chill october

books-and-barns  asked:

A Flood My Mornings prompt. Night check at the stables is often a separate shift from day shifts that start as early as 6am. It's usually around 9pm, often a separate employee does it from day shift workers during the week, and sometimes on weekends or holidays an owner or manager would do it. A 'night check moment' with Jamie and Claire might be fun, or even a Fraser family outing with Brianna in her little jammies :)

Flood my Mornings: Night Check 

Notes from Mod Bonnie:

  • This story takes place in an AU in which Jamie travels through the stones two years after Culloden and finds Claire and his child in 1950 Boston.
  • Previous installment: Plymouth Trace (Jamie and Claire take the new car for a whirl. Yes, THAT kind.) 

October, 1950 

“Thanks for doing this, bud,” Tom said, pulling his coat off the hook by the lounge door and shrugging into it. “Really. I owe you big time. Honestly, I’d cover it myself, but I’ve had this  special night out planned with Marian, and—”

“Dinna mention it, Tom,” Jamie said, gesturing reassurance. “Truly, I’m happy to be of help.”

Tom rummaged in his pockets for his keys, still looking regretful. “Was Claire spitting mad at me for stealing you away for the night?”

“No, no, not at all. On the phone just now, she bade me wish Nelson the best o’ luck wi’ his recovery. The gri–” Careful, man, “—that is, the Flu is a nasty business, and I’ve reason to know it.”

“Well, you’re a saint for stepping in last minute to cover his night watch shift, J—really really appreciate it,” Tom said once more as they walked out into the car yard. 

It was approaching sunset, and the last of the horses were being led to the stables for the night. It would be a peaceful night, if a long one, Jamie hoped. 

Tom opened the door of his 1946 Chevrolet Pickup (black, with silver trimmings and the special wide-base wheels) and sat behind the wheel, looking up at Jamie as he cranked the engine. “Jerry will be in at five in the morning as usual—Don’t you even think of staying to work tomorrow though, hear?”

“I hear. Have a good night, Tom. And give Marian my best, aye?” He slammed the door and waved Tom off on his way. 

It was a peaceful evening, on the whole. He saw the last of the day staff off to their homes and made the rounds as night fell, changing water, food, and blankets and taking special care to inspect several of the beasts that hadn’t been given proper attention of late. 

He loved being among the horses—always had, ever since he was a wee lad. The quiet strength of them, he supposed it was—the knowledge that they were large and strong enough to kill a man, but kind and soulful nonetheless. He loved speaking to them in Gaelic. He got a few odd looks for it during the day, to be sure, but other than Brianna, who understood and could speak a few words, the horses were the only folk in this new life to whom he could speak in his heart’s tongue, and feel as if he were fully understood. Claire, of course, knew his heart, regardless of the language; but speaking soft words to the horses, they seemed to have a knowing in their large, round eyes that transcended time and its changings. Aye, they seemed to say, you’re of long-ago stuff, man; and so am I. 

Or maybe you’re just a horse, aye, Val?” he said, rubbing the beast affectionately on the nose before closing the stall and heading back to the lounge. 

He was dismayed to find it was only half-past ten, for the length of the day had caught up with him. He rubbed his eyes but couldn’t seem to shake their bleary view. If only he had a book with him—Just yesterday, he had gotten from the Library a tome on American government, and he’d been itching to read it and figure out this country once and for all. 

He tried to make do with jotting notes in his wee book on the happenings reported by the man on the Wireless about the war in distant Korea. Though it pleased him that he was able to understand most of it, the news of the fighting chilled him, and he couldn’t make himself mind it for long. 

Before heading back out into the chill to make another circuit of the stalls, he set about making coffee in the wee machine, now feeling weary in more ways than one. As willing as he’d been to come to poor Nelson’s aid, he would’ve given most anything to fall into a soft bed with Claire at that very moment.

As he was adding a dollop of whiskey from the cupboard above the Frigidaire, there came a small knock and a soft, musical, “Hel-looo-ooo?” from behind him.

To his immense surprise, Claire was standing there, wearing blue jeans, boots, and wool coat against the crisp chill of early October; In her arms, Bree, pajama-clad, covered over with a warm sweater and a knitted cap. 

“Well, if this isna a pleasant surprise!” He said, hastily setting down the bottle and going to them. “I was just thinking of how I wanted to see my loves.”

“Horzzis, Mama?” piped Bree against his ear as he pulled them both close. 

“Christ, but it’s late, mo nighean donn. Is everything alright? And how did ye get—?

“Everything’s fine, we just couldn’t sleep; took a taxi,“ Claire explained her voice sounding small and tired. She laid her head on his shoulder as they swayed. “Hope it doesn’t disturb you, we just— needed to see you.”

He squeezed them both tighter, kissed Claire’s cool cheek, and stepped back, feeling warmed to his core as he took Bree happily into his arms. “I’ll never say no to my lassies, no matter the hour.”

“Da-me-in-go–” Bree gasped out, brimming with excitement. “Da-n-go mitta-seeinn-th-horzzis, m’okay, Da-ddy? M’okay?”

He laughed and sputtered a bit as he took in the rapid fire. Brianna, little more than a month away from two years of age, had been making leaps and bounds in terms of her vocabulary of late, beginning to get the way of longer, more complicated sentences. Increasingly consistent in this endeavor she undoubtedly was, but it always took that extra second for Jamie to mentally translate the stream of almost-correct syllables, a delay that invariably peeved the speaker, who never could understand why folk were being so slow.

“Horzzis, m’okay?” she repeated.

“Seeing Da and seeing the horses were on an equal footing, as far as Bree was concerned,” Claire said, smiling, but still sounding tired. “She’s never seen a horse in person, before.”

“Horzza-horzzis!” Bree insisted again, craning around for sight of one, then squaring back up to look him sternly, her hands on his cheeks. “Seein-th-horzzis–m’okay, Daddy?”

“Okay, a leannan,” he grinned, squeezing her tight and kissing her wee nose. Christ, but he loved this feisty wee baggage. “Let’s go see the horses.”

“What have you been doing to pass the time?” Claire asked as they entered Stable B.

“Oh, coffee, the Radio, thinking, talking wi’ the horses.”

“Do they make good conversation?”

“Oh, well enough,” he said, clucking his tongue to beckon Cornflower to the stall door.

Bree gasped at sight of the huge, grey flanks rotating in the stall. “Issa horz–AGHHH!!”

She squawked as Cornflower’s head came around and jumped so violently Jamie nearly lost his grip. “Och, come now, lass, it’s only one o’ the horses ye wanted to see, aye?” He took a step closer and turned so she could see Cornflower over his shoulder.

“Noooo!” Bree squealed, terrified, cowering under Jamie’s chin. “‘Inna like-’im!”

“Nothing to be scairt of, mo chridhe.” He reached out a hand and firmly stroked Corny’s soft nose. “See? She’s gentle—just like a big dog.”

“Notta dog!” Bree wailed sharply as she tried to get as far as possible from the beast, almost sobbing.“‘Ssa horssiz!”

No matter how much they coaxed and wheedled, Brianna could not be persuaded to touch Cornflower or any of the other horses. She would show interest in them from a distance, but when confronted by their huge toothy faces, she would wail and burrow– terrified–into Jamie’s chest.

They walked amongst the stalls, talking contentedly of Jamie’s day at Fernacre, Claire’s day at the hospital, and so on. Claire still seemed quieter than usual. Just as Jamie was about to put Bree down so that he might hold Claire close and ask what was amiss, Bree suddenly lurched her body toward the opening of the next stall and whispered. “Daddy! Is–horzzis is–’im sleepin’?”

“Oh, aye,” he said, encouraged by her interest, “that’s wee Valkyrie. And aye, she’s taking a nap. Here,” he said, opening the door and stepping gingerly inside, “shall we bid her hello?”

“No-oooo!” Bree began to squeal as they approached the horse, twisting in his arms to get away.

Whisht, whisht, be still, a chuisle, there’s naught to be afraid of.” Holding Bree tight—the lass would have to get accustomed to horses, and that’s all there was about it—he knelt down next to the jet-black mare, reaching out a hand to gently rub her neck.

Val, who was evidently only dozing, whuffed in acknowledgement, and Bree actually giggled at the resultant spray of wind and spittle. She then froze and looked up at Jamie, thoroughly stricken, evidently taken aback by her own delight and in complete indecision over how to act with this monster. Bless her heart, there were tears already building in her eyes.

“See, lovey, it’s a nice horse,” Claire said quickly, seeing the impending meltdown and settling next to them, holding their Thermos of coffee. “What does the horsey say, pumpkin?”

Bree, eager for diversion, produced a startlingly accurate whinny, and accepted applause with good grace.

With a sudden flash of inspiration, Jamie reached out and laid a hand on the beast’s swollen abdomen. “D’ye ken something else, Bree? This one is a mama horse.”

“Mama-horzz?” she repeated, looking sharply at Claire.

“Aye, sweetheart. That means there’s a baby horse inside.”

Beebee horzz…” she whispered, suddenly enraptured. Bravely, she slipped down from Jamie’s arms onto the ground and, stepping closer to the huge, recumbent body, laid both hands on the jet-black hide next to his. A moment later, she looked up in her usual business-like manner. “Munna lookint th-beebee-horzz, m’okay, Da?”

No, lass,” he laughed, “we canna look at the babe, yet. She has to stay inside her mama to grow big and strong, first. Then when the right time to be born comes, the wean will––”

With a jolt of realization, Jamie snapped his head around to Claire.

Her courses would have started today—unless she were—

Claire met his eye directly….and shook her head.

“Oh, lass,” he moaned softly, his heart breaking to see the sadness and disappointment in her face, to feel the sorrow in his own heart. He reached for her, pulling her close.

“I know it’s foolish…,” she said, her voice quivering as she wrapped her arms around his waist and burrowed against his shoulder. “There’s no reason it should have happened on the first month…I just can’t help but feel the… loss.”

“It’s no’ foolish, Claire,” he said, being obliged to release one arm from around her to intercept Brianna, who—startled by a sudden shifting from Val—had scurried back, anxiously scrabbling against him. He held them both, but squeezed Claire tightest. “But dinna fash, mo ghraidh: ‘tis only a matter of time.”

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methods of destruction

au: she’s gone, and she’s never coming back.
warnings: major character death(s), suicidal ideation, violence
word count: 1951


[day 1]

He breathes.

His throat burns with the weight of the heavy air that doesn’t want to leave his lungs, and his eyes are unfamiliar and salt-soaked. He feels like a stranger in this grieving body, a numb observer behind the panic and tears. His unsure hands shift from tugging at his hair to gripping his neck with enough intensity to crack bone. He glances at her, horrified to look but unable to stop.

She doesn’t move from her cocoon of blankets, mouth parted slightly, hair sprawled out on her pillow. She could’ve been sleeping, if not for her half-lidded, glassy stare.

“It was me?” He asks her softly, voice wavering. “You’re fuckin’ joking.”

Natalie doesn’t reply, just keeps looking at him with unseeing eyes.

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anonymous asked:

AU Where Phil's football teammate's annoying baby bro grew up and oh no! turned hot.

Part of this story is below a cut

“Just so you know, my parents have taken in another kid,” Nick stated as they walked home from practice towards Nick’s house.

Phil nodded.  Everyone knew that the Furys took in a kid for a few months every year. Phil had gotten rather use to the string of faces that were Nick’s temporary family members.

“He’s little odd,” Nick added.

Phil arched an eyebrow at Nick.  "Odd?“

“You’ll see.”  Nick sounded resigned to this.

“When did he move in?” Phil asked.

“Friday night, why my parents weren’t at the game.”

Phil nodded.  "Sucks.“

“Yeah, but…” Nick shook his head. “Kid needed us.”

Phil smiled slightly.  "You’re starting to sound like your parents.“

Nick groaned. “I know!”  His head rolled forward in shame.

Chuckling softly, Phil let the conversation drop into other things like their first calculus test coming up.  It wasn’t long before, they were climbing the steps to Nick’s porch and entering his house. Phil set his gear down.

“Mom, Clint, I’m home!” Nick called out.

“There’s some fruit on the counter if you’re hungry,” Nia called from her office.

Phil left Nick behind him and headed toward the kitchen.  It had been far too long since lunch and food sounded good, before Nick and him started to study.  He entered the kitchen, his focus on the food, but paused feeling like someone was watching him.  He hadn’t heard Nick’s footsteps behind him.  He glanced at the table, expecting to see Nick’s new foster brother seated at it, but it was empty.

Phil grunted softly, grabbing a piece of fruit and going to open the fridge door.  

“Gaah!” Phil fell back as he finally spotted Clint, sitting on top of the fridge watching him.

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EAU October Playlist

Our October’s playlist will feature upcoming artists, new EDM music and covers to suit the Autumn/Spring season. From Alex Aioni and Diamond White covering Charlie Puth and Selena Gomez, to a Major Lazer ballad cover and finally, some new remixes and artist releases from the Chill Nation and Proximity. 

This playlist was created to capture the human nature of letting go of many leaves, the people and memories we let go. Eventually, healing and blooming from these experiences into something more meaningful. A definite spin with R’n’B, EDM, Electro and Chill music, keep reading to access the full playlist!

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I Ship Us

Summary: you and Cas are both high school teachers, and your feelings for one another are obvious to everyone else–especially your students–except the two of you. 

Pairing: Teacher!Castiel x Teacher!Reader

Word Count: 2.4K

Warnings: language, FLUFFY FLUFF, you and cas get interrupted a lot

Originally posted by i--could--go--with--you

You practically ran inside the building, your high heels clattering against the tile flooring and your purse swinging from your elbow as you desperately tried to hang onto the stack of graded papers and the cup of coffee in your hands. You were running late to your class—again—and the classroom you taught in was on the top level. Of course.

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anonymous asked:

prompt: Professor Graves

Credence’s eyes are burning and his head is pounding. The school library is entirely empty; he’s surrounded by several piles of scrolls and books, half of which are completely useless, because of course Professor Graves had to give them an assignment on topics that weren’t covered in books that were outside of the Wampus library, which he of course couldn’t access as a Pukwudgie. 

Credence is certain that Professor Graves looks down on him, the sole Pukwudgie in Advanced Magical Defence. The rest of his classmates are Wampus, with a handful of Thunderbirds scattered in the for variety. He’s used to their dismissive glances, to being the last to be paired for the practical portions of Magical Defence. But he will do well in his theory, even if no-one wants to work on spellwork with him. He doesn’t mind. Any sort of attention from Professor Graves thrills him, makes little shocks skitter down his spine every time the man looks at him, every time their fingers brush when he’s returning homework. 

Credence thinks about him, sometimes, at night when he can’t sleep. He carefully recreates his professor’s face in his mind, strong jaw after slicked hair after dark eyes, until he can fall asleep feeling yearning for something he cannot name. 

The candles in the wall sconces flicker. Outside, the sky is dark. Gradually, the school settles, students and staff alike turning in for the night. He’s so absorbed in his work he doesn’t notice.

The moon has passed its highest point in the night sky when the library doors burst open and Credence jerks upright, almost toppling from his chair in fright, his quill skittering across his page and leaving a jagged dark smear behind. 

“Mr Barebone,” says Professor Graves, mouth turned down in a grim frown, “What are you doing in the library at two in the morning?” 

Credence’s stomach drops. He hadn’t meant to stay here for so long, but he couldn’t for the life of him find any information because Graves had assigned them an impossible topic. 

“I didn’t – I’m sorry, sir, I – I lost track of time –” Caught off-guard by the world’s most terrifying Magical Defence professor, the words won’t come out right, and Credence clamps his mouth shut miserably. 

Graves fixes him with a look that could probably turn him into a pile of smouldering ash. Feeling like a stupid First, Credence shrinks down into his chair. “It’s five hours after your curfew,” the man says, sharply. “This is a suspension-worthy offence, Barebone.” 

The breath catches in Credence’s throat and he can’t breathe. Suspension. He thinks of his Ma, who he hasn’t seen in eight years, the bite of the belt all the way to his bones, long hours spent kneeling beneath an unkind cross. Distantly, he can hear himself saying, “No – no sir, please – please, you can’t –” 

“Oh, I can’t, can I?” Professor Graves says, moving closer to his table. “Principal Hyslop might have something to say about that.” 

The thought of kindly Principal Hyslop staring mournfully over his desk at him – we risked so much for you, Barebone, what a shame – fills Credence with a terrible feeling. He feels sick. 

“Please sir,” he says, voice trembling, “please, you can’t tell Principal Hyslop. I – I don’t have anywhere to go, sir, please don’t suspend me, please, don’t tell him, sir, I’ll do anything, sir, please…” 

Professor Graves’ steps echo through the library, though Credence’s gaze is fixed upon his white-knuckled hands and he can’t see. A chair at his table scrapes on the floor. Professor Graves settles into a chair, and then there are fingers on his jaw. He flinches, but the fingers are surprisingly gentle, guiding his face up until he has no choice but to look at Professor Graves in the face. 

“’Anything’, Barebone?” his professor asks him, almost mocking in his gentleness. “That’s an awful lot to promise.” 

He is closer than Credence thought. His breath fans out on his cheek. Credence meets his eyes, skips away, returns shyly. Looking at Professor Graves’ eyes he has the sensation of looking down from the top of a cliff, the sea churning beneath him, and not knowing how to swim. 

“Any sort of punishment you see fit, sir,” he says. “Only – only please don’t tell Principal Hyslop.”

His professor examines his face again. The moment yawns out before them, Credence suspended in the darkness of his eyes like a dragonfly in amber. Evidently, he sees something he was looking for; a tiny smile curls up the corner of his lips, and Credence feels like he’s had all the breath punched out of him. 

“Tell me, Barebone,” he says, conversationally, casually. “Have you ever sucked cock?”

 Credence inhales sharply, trying to pull his head away, but his jaw remains gripped firmly in his professor’s grip. “I – I -,” he says.

 “Answer,” the man says curtly.

 Credence shakes his head once, face burning.

 “Perhaps not tonight, then.” Graves releases his jaw and Credence’s hand springs up automatically to rub at it. “Stand.”

 “Wh – what?”

 “Stand up, Barebone, unless you’d rather we go for a little walk to the Northern Tower – “ and Credence is up so fast he sways slightly on the spot. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast. His hands curl into fists at his side.

 Graves has to tilt his head to look up at him, but despite their height differences Credence still feels powerless. “Come here.”

 When Credence hesitates, his professor makes an annoyed noise deep in his throat before flicking his fingers, and Credence comes stumbling forward, nearly pitching into Graves’ lap, pulled forward by his belt loops and magic. His hands almost collide with Graves’ shoulders to steady himself but he corrects at the last moment, yanking back and returning to curl into anxious fists by his sides.

Graves looks amused. “Hands on the table.”

 Credence begins to turn around so his hands are in front of him on the table, but Graves clicks his tongue. “Lean back against the table,” he says, “and keep your hands there.”

 Leaning back against the table, hands behind his back, Credence feels horribly exposed, from the long line of his throat down to his knees. He swallows, the saliva in his mouth suddenly thick.

 Graves kicks his ankles apart nonchalantly, and then pulls his shirt from his trousers with ease. Another casual wave of his hand and Credence’s jersey disappears, reappearing on the table on top of his essay, folded neatly. Credence shivers, and it has very little to do with the chill October air. His chest feels very hot and then very cold on the next breath.

 Graves undoes the lowest button of Credence’s shirt, and then the next, and the next. Credence’s stomach quivers, leaping away from the man’s fingers. Graves make a little noise like he’s just bitten into a sweet pastry, and the back of his knuckles are ghosting along Credence’s stomach, then around to his waist and flank. The other hand curls around his hip; Professor Graves’ hand brackets his pelvis easily, thumb pressed against the point of his hip and fingertips skimming the notches of his spine. Though the touch is feather-light, Credence can feel every bump, every hair on the back of his hand, burning hot against his skin.

 His fingers trace the long rungs of his ribs, from their origin at his spine and curling around to his front, beginning with the lowest just above his navel and climbing steadily. It feels – it feels quite nice, actually, and Credence feels his shoulders uncoil, the tight muscles at the nape of his neck relaxing, and his head tilts back.

 But then Graves skips the last few ribs – Credence’s shirt is fully unbuttoned now – and his fingers skim over his nipple. There’s a sharp, sudden bolt – something arcs down inside him, a force connecting the point where Graves has touched him and the secret place between his legs.

 Credence’s eyes fly open and he spasms straight up. “Oh!” he cries.

 Graves looks startled for the barest moment, but then his mouth curls into a smirk. “Sensitive one, are you?” he asks. It’s that same tone as before, that makes Credence want to sink to the ground and bury his head in his hands; nearly kind, almost gentle, but there is something in the tone that makes Credence want to skitter away.

 He nods, shakily.

 Then Professor Graves’ fingers are back, tracing back and forth over Credence’s nipple, whisper-light. With one pass, the pads of his fingers brush the very tip of his nipple; the next, the nail of his thumb presses into the areola. Credence gasps with each one – he can’t help it, oh, there’s warmth and heat inside him that he never knew existed, curling and coiling and twisting. It feels good – so good –

 And then Graves’ clever fingers come together and pinch, taking a hold of the areola and pinching it up and tight and Credence hears, distantly, someone making a whining noise and realises it’s him. The sharp sensation bolts through him, twice as powerful as the gentle pleasure from before, and Credence’s legs are feeling so shaky that he’s very grateful for the table behind him, holding him up.

 “Very nice,” Graves says, approvingly, and those words fill him up. He arches his back, seeking those fingers again, please, please

 “Oh,” says Graves, and he sounds ever so slightly out of breath. “You liked that, did you?”

 “Y-Yes, sir,” Credence says. His fingers clench and curl against the table.

 “Hmm,” Graves says, and then his hand is back, and the other hand leaves his hip and now there are two, one pinching and the other pulling and Credence rises on his toes but also curls in, leaning into the sensation. A bead of sweat slides down the side of his neck. Every inhale makes the world tremble at the seams.

 Professor Graves chuckles, deep and dark, and the sound arcs right through him. He repeats the action, one hand pinching him from the base of his areola while the other latches around the other nipple and tugs. He’s using his nails now, worrying the flesh and Credence can’t think of anything, not of his essay, not of the threat of suspension, just those sharp points digging into his skin like mean little teeth. “Uh-uh-uh!” he stutters. It feels so good but it hurts.

 Graves releases his nipples, and Credence thinks his legs might give out entirely because the release is somehow just as tortuously wonderful as the grip. He gasps through clenched teeth, but then his Professor’s palms soothe over his chest, gentle now, a warm pressure over his nipples. He is so sensitive he thinks he can feel Graves’ pulse through the palms of his hands on his chest.

 He feels electric.

 “Barebone,” his Professor says. He doesn’t sound kind any more, but he doesn’t sound unhappy, either. Not kind, not cruel.

 Credence opens his eyes and finds his head is fully tilted back, blinking up at the ceiling. “Yes, sir?”

 “You have two options. You can get up, leave, and go to sleep in Pukwudgie, and this will go no further.”

 Credence swallows.

 “Or you can stay, and we continue.”

 Credence eases his head upright, looking down. Graves is staring right at him. In the golden half-light of the library, his eyes are not black, as Credence had once thought; a sunburst surrounds those pupils, the precise colour of Wampus fur, of a gold coin, of the sun in the evening sky. His face is not as expressionless as it usually is; his cheeks are stained just a touch darker, and there is an indent in his lips where he has bitten them.

 “Please,” Credence says, hesitates, and then keeps going because otherwise he’ll never say it, “Please, don’t stop.”

 Graves’ face is utterly blank for a moment, and then the twin sunbursts of his irises disappear, so widely blown are his pupils.

 “If you want to stop, all you have to do is say so,” he says. “Say stop, and you’ll be dressed and back in your dormitory, and no one will ever know.”

 Credence licks his lips. “But sir,” he says, “I don’t think I want you to stop.”

 Graves smiles, lazily, languidly, all teeth.

 Something skitters down Credence’s spine, a little burst of fear and yearning, and explodes like a firework somewhere in the cradle of his hips. Credence can’t help the broken little moan that escapes his throat, and his head falls back again.

 “Ah, ah, ah,” Professor Graves says, and one of his hands reaches up again, brushing Credence’s throat and holding onto his jaw again, dragging it down, forcing Credence’s head upright. “You’re going to watch now, and you won’t look away, will you, pet?”

 This angle makes it harder to breathe, and he can feel his shoulders burning already in their strained position, but Credence nods obediently.

 Graves’s hands skim his chest again, up to his collarbones and then down to his ribs. His stomach tenses minutely but his professor merely reverses his direction, back up to his throat and then down to his hips again, hot rough palms against soft skin. On the next drag up he catches Credence’s nipples again, and Credence inhales, arching his back and trying in vain to get him to do that again, touch him again, it felt so nice –

 But Professor Graves denies him. His hands continue their slide up to his throat and then back down again, and this time they unbutton his trousers with neat efficiency and then his pants are around his knees and –

 Graves’ hands still. “Christ,” he says.

 Stark clarity bursts through Credence and he recoils, hands coming up off the table and reaching around to cover himself.

 Credence has never told anyone, has never dared tell anyone. When he was a Fourth he’d outgrown the underwear he’d brought with him from the Second Salem Church. It had fallen to Queenie, his only friend in Pukwudgie, to show him how the magical mail order system worked, and as a joke she’d ordered a pair of lacey underthings along with the rest of it, and the moment Credence had slipped them on in the privacy of his bedroom he’d known he never wanted to wear anything else ever again. The lace curls daintily around his hips, the satin caresses his skin in a way union suits couldn’t dream to imitate; he loves them, loves them, but it’s a secret he’d thought he’d take to the grave.

 Literally, as it turns out.

 He tries to take a step away but stumbles, caught as he is with his trousers tangled around his legs. But Professor Graves’ hands shoot out to catch his elbow before he can fall, drawing him back and half onto his lap, enclosed in his arms.

 “Look at you, pet,” Graves says, but the tone isn’t scornful like Credence had expected. It’s something quite, quite different – something quiet, reserved for Sunday mornings and for prayer. Worshipful. Reverential. He dares sneak up a look. Professor Graves looks like he’s just watched Moses part the Red Sea, a hundred men fed with twenty loaves of bread, collected manna from morning dew. Something miraculous, something Biblical, something holy. “Look at you,” he says again.

 Credence swallows. The saliva is thick in his throat.

 “Credence,” Professor Graves says, and Credence startles a little, because he’s never called him by his first name before.

 “Y-yes, sir?” Credence replies.

 “Do you want to continue?” And Mercy Lewis help him, Graves sounds so oddly gentle in a way he never has before, Credence thinks he might melt into a little puddle of warm and happy goo at the man’s feet if it meant he could hear him speak to him in that tone again.

 “Y-y-yes,” Credence manages. He swallows again. “Yes, sir, please.”

 Graves brings his hand to the back of Credence’s head and Credence jumps at first, but the hot weight of his palm remains steady and warm. Something about it anchors him. He feels more substantial, less like he might be whirled away by a breeze and more present.

 “Good,” Professor Graves murmurs into his hair. “Good boy.”

 Credence is basking in that when Graves pushes him back up, and he stands, hands going back to the table. Graves drags the chair forward and Credence’s legs are forced farther apart, one on each side of Graves’ thighs. His Professor brings one hand up, slowly, slowly, running it up Credence’s leg from his knee to his hip. He strokes Credence’s skin through the underwear. They’re not even Credence’s nicest pair – white, almost entirely lace, covering him modestly – but Graves brushes his fingers over the lace like they’re the finest things he’s ever seen. Beneath the fabric, Credence’s taught muscles quiver.

 He hooks his fingers over the hems on either side and slowly, agonisingly, draws them down, and Credence’s cock bobs free, slapping into the skin of his stomach, head purple-red and angry. The library isn’t cold, but a shiver runs through him from toes to the crown of his head, hairs on the backs of his arms prickling. The underwear hadn’t even hidden all of it but like this, lace bunched obscenely beneath his testicles, Credence feels filthy.

 “Now,” Graves says, voice dark again, and Credence rocks up onto his toes and back down again, “I told you to keep your hands on the table, didn’t I?”

 Oh. Credence nods, once.

 “Answer me,” Graves says sharply and Credence’s cock jumps at that, smacking into his belly. A thin line of pre-cum rolls obscenely onto his thigh.

 “Yes sir,” Credence says, voice small.

 “And you moved them away, didn’t you?”

 “Yes sir.”

 “Do you need me to use a sticking charm to keep them in place?”

 Credence’s knees actually buckle at the idea, eyelashes fluttering down onto his cheeks. “If – if you’d like, sir,” he says cautiously.

 “Mmm,” Graves purrs, “you would like that, wouldn’t you, pet?” Credence watches as he spins his wands between his fingers, once, twice. “Epoximise.”

 Credence tugs experimentally, but the palms of his hands remain firmly stuck to the surface of the desk. His breath explodes out of him and he shifts his weight anxiously from one foot to the other, because Graves is leaning back into the chair with one leg crossed over the other looking like he could stay there until the sun comes up, just watching Credence tugging uselessly at his bonds.

 “You should stop struggling,” Professor Graves says casually. “I might be more inclined to give you what you want if you ask me nicely.”

 Credence stills immediately, leaning back against the desk and watching Graves from beneath his eyelashes. He nibbles at his lower lip, worrying at it between his teeth. Graves’ eyes skip from the long line of his throat, his poor abused nipples, the dip of his waist, and then his cock, head purple-red and angry, drooling against his belly, framed by the white lace underwear. His eyes skip back up to Credence’s.

 Something gives inside Credence, and he’s sinking. He feels like he’s fallen into a pool of syrup, sinking and floating all at once, and nothing in the entire world exists except for the way Graves is staring at him, his dark eyes, his large hands settled on the arms of his chair, the broad press of his shoulders inside his suit.

 “What do you want?” Professor Graves asks him, gently, persuasively.

 “I – I – “ Credence tries, but his face is burning. He closes his eyes and tries again. “Please,” he says, voice a high whine, “please sir, please will you touch me?”

 Fabric rustles and then yes yes yes, Graves’ hand is on his hip again, then back down to his leg, joined by the other, easing his underwear off. When the underclothes reach the vicinity of his knees Credence feels a hot breath of air against his cock, and he makes an aborted little wail, eyes screwing shut, fingers scrabbling against the table for all that they can’t actually go anywhere.

 “Was that nice, pet?” Graves says and he’s right between his legs.

 “Yes sir,” Credence says, gasping now. “Oh – oh – “

 “Tell me what you’d like, now,” Graves says again, so sweetly, so coaxingly.

 And Credence doesn’t know what he wants, exactly, though he has a fairly good idea it involves Graves’ mouth and his cock, the hot breath over him again, all tongue and wet and completely merciless. “Please,” he begs, because he wants to ask but he doesn’t know how, doesn’t know what to ask for. “Please.”

 “Tsk,” Graves says, and Credence thinks he might become the first ever case of spontaneous self-combustion. “You beg so prettily for me, pet. Look at you. How could I deny you?”

 And then his hands are right there and he’s pressing his lips against Credence’s navel, then his stomach, then the point of his hip and down to his thigh, open-mouthed and wet now. Credence whimpers, because every press is so hot against his skin, every point those lips touch is searing hot, imprinting onto his skin and sinking through, to muscle, to nerve, to bone. He thinks, dizzily, that if he dies right now, when they find his skeleton, they will surely find the marks of Professor Graves’ lips pressed into the bones of his thighs.

 Credence can’t breathe, oh god, he’s going to die right here and he’ll be the first ever wizard to die of pleasure, but what a way to go. Pinned as he is, he can only turn his head to try and muffle the noises exploding from his chest into the skin of his shoulder.

 Graves moves back, and Credence keens, hips arching, aborted little circles in mid-air, chasing that warmth, that heat, the perfection that is Professor Graves’ mouth.

 “Ah, ah, ah,” Professor Graves says, and he flicks his fingers and Credence’s head turns of its own volition, fixed and frozen so he has no choice but to watch. “You’re going to let me hear every noise you make, pet.”

 And then Graves bites, sinks his teeth into the softest part of Credence’s thigh. Credence is vaguely away of someone moaning, high and keening, nearly a wail; it’s him, he thinks, dizzily.

 Credence barely has a moment to savour this new sharp sensation before Graves moves away, pressing his lips to the bite gently, gently, butterfly kisses and kitten licks against the delicate skin of his inner thigh. He presses a last kiss, harder than the rest, to the centre of the bite before raising up and before Credence can say anything else he leans forward and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the head of his cock.

 Credence jerks, curling in, hips arching, the wails cut off abruptly as he gasps, gulping down air like a drowning man. Sensation arcs through him, a force of nature, an earthquake or a tsunami or a thunderstorm, threatening to drown him.

 Graves moves, cold air whispering over the kiss before another presses down, and another, and another, and another. Then a wet stripe of tongue against his length, and Graves takes his cock inside his mouth and sucks. He pulls back, swirling his tongue around the head and then back down, mouth burning, taking him in and swallowing around him.

 Credence is trying to get his mouth and tongue to cooperate, a babbling, incoherent mess. “Yes,” he says, “Yes, sir, please, more, oh – “

 He comes, wailing, his world contracting to the feel of Graves’ mouth around him, and everything is burning white, pulses of pleasure sparking and skittering and exploding out again, his universe reborn. His knees really do buckle and he arches weakly, his poor shoulders straining at the joints as they hold most of his weight. But he doesn’t notice, really; he’s sinking into that lake, enveloped, surrounded.

 He’s dimly aware of Graves tapping the backs of his hands and they’re free from the table, and then being bundled into an enormous fluffy towel, gathering into Graves’ lap right there on the floor of the library. He thinks he might have fallen asleep for a little while. Professor Graves soothes him, pressing soft kisses against his forehead, his cheeks, his eyelids. He has the vague impression of green flame and the familiar scent of Floo powder before he’s being cocooned in warm blankets on a sofa, a hot cup of tea pressed into his palms.

 “Good boy, well done, you were so good, so perfect,” Graves says, so softly, so gently, Credence thinks he might float off again. He takes a sip of his tea. It’s sweet, herbal, and leaves the taste of roses on his tongue. The sweetness centres him, and the long heavy weight of Graves’ body against his. He yawns.

 “Christ,” Graves mutters, bringing up a tempus charm with a waggle of his fingers. It’s past three in the morning.

 Credence opens his eyes muzzily. “Sh’ go,” he mumbles into his cup.

 Graves’ hand ceases its slow winding through his hair. “Do you want to go?”

 Credence thinks for a moment. Now that he’s an upperclassman he has a room to himself. And tonight’s – well, yesterday – was a Friday, so no one will be expecting him. He shakes his head slowly, jaw cracking back into another massive yawn.

 Graves takes the cup out of his hand and Credence burrows into his side. Tomorrow, he thinks sleepily, tomorrow he can worry about all of this. For now, he just wants the gentle safety of Graves’ arms, the angle of his jaw on Credence’s crown, and the soft private comfort of the sofa, a little world unto themselves.

She Drives Me Crazy

Roommates AU Part ½: Spencer and Emily live together and have a very agreeable arrangement between the two of them.

Summary: In Spencer’s eyes, they were good roommates. They didn’t bug or pester, they tried their best to communicate, and of course there was the matter of their sleeping together. That wasn’t going to blow up in their faces at all. 

Author’s Note: The rating on this one is a littler higher than most of my fics. There’s no graphic sex scenes, as I basically do a literary fade-to-black, but there is some pretty explicit references to sex, and some heated scenes between Spencer and Emily. Just warning in case that’s not your thing.

Keep reading

#5 Halloween w/ your Daughter (Josh)

Request from anon: 

I was wondering if maybe you could do like a imagine where the reader and josh have a daughter and it’s Halloween and Josh gets all excited because they can go trick or treating etc, just because I think it’d be really cute

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This is such a cute request omg. Requests are open, as always. Enjoy!

Warnings: none :)

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Your daughter excitedly squirms in your lap as you attempt to wrangle her crazy curls into Rey’s signature three bun look. Your young daughter had insisted on being the new Star Wars heroine for Halloween this year, and you and Josh were happy to oblige, agreeing to go as Leia and Han to match. 

Josh had texted you a few minutes ago saying that he was on his way home from the studio. The three of you had been looking forward to this night for a while, Y/D/N because of the copious amounts candy, and you and Josh because she was finally old enough to take trick or treating. 

Just as you put the finishing touches on Y/D/N’s hair, Josh walks in the door and she excitedly runs to meet him, Josh automatically lifting her into his arms and peppering kisses on her giggling face. 

“How’s my favorite girl today? You ready to go trick or treating?” Josh says with a bright smile. She nods excitedly in response, her grin matching his. 

“She will be after she’s finished her dinner,” you say, giving her a slight mom look. 

Josh leans down and pecks your lips, setting your daughter down. She runs off to go play with her Rey staff, giving you and Josh a moment to yourselves. 

“How was your day?” you ask. 

“It was good, but I was a little distracted all day waiting to get home,” he says, pulling you closer to him by your waist as your hands snake to the back of his neck. 

Halloween has always been one of Josh’s favorite holidays, and he was beyond excited to finally be able to share it with your daughter. 

“You should go get dressed before she explodes with anticipation,” you say with a laugh. He nods and kisses you once more before slipping away to put his costume on. 

You find you daughter in the kitchen, finishing her dinner. You had a surprisingly small amount of trouble getting her to sit down and eat tonight, probably due to the fact that she knew she wouldn’t be able to go trick or treating until she had eaten. 

You take a minute to go into the bathroom and put the finishing touches on your Princess Leia buns and smooth out your white Leia dress. When you emerge, you find Josh in the kitchen with your daughter, now dressed in his full Han outfit, complete with Han’s signature vest and blaster. 

“Looking good, babe,” Josh says and you enter the kitchen, kissing you as your daughter fake gags in the back. 

“Gross!” she proclaims and you laugh as you and Josh pull apart. 

“You’re looking pretty fine as well, Solo,” you reply and turn to your daughter. “And you are of course looking very heroic, Miss Rey.” 

She smiles and twirls around in her costume. You quickly clean up the dishes from dinner as you notice it getting dark outside, Josh and Y/D/N having gone off to have a pretend lightsaber duel. 

You find them in the living room, Y/D/N standing on the couch enlaced in an intense battle with her father. 

“Alright you two, I think it’s time to go!” you say, and your daughter immediately runs to get the pillowcase you gave her to collect candy. 

You snap a few pics of your costumes before heading out the door into the chilled October air. It wasn’t too cold, but the perfect fall temperature for trick or treating. 

The leaves crunch under your feet as the three of you walk hand in hand from house to house, you and Josh making sure she always says please and thank you when getting candy. 

As the night wears on, you pass countless other kids clad in every costume under the sun and walk around your neighborhood until you daughter’s pillow case is nearly over flowing with goodies. 

You and Josh are having nearly as much fun as she is, enjoying watching her run around the neighborhood having the time of her life. And everyone gets a kick out of your family costume. You were even stopped once or twice by fans who wanted a picture with all three of you, the friendly clique members commenting on how cute you all looked.

You notice your daughter start to drag her feet slightly after a while, and even though she insists she isn’t tired, you and Josh can tell she is worn out. Josh scoops her up in his arms, her candy bag clutched to her chest, and carries her back toward your home.  

Once you arrive, you get her out of her costume and into some pajamas, putting her candy in the kitchen for when she wakes up, and Josh tucks her into bed without much protest from the young girl. 

You and Josh also change out of your costumes and curl up on the couch to watch a Halloween movie. Nothing scary, in case your daughter wakes up, but just a light hearted classic, the smile never leaving either of your faces as you think back on your first night of trick or treating with your little one. 

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Hope you liked it, thanks for reading!