swiveled on tall, twin necks, fixing him with identical expressions of amusement. Or possibly menace. Either way, absolutely TERRIFYING.

What?” he snapped, his face flushing as he looked back and forth between them.

Jamie’s eyebrows were raised. “Why should Claire not have needed the cosmetics?”

Bree raised hers to match, her lips quivering with suppressed laughter. “Yes, Roger: do tell!” 

He made a scoffing sound. “Well, no, I mean—”

“If ‘pretty much’ all women wore it,” Jamie asked, face completely inscrutable, “why should Claire have been any different?  

“No, she’s—Well, I mean she IS—” This was not going well. “All I was trying to say is Claire’s very—She’s got very lovely—” 

The movie had shifted into one where the out-of-control-robot car had locked you inside and was accelerating top-speed into a canyon. Cannot—BRAKE—

“—SKIN!”

“OH. MY. GODDD!!” Bree whooped with glee, making Jemmy jump in his sleep and thump his forehead against her chest. 

Jamie said nothing and only sipped his drink, but damn him, there was an effing GLEAM in those cats’ eyes. 

Bree coughed through her giggles and waved her hand in a ‘hold on, hold on’ gesture. “So—wait: when we met in Inverness….were you checking out my mother’s ‘skin’?”

“I wasna CHECKING HER OUT,” he insisted with a mocking tone to show what a ridiculous suggestion it was (but SHIT if he didn’t sound all kinds of guilty AND if he didn’t want to fling himself into a hole and never come out). Pull yourself the fuck together, MacKenzie. 

Look,” he sighed, “Claire’s a very attractive woman, and—”

“So we’ve gone from verra lovely to verra *attractive*, have we?” 

“It—I—” Damn that fucking ginger hide: Roger couldn’t tell if the man was poking fun or literally about to bash his head open against a tree. 

“Wait, wait, didn’t—oh JEEZ, it’s too much—” Bree was clutching Jem tight, dying with laughter, and was NOT giving this up. “Didn’t you tell me once that Mama reminded you of Anne Bancroft??”

ffffffffffucking hellllllllllllllllllllll

“Who’s that?” Jamie demanded, his narrowed eyes snapping to Roger.  

Yep, it had now become the kind of horror movie where the supporting actor looks at the camera and gets in that *one great scream* for their reel right before they get eaten alive to thicken the plot for the protagonists. 

Bree was on a roll. “A famous, very *sexy* actress! She was in a—play (sort of) with Dustin Hoffman who has the role of this university boy who is seduced by an older wo—”

“—S’QUITE ENUFF’A’THAT!” His voice cracked on the panicked outburst (can a man not catch a BREAK???), at which his wife dissolved into further spasms. “Oh for God’s sake, Bree, it was YOU that I checked out, if ye need reminding!!” 

“And just why were ye ‘checking out’ an unmarrit lass?” Jamie said, turning expertly on the conversational dime, “A guest in your home, no less? MY daughter?” 

“I wasna—I ABSOLUTELY did NOT—Oh, for fuck’s SAKE!” 

They were both quaking with laughter where they sat. 

Roger threw up his hands up and stormed to his feet. “You two bloody deserve each other, ye know! Twisting a man’s words, ‘til—Oh, willye shut up and LISTEN, THE BOTH OF YE!” 

They knocked heads as they slumped against each other, tears streaming down their ruddy cheeks. 

Roger made huge, sweeping gestures to left and right for emphasis. “CLAIRE IS VERY BEAUTIFUL. BRIANNA IS VERY BEAUTIFUL. WE’RE ALL FAMILY NOW, CAN WE BE *DONE* WI’—”

“What on EARTH are you lot bellowing about!?!” 

He whirled around to see Claire, flushed and dirt-streaked, gathering basket in hand, her eyes wide. “Is everything alright?” 

Roger gave both redheads a sidelong glare that HE would have said could have melted steel, but just make Brianna shake even harder. She was suppressing outright cackling only by pressing her lips into the top of Jemmy’s fuzzy head. 

“Nay, all’s well, mo nighean donn,” Jamie said, surprising Roger by getting to his feet. He came over to put a hand on his wife’s waist and kiss her on the cheek. “Roger Mac, here, was only singing the praises of your great charm and beauty, mo ghraidh, much to the credit of ye both.”

“Oh! Well!” Claire flushed, sounding both surprised and pleased. “That’s very sweet of you, Roger, dear, thank you.” 

Roger, stunned, scraped up enough presence of mind to give her a smile and a little self-deprecating bow. 

She didn’t bother to suppress a grin as she went on her way toward the drying shed. “I rather needed that, today.”

Once she was out of earshot, Roger met Jamie’s eye and inclined his head with a sincere, “Thanks.” 

“Think nothing of it,” his father-in-law said, clapping him on the shoulder in passing as he headed back to the woodpile “…Dustin.”

The Fourth Musketeer (Part 5)

Originally posted by jughead-thethird

Part one here     Part two here     Part three here     Part four here

Requests: Part 5 of The Fourth Musketeers por favor, I’m in love with this series

There’s gonna be a part 5 for the four musketeers??? YEYYYY

Please please please please please please please please please please please please more Fourth Musketeers Please please please please please please please please please please please please Please please please please please please please please please please please please !!!😊😊😊😊😊

hey! can you please do a part five of the four musketeers?! I’m so hooked! I need more! have a great day 💕

your writing is AMAZING!!💘oh and no rush but part 5 of Fourth Musketeer pls!! lots of love heheh😽

Hi! is part five of the four musketeers coming out soon? it’s really amazing!

Pairing: Archie x Reader

Description: A few days of an agonizing wait and the court case’s outcome.

Warnings: none

Word count: 1,309

A/N: wowowow that was a long wait, sorry guys!  here’s the final part, enjoy!


On a quaint Thursday night, the Andrews sat in their dining room, enjoying the pepperoni pizza they ordered.  Their quiet dinner was disturbed by a soft knock on the door.  Fred Andrews was the first to stand, so he opened the door to reveal a disheveled eight year old.

“(Y/N)?” he questioned, opening the door wider.  She looked up at him with sad, wide eyes.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Andrews,” she apologized, “but my parents are yelling a lot again, and you said that if it ever got a bit too much-”

“That you are welcome here,” Fred finished, a comforting smile on his face.  “Of course you can come in, (Y/N).  Hell, stay the night if you need to.”

“Thank you, Mr. Andrews,” (Y/N) whispered her gratitude as she stepped inside.  She wasn’t acting shy because she was uncomfortable around Archie’s parents; it was because she thought she was intruding.

“Archie, look who’s joining us for dinner!” Fred called out.  Immediately, a loud thump echoed through the Andrews household as Archie leapt off his chair.  He sprinted towards the doorway, where he knew (Y/N) was standing.

“(Y/N)!” Archie exclaimed, excitedly jumping.  All of (Y/N)’s tentativeness suddenly vanished as she laid eyes on her best friend. “You’re just in time!  The pizza is still warm!”

“Pepperoni?”

“Of course!”  The two children feverishly ran into the kitchen.  Mrs. Andrews warmly welcomed (Y/N) and assisted her in grabbing two slices of pizza.  When both Archie and (Y/N) were occupied in conversation, Mary stepped out into the hallway with Fred.

“Not that I don’t love that girl,” she whispered to her husband, “but she’s here a lot.  Too much, considering the circumstances.”

“I know, I know,” Fred sighed, pressing his fingers against his temple.  “But we can’t do anything.  You know we can’t talk to her parents, that’ll make it worse.”

“But maybe if they just got some counseling-”

“Have you met her parents?” he interrupted her.  “They’re both too headstrong to ever listen to each other, even with a licensed therapist present.  The only thing we can do is help (Y/N) wait out the storm.  Hopefully it’ll be over soon.”


“It feels like this has been going on for my whole life,” (Y/N) explained to Kevin as she stabbed at her salad.  “I mean, my parents have been fighting for as long as I can remember.  Honestly, I’m surprised it took them this long to file for a divorce.”  Kevin shifted in his chair.

“This is so dramatic,” he commented, slightly leaning forward in interest.  “I know Jughead has already written a novel about yours and Archie’s tragic romance, but he seriously needs to write a sequel.”   (Y/N) laughed and shook her head.  

“Well everything’s at a standstill right now,” she shrugged.  “All we can do is wait.”

“For the court case to be over?”

“Yeah,” (Y/N) nodded. “I gave my statement, so now my mom and dad battle it out in court to decide who gets custody.”

“Basically, they’re deciding where you’re gonna live and how your life is gonna pan out,” Kevin paraphrased. (Y/N) nodded glumly.

“Exactly.”

“And you can’t do anything else?” Kevin asked.  (Y/N) shook her head.

“No,” she answered.  “Like I said before, we just have to ride out the storm and hope for the best.”

“And what happens if your dad wins?”

“I go back to New York. I live there until I’m eighteen and then I’ll go to whatever college I get into,” she sighed.  

“What about Archie?” he questioned.  She pursed her lips.

“There’s nothing I can do about him.”

“But will you guys still be a thing?” Kevin inquired.  “Will you keep in touch this time?  Oh god please don’t let this die out again, you have no idea how much I need you two to be endgame.”

“We’ll see, Kevin,” (Y/N) giggled.  “I want to keep in touch.  Hell, I tried last time.  If I move back to New York, it’s up to Archie to keep in touch with me.”


“So how’s it going with (Y/N)?” Jughead asked Archie one night at dinner.  Archie glanced up from his plate, confused.

“What do you mean?”

“The court case,” Jughead elaborated.  “Do you know what’s going on?”

“I only know what (Y/N) knows,” Archie answered.  “She gave her statement a few days ago, so now her parents have to go into the courthouse in two days-”

“And that’s when (Y/N)’s fate will be decided,” Jughead dramatically finished.  Archie nodded and returned to his food.

“Yup, that pretty much sums it up.”

“But even if (Y/N) does have to move back to New York, you’re still gonna keep in touch with her, right?” Jughead questioned.  When Archie didn’t respond, Jughead dropped his fork as he stared disbelievingly at his friend.  “You’re gonna cut her off again?”

“I’m not going to cut her off, Jug,” Archie fired back.  “I know I screwed up last time, and I’m not planning on doing that again.  I just… I don’t want to think about that right now. I’d rather just ignorantly believe that (Y/N) will stay in Riverdale.”

“Archie,” Jughead placed a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder, “you can’t put yourself through denial again.  It’s not good for you.”

“But it’s so much easier, Jug,” Archie sighed.  

“It may be easier now,” he warned, “but the consequences are more severe, Arch.  Think about when you acted like (Y/N) didn’t exist after she left. It may have been easier for you while she was gone, but when she came back, she was furious.  Imagine the kind of relationship the two of you could’ve had by now if you hadn’t been in denial for so long.”  Archie sighed at this, knowing that Jughead was right.  “You can postpone the pain, Archie, but you can’t prevent it.”


Two nights later, (Y/N) was staying over at the Andrews’s house.  Her parents were still at the courthouse.  She and Archie hovered over her phone all evening, awaiting the phone call that would announce who she had to live with.  The phone call that determined her fate.  

At around midnight, they gave up on waiting.  Archie and (Y/N) retired to Archie’s bedroom, where they curled up in the bed together. (Y/N) set her phone down on the nightstand, but she refused to take her eyes off of it.

“Go to sleep,” Archie mumbled, wrapping an arm around her waist.  (Y/N) shifted so that her back was pressed against his.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “What if they call and I’m asleep?”

“You turned your ringer volume all the way up, (Y/N),” he reminded her.  “If you’re asleep when they call, it’ll wake you up.”  (Y/N) sighed but didn’t respond.  Archie noticed her breathing began to slow down, so he figured she was falling asleep.  He, too, was beginning to drift off until a shrill ringing disturbed their sleepy silence.

“The phone!” (Y/N) exclaimed, immediately sitting up.  She, tangled in the bedsheets, rolled over towards the nightstand and quickly snatched her phone.  She pressed the answer button and held the phone to her ear.  Archie tried to listen to the other line, but he couldn’t hear it.

“Okay,” (Y/N) responded, nodding.  There was another break of silence as the person on the other line talked.  “And that’s the outcome?  It can’t be reversed?”  Another pause.  “Alright, thank you.”  She hung up the phone and slowly set it down.  Archie turned on the lamp as he stared at (Y/N).

“So?” he inquired.  “What happened?”  

“I’m staying,” (Y/N) muttered quietly, still in shock over the outcome.

“You’re staying?” Archie excitedly repeated.  “For good?”

“Yeah,” she grinned.  He tugged her into a tight hug.  “I’m staying in Riverdale, Arch!  I won’t leave you ever again.”  He slowly pulled out of the embrace and smiled at her.

“Good,” he replied, and he crashed his lips against hers.

Keep reading

Carmilla Thought:

What if Carmilla occasionally transforms into her panther form at night because it helps her fall asleep?


All I imagine is that on occasion Carmilla gets restless and can’t go to sleep. So, she gets up and walks to find somewhere else to rest (since transforming into a panther while Laura is sleeping next to her would surely wake her up- plus her panther would take up most of the room).

So she goes out into the living room and curls up on a chaise lounge. And Laura, feeling the absence of Carmilla, wakes up and notices her gone. So she groggily pulls herself out of bed and goes down to the living room to notice a giant panther napping.

Laura then walks over to grab a blanket off the couch and goes over to lay it on Carmilla before slowly snuggling into the side of her on the lounge (just barely fitting). And the cat’s eyes barely open when she feels this before closing them again and going back to sleep.

And this entire thing has become an occasional routine for them but something they never really speak about. It just happens.

Anyway, just a thought…

Ashes [M] Final

Pairing: reader x Hoseok

Genre: angst, vampire!au

Word Count: 8,109

Warnings: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, depictions of violence and gore

A/N: I cannot believe I am finally writing this. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for embracing this story. Thank you for giving me the confidence for stepping outside of my comfort zone as a writer. I was extremely nervous to write a vamp au but you all welcomed this story with open arms. Thank you for loving vamp Hoseok and the OC as much as I have

Originally posted by jengkook

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Final

The pain raging through your body was nothing like you ever felt. The feeling of your teeth coming in that very first time was child’s play compared to this. You tried to stand on your feet, but the searing pain of Hoseok’s torture made you crumple back down to the ground. A pair of hands pulled you up from the grass, and brought you back inside the cabin. This was the worst nightmare you had ever experienced, except you would never wake up from this one.

Someone held a pint of blood to you lips, forcing you to drink until the plastic bag was empty. He sank down onto his knees, but through your blurred vision it was impossible to see his face. But he smelled familiar. “Y/N?” he asked cautiously, and you blinked several times until the red haired vampire came into focus.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you hissed, as you came face to face with one of Kai’s right hand men. “I thought I killed you.”

Chanyeol laughed, “You tried, but Kai was able to pull me out of the boathouse.”

“Chanyeol is on our side, Y/N. You didn’t think that Jimin was the only vampire we had on the inside, did you?. You can put your claws away.” Namjoon informed you as he came trudging through the room followed by the others. All in various stages of the healing process.

“How can I trust him?” you hissed, still unable to accept the redheaded vampire’s presence in the cabin.

The tall vampire looked you straight in your dead eyes, “Because you can’t. I could really care less what happens to you, I just want that asshole dead.”

A chill spread across your spine as he repeated the words you had heard several times over. The two of you stared at each other, enemies fighting for the same cause. You pursed your lips into a thin line as you started to pace the kitchen, “Fine. Tell me what your big plans are.”

Namjoon nodded at the empty chair at the table, “I think you should sit down for this.”

Keep reading

Arms

Late at night.

They’re both exhausted by not only the events of the day, but the orgasms they’re both currently coming down from. It doesn’t help that she’s been horny since the minute she woke up this morning, and Harry has only just now been able to finally give her exactly what she’s been craving.

But it’s late. The dim lighting of the room doesn’t help things at all. Both know that it’s very much time for sleep. But when Harry tries to get up, she clings to him.

She clings to him when he comes back seconds later with a fresh pair of underwear and a t-shirt for her, and a pair of boxers for him. She clings to him the moment she’s dressed, even though he’s still wiggling into his boxers. And the minute the lights are off, she’s practically glued to him.

He smiles, feeling her swing a leg over his hips and curl into his side. She presses velvety soft kisses to his neck, which is still a bit sore from where she’d been sucking not an hour ago, and he sighs. He can feel his whole body relaxing into the bed while his arm tightens its grip around her. He tilts his head to catch her lips with his, and they stay like that for a long moment. When he pulls away, he can only see her outline but he knows she’s smiling. He bumps his nose against hers. “We should sleep now.”

“Nooo,” she whines, pulling him even closer. “No. I don’t want to yet.”

He laughs softly through his nose. “What is it that you want then?”

“Hold me.” She says it so innocently, quietly, and gently that he’s almost afraid he could break her if he moves.

But of course he’s going to hold her. He reaches his other arm across his body until it finds her curled up against him, and now she’s wrapped in both of his arms. They let out a little sigh together. “Something wrong?”

“No no,” she says, shaking her head. He can feel her eyelashes against the skin of his chest, and it’s melting his heart with every blink. “Just want to be held. I love this feeling. Love your arms.”

He smiles. “My arms love you too.” She lets out the softest of giggles at that, which only curves his smile more. “Really, they do. I like holding you.” And it’s true. He does. He loves having her in his arms at any time during the day but especially at night, when she’s teetering on the brink of sleep just like this. He likes knowing she feels safe enough to fall asleep on him. Warm enough. And it’s a good feeling knowing that his chest is more comfy, more appealing to her than her actual pillow.

She gives him a tiny squeeze across his torso. “Are you sure? Doesn’t it make your arms go all tingly?”

And yes. Harry will admit that sometimes cuddling has its downfalls- such as his arms falling asleep beneath her head or him waking up with a mouthful of her hair. But he loves it regardless. So he shakes his head. “No. S'fine.”

She wiggles a bit, brushing a cold foot against his calf and letting out another yawn. “Good. I’m comfy.”

The words are music to Harry’s ears. He’s admittedly pretty comfy himself. He gives her a squeeze. “What’s got you all snuggly tonight?”

“Dunno.” Which is a lie. She and Harry both know she gets quite cuddly after an orgasm. Some nights more than others. Like tonight. “You’re good at snuggling.”

“It’s a requirement,” he says matter of factly. “Read it in the Boyfriend Handbook.”

She giggles, a bubbly little sound now, and he can tell she’s rolling her eyes. “You’re a dork.”

“Hey now. You’re the one who asked to be held. I can roll over.” He wiggles just bit, as if he’s going to let go of her, but she squeezes him even tighter.

“No. Don’t even think about it.”

He chuckles, kissing her head and reaching up to stroke her hair. “You’re adorable.”

“So are you. And your arms smell good. Did you know that?”

And for some reason, Harry becomes painfully self aware at that. Why do his arms smell good? He’d showered that morning but still, it had been a long day. Plus sex made him a bit sweaty, and she’s curled right up under his armpit. “Do they? Are you sure? What do they smell like?”

She laughs, kissing his chest and nodding. “Yeah. I promise. I’d tell you if you they were stinky. I probably wouldn’t be curled up in them if they were. But yeah. They smell like… you.”

Her words warm his heart, even if he doesn’t quite know what she means. “What do I smell like?”

“Like….” She takes in a deep breath through her nose and hums. “I don’t know. Like you.” Which still doesn’t explain anything, but Harry does sort of understand because she’s got a natural y/n scent that he adores. (And he may or may not have slept with a few of her t-shirts she’s left at his house for that exact reason.)

Now he yawns. He doesn’t mean to, but it comes out. She kisses his jaw when it stretches out, and he can feel her smiling. He lets it all out in one breath. “Sorry, love. M'getting sleepy.”

“Me too. It’s okay.” She unknowingly brushes her foot against his calf again. “Are you comfy?”

And in truth, Harry thinks that he’s never been comfier in his life. “Of course. Are you?”

“Mm,” she hums. “The comfiest. I love you. A lot.”

He can’t help but squeeze her, lingering his lips against her forehead then and just holding her. She’s sweet. She’s soft, she’s warm, she’s adorable…. she’s the love of his life. “I love you too.”

It isn’t long before she’s out, the smallest of snores escaping past her lips. If Harry wasn’t so tired he reckons he could stay up and just listen to her sleepy noises for hours. But her body is warm against his, and she’s so soft that it’s lulling him to sleep faster than he intended.

So with one last kiss goodnight, Harry shuts his eyes and goes to sleep, hoping that he can spend every night for the rest of his life with her in his arms.