foolish and wrong

crimes

one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, nine, nine, nine…

By the time the Impala’s carved a path out of New York, the sun’s setting. Dean’s not really leaning on the accelerator. There are problems up ahead, yeah, and they’re big ones—but everything urgent in him sits in the sleeping hulk of his brother, silent and slumped on the other side of the bench. Everything else just pales in comparison.

Pennsylvania’s blurring into Ohio and Ezekiel hasn’t said a word, not since they got into the car. Sam just looks like he’s sleeping, curled up with his forehead against the window, and he’s never going to be small again but sometimes he fakes it pretty well. Dean keeps glancing over. Feels like he’s looking at Sam more than at the road, and hell. Who can blame him. He’d be touching Sam, too, if he thought he could get away with it, but he doesn’t want to wake Sammy up. Or—or Ezekiel, maybe. Whichever. He doesn’t have the radio on, or a tape, and he’s coasting along I-90 at an easy seventy-five, nothing but the sound of the engine and the highway wind. It’d be peaceful, if he weren’t sick to his stomach.

His face still hurts, a little, under the new whole skin. Ezekiel healed him, the tiniest glow of white-fire magic so that Sam wouldn’t suspect anything. Dean wasn’t hurt in the church, after all. Not like Sam was. Dean tightens his hands on the steering wheel. Wouldn’t do to have Sam suspect, Ezekiel had said, and Dean had gone along because—because, Christ, what the hell else can he do.

He’s going to have nightmares about that church. About Sam’s too-skinny face, the hollows under his shocked-open eyes. The blood slipping dark to the rotting sacred floorboards and Sam empty-handed, looking at Dean like—isn’t it obvious? Glowing on the inside while he peeled himself open, bloody wet and mutilated, gleaming white-gold lighting up the tears streaking down. And then—even after, after Dean kissed him careful, wrapped up his split palm and brought him in close. After the fall, after he dragged a half-comatose Crowley out and shoved him into the damn trunk. That drive, with Sam shuddering fly-stung in pain, moaning, collapsed over and into himself like just being alive hurt, and nothing Dean could do—that was a nightmare, all on its own. He tried holding onto Sam’s hand, just so Sammy could maybe ground himself, but Sam flinched, said stop, stop it hurts with his voice cracked right down the middle. Nothing for it but to put the pedal to the floorboard and drive with the sour taste of Sam’s looming death lingering at the back of his tongue, ignoring the horrific lightshow all around and hoping a hospital could provide some kind of miracle, if heaven couldn’t.

A semi passes by and he glances down. Accidentally let the speed drop to sixty. If Sam were awake he’d be getting no end of crap for it. He drags a hand down his face and tries to focus. The sun’s really down, now, and they’ll be coming up on Cleveland soon. They’re headed back west, back toward the bunker, but he’s not really driving with anywhere in mind. He tries to think when he slept last and it’s kind of a blur, but he doesn’t want to stop. Can’t imagine sleeping before Sam wakes up. Can’t chance that this, Sam up and living, could be a dream.

All he wants is Sam. He chances a look over and Sam’s still sleeping, his face healed-up and soft in the passing headlights, even if he still looks wrung-out. Nearly hurts, to look at him, and Dean refocuses on the road, dashed yellow line skimming past and disappearing under the dark hulk of the car. So familiar, and not enough to distract him. He just doesn’t—he doesn’t understand how it got so wrong. The year’s been rough, no doubt about it. He knows that some things got said that maybe shouldn’t’ve, and that’s on him. It was just… hard, when he got back. Hard to talk, hard even to touch without flinching, and there were all those nights of not sleeping, of turning to fighting because it was easier, and it turns out it was doing something to Sam.

He forgot. For all Sam surges ahead, does whatever he wants, for all that Dean’s been on his back for the kid for over fifteen years now, for what feels like his whole life, sometimes Sammy’s nothing more than his little brother. Picks up shit Dean never meant to say and holds it close, tucked under his big heart, long past when Dean’s forgotten whatever fight they had that prompted it. Stores up words and uses them like knives, to cut himself to ribbons. Like it’s ever been what Dean says that matters.

He remembers, though. He made Sam a promise, in the church, but Sam made him a promise, too. All the way back, months ago. That first trial. Sam promised that they’d make it to the end, together, and Dean—well, he bought in. Deep down inside, he believed Sam. Believed that no matter what kind of day it came to when they finally had to cash in their chips, they’d be doing it together. It’s been hard, these last months, no doubt about it. Hard on Sam, and hard on Dean, too, but—he remembers that night, in the girl’s room at that stupid ranch. No matter how freaked and worried he’d been, there was Sam’s big hand wrapped around the back of his neck, conviction lighting him up, his thumb dragging over Dean’s jaw, making Dean meet his eyes. There’s light at the end of the tunnel, he’d said, half a smile on his face, a dimple curving into his cheek. Dean can remember it like it was yesterday, and he’d believed it. If only he’d been able to convince Sam that his belief was true.

Sign says Cleveland’s coming up in forty miles and he shifts in his seat, dry-eyed and aching. He’s still nauseous over the choice he made. About the light that’s lurking, wrapped around his little brother’s soul. He’s going to have to lie to Sam, for who knows how long, and that guilt’s already sitting heavy in his chest. Well, it can take a number. They made each other promises. To be together. Hell came long ago and Dean feels like he’s about to drown in the high water, but that doesn’t matter. No matter what, he’s going to look after Sam. Going to do his damn job. Keep his promise. Maybe the light at the end of the tunnel’s going to turn out to be hellfire, but they’re still going to get there, side by side. One way or another.

(read on AO3)

anonymous asked:

Loved how Jamie gave claire the medical book in the Boston story. Can we maybe see her starting to look at which one she wants to go to? Does she have her sights set on Harvard??

Flood my Mornings: The First Step 

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:  Samhain (Jamie stumbles upon a new community)

November, 1950 


{CEBF}

“Jamie?” I called urgently across the evening-shadowed house, rustling the pages on the rolltop. “Jamie? Did you move my essay?”

Ah yes, My Essay: 

Why should you be admitted to Harvard University’s Program for Correspondent Students?

Well, you see, honorable gentlemen of the admissions committee, my applications for medical school a few years hence—even if not at Ivy League institutions— will need to look as goddamned impressive as can possibly be mustered, since they will almost certainly be reviewed by a panel of elderly male fuddy-duddies like yourselves. 

Thus, having Harvard University on my CV (even if it’s only for these pre-requisite courses), will only serve to impress said fuddy-duddies, and as a female with a spotty-at-best record in formal education, I need all the bloody help I can get. 

The almost-final draft of my personal statement had been more subtle, but it was God’s honest truth. 

I’d been working incessantly on the damned thing for weeks, sleeping little and poorly from the stress. I’d downed more coffee than I’d previously have deemed safe for human beings, and was looking and feeling decidedly the worse for wear for it all. 

Meanwhile, my sainted husband had tirelessly picked up my slack with the house and with Bree night after night as I hunched over the desk, scribbling and scratching out. This last week, in particular, he’d given me more than enough space, bless him, speaking softly, keeping Bree out of my hair, giving kisses, but not initiating sex, nor even the casual touches that were so much a part of our daily rhythm with one another. I knew he meant well by it—to allow me to focus my non-hospital- and non-sleep-hours upon the task at hand… but LORD, another part of me wished that he would just hoist me out of my chair, throw me onto the ground, and give me an hour’s rough relief from my own mind and Harvard blasted University! I didn’t hold it against him, of course, and it would be over soon, in any case, but his walking on eggshells around me was its own breed of stress. 

‘Stress’—such a tiny word for so much inner turmoil. It wasn’t just the essay in front of me or the way my gut had felt all tied in knots for the past week; it was the entire trajectory of which this was only the first step: the prerequisite courses, the MCATs, applications, interviews, medical school, internship, residency, fellowship—the next decade or more of my life! So much would hinge on every single decision I made from here on out. I couldn’t afford any mistakes, starting with this bloody essay. 

I had put the entire packet together last night in the Manila envelope: application, references, ESSAY. Stamps, on. Addresses, penned. Seal…well…left UN-sealed, because I wasn’t bloody ready. And good thing, too, for I’d spent my entire shift that day replaying the words in my mind, every phrase sounding wretched, every choice of words trite or cliché or childish, and screaming for another revision. I’d rushed home, called a ‘hello, darling,’ to Jamie, who was tucking Bree in for the night, and then gone directly to the rolltop, still in my coat and hat, to read it through again and exorcise this demon. Except my packet wasn’t there.

“Jamie??” I called again, louder, my anxiety mounting. I hissed at two sudden papercuts as I rummaged frantically again through the stack. “Darling? Did Penelope say anything about moving my—”

“Sassenach, keep your voice down, for God’s sake—” Jamie whispered loudly as he came around the living room door, looking harried. “Brianna’s only just gotten to sleep, lass!”

I lowered my voice but not my urgency, and I barely even looked up. “The envelope with my application and personal statement? Have you seen it? I swear, it was right on top of the stack with the blue folder here on the desk.”

“Oh, aye, I sent it in.”

“What?” I laughed weakly, still rummaging. “Ha-ha, very funny.”

“I did,” he said simply, “I mailed it in.” 

I froze. And STARED at him. “What?” 

“It was complete. The deadline was coming up in a few days; so,” he shrugged, ACTUALLY shrugged, “I mailed it in for ye.”

“It was NOT complete.”

The words came out low and lethal, and I could see Jamie’s shirt-too-tight-shrug that indicated he heard the danger in them. “Ye packed it all in the mailing envelope, no? It was ready to be submitted.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t ready to send it yet!”

He made a small sound of carefully-controlled exasperation. “Claire, mo chridhe, how should I have known th–”

“You should have asked! You should have called me at work to ASK!” I threw up my hands. “Not just assumed that I was ready to have it sent off without my permission!” 

He squirmed perceptibly but wasn’t giving in. “Lass, you’ve been slaving over that essay for weeks. You’ve barely slept—You put it in the envelope, wi’ the address and stamps and everything. I read it again last night after ye went to bed and it was perfect.”

“It wasn’t

The truth was that despite my obsessing over it, it HAD probably been as bloody close to perfect as I could get it. I’d double-checked and triple-checked and quadruple-checked; revised and wordsmithed it to within an inch of its life. But I’d wanted to wait ‘til the very last moment to send it in, to feel absolutely certain it was as good as I could make it; and having that control so unexpectedly pulled out from beneath me—

“—Even if it had been, Jamie, you still had no—NO—bloody right—”

He ran his hands back through his hair. “Sassenach, come now, it’s no’ as though—”

“Jamie, this isn’t a recipe I’m sending to a Ladies’ Magazine!” I didn’t know what to do with my hands but they gestured wildly in my livid rage and tears. “This is—was—Harvard!”

“I ken it IS Harvard,” he said pointedly, putting his hands firmly on my shoulders “—and I ken you’re going to be ACCEPTED there when they read your—”

“And what the hell would YOU know about it?” I snapped, perceiving only the hurt flashing across his face before I was down the hallway and into the bathroom, locking the door. I yanked the shower handle and sunk down against the tub, letting the water mask the sounds of my weeping. 

A few minutes later, Jamie was knocking softly on the door. 

“Sassenach?” 

His voice was quiet, and, I thought, abashed.  “Claire…? May I come in?”

I covered my mouth so he couldn’t hear me. I felt tears trickling over my hand but I wouldn’t open my eyes. It’s not the end of the world, Beauchamp. 

Another knock.

A long silence. 

“Lass….I’m sorry…” 

He was leaning against the door, I thought. 

“It was…an impulsive thing I did— I—” he sighed miserably. “—I thought better of it throughout the day, but…Christ, i’m sorry…It was foolish. I was wrong to do it…” 

A long silence. 

A long…long silence. 

“I’m truly…truly sorry, Claire.” 

I took a deep breath. 

Then another. 

Once more. 

It would be alright. I hadn’t been ready, but the essay was fine. Jamie regretted what he’d done. It would be alright. 

But I was too spent and too upset to consider opening the door. 


{JF}

He HAD been wrong to do it—knew not ten minutes after the post had gone that he’d made a grave error in judgement. But the essay had been perfect, BRILLIANT, and Claire had been so plagued by self-doubt over it. It was as if she had placed her entire sense of her own worth upon success in this single endeavor, this single writing. He’d simply wished her to feel as if she had finally accomplished the thing, after such a harrowing period these last few weeks. 

But she was completely right: what he wished her to feel was irrelevant, and he had betrayed her trust. She was well within her rights not to be ready to forgive him. 

He waited more than an hour, until long after he’d heard her enter the bedroom; giving her the space she apparently wanted. At last, though, he entered the darkened room. 

She was already in bed with her back turned to him. Asleep? He couldn’t tell—but even if she were awake, he didn’t expect her to speak until morning. He deserved her fury for at least that long.

He undressed and slipped quietly under the covers, taking care not to jostle her. Without really thinking about it, he mirrored her posture, coming to rest on his side, facing away from her. 

He listened to the clock tick and tried to let it lull him to sleep. 

One minute. 

Two. 

Three.

Four. 

“Can’t you at least bring yourself to have sex with me?”  Sharp. Wide awake. Dangerous. 

Startled, he blurted, bewildered. “Bring myself—?” 

He felt her bolt upright beside him, her hands slamming onto the bedspread. Her voice was still laced with anger, but desperate, forbye, and hurting. “Jamie, you haven’t touched me in a week! I need to—to feel close to

“You’ve never wished me to have ye during your courses before, Sassenach,” he said, scrubbing his hand over his face as he rolled onto his back. “Do ye really want to that badly tonight?” His ‘especially when you’re not too keen on me at the moment, in any case,’ was implied. He would serve her, of course, if she wished it, but–

“I’m not on my goddamned ‘courses,’ you absolute bastard!”

Jamie opened his mouth to fire back.

—but then, she gasped— 

—a tiny sound, barely more than a sharp breath, really, but so deeply unlike Claire that—

He was on his knees beside her in an instant.  She was kneeling on the mattress, too, clad in only her underclothes, both hands clapped over her mouth.  “Oh, God,” she croaked between her fingers, her eyes wide and wide and wider.

Mo ghraidh—?” He grappled for her face, pushing back the wildness of her hair to hold her between his hands. “Mo chridhe —?  you're—?”

“Oh—God!” she said again, eyes brimming and hyper-focused upon nothing, her mouth gaping open and shut,  “—I didn’t—I was so busy, I hadn’t been—No—” she moaned softly as he lifted her and gathered her, cradled her to him. Her body was rigid, pushing back, and her head shaking violently back and forth. “No,” she wept, “no, no, it’s—Jamie, it’s too soon.“ He could see her eyes sparkling with life through her tears, even as she tried to resist the truth. “We can’t—can’t know for certain—not yet.”

Six days, Claire—” he gasped, his free hand roaming up her back to cup her cheek, hard. “One day—two days, maybe, but—SIX?”  

She lowered her fingers tentatively to graze the natural curve of her belly. Jamie watched in a trance as her palm slowly came to lay flat against her skin.  “Oh, God,” she whispered, swaying on her knees and leaning her forehead against his shoulder as her arms came around him. “Jamie…Jamie…” 

He held her and rocked her (THEM!) and kissed her, crying, laughing—but then remembered—

“I'm—truly sorry about the application, mo nighean donn,” he choked out, feeling the guilt seize this moment of joy. “It was your task—your choice—It wasna my place at all to—”

Forgiven,” she whispered, putting her fingers to his lips and shaking her head. “Forgiven…. And I’m sorry, too….for what I said—I didn’t mean—”

He kissed her, and she kissed him, and there was nothing except her arms; her fingers cupping the back of his head; the taste of her tears and his; her lips; her sweet voice, breaking. “Jamie...Jamie, I’m so—happy—” 

He couldn’t say a word. He could only nod his head slowly over and over again, completely overcome, his shoulders shaking. His heart felt ready to burst as he watched his wife, her face shining, go softly to her back and reach up for him. “Come to me?

And he came to her, made love to her—the only woman he’d ever had; the only one he would ever have in his lifetime.

And as he lay awake long after, holding her, cupping the bairn that slept within her, he prayed; but unlike the night more than two years ago when he’d held Brianna in this same fashion, heart breaking from despair and fear and the looming specter of death, his prayer this night was hopeful and strong.

Lord…that this child will be safe.


[next chapter: Eggs]

We Intertwined: Ch. 10

An Ignis Scientia Story

Chapter 9 | AO3 | Chapter 11
Word Count: 1,684

Ignis jolted awake, cold sweat dotting his brow. He was in an unfamiliar bed, he realized. He glanced around the room. There was no way it was a hospital—he’d become familiar with them throughout his childhood, and the sterility of those hallways always made Ignis uncomfortable.

Instead, he was in a bed that was just too small for the length of his legs. The walls were painted pink, and there were moogle plushies that lined a few shelves. They sat alongside some books that looked to be about the reading level of a young child, just older than a toddler. Ignis recognized a few from his own childhood, staples that his mother had purchased for him and read to him before tucking him in at night.

There were drawings pinned to the walls—some were scribbled in with crayon, some were filled in with broad strokes of paint. The colours were bright and gaudy, with fingerprint smudges throughout. But there was one drawing that was bigger than the rest that caught Ignis’ eye.

It was of two girls, one who was taller with a long, blue braid, and the other who was much smaller with dark hair past her shoulders, holding hands with smiles on their faces.

Ignis was in Clara’s room.

Keep reading

  • someone: hey, what's up?
  • me: Don't speak. Wait till you hear what I have to say. It is quite true that I have worshipped you with far more romance of feeling than a man usually gives to a friend. Somehow, I had never loved a woman. I suppose I never had time. Perhaps, as Harry says, a really 'grande passion' is the privilege of those who have nothing to do, and that is the use of the idle classes in a country. Well, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. I quite admit that I adored you madly, extravagantly, absurdly. I was jealous of every one to whom you spoke. I wanted to have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with you. When I was away from you, you were still present in my art. It was all wrong and foolish. It is all wrong and foolish still. Of course I never let you know anything about this. It would have been impossible. You would not have understood it; I did not understand it myself. One day I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you. It was to have been my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece. But, as I worked at it, every flake and film of color seemed to me to reveal my secret. I grew afraid that the world would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that I had told too much. Then it was that I resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited. You were a little annoyed; but then you did not realize all that it meant to me. Harry, to whom I talked about it, laughed at me. But I did not mind that. When the picture was finished, and I sat alone with it, I felt that I was right. Well, after a few days the portrait left my studio, and as soon as I had got rid of the intolerable fascination of its presence it seemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that I had said anything in it, more than that you were extremely good-looking and that I could paint. Even now I cannot help feeling that it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is ever really shown in the work one creates. Art is more abstract than we fancy. Form and color tell us of form and color,--that is all. It often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely than it ever reveals him. And so when I got this offer from Paris I determined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition. It never occurred to me that you would refuse. I see now that you were right. The picture must not be shown. You must not be angry with me, Dorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are made to be worshipped.
Alec and Magnus belong together.

Honestly, I am so damn happy with Alec and Magnus’ character development and just their relationship in general.

Firstly in season one we had Alec lying to himself about his feelings for Jace, not having the ability to come to terms with who he really is to now not being afraid to let people know how he feels and how much he appreciates Magnus, he tells Maryse that him and Magnus are dating and there’s nothing she can do to stop it, he goes to Izzy and asks her questions about being intimate with Magnus and how does he know he’s ready. He buys Magnus a gift that is supposed to bring him luck and protection, he tells Magnus he doesn’t care how many people he’s been with in the past and tells Magnus that he’s been on countless missions and has never experienced the type of fear that he got at the thought of Magnus being dead, and we see this when he is told Jace activated the soul sword and Clary tells him that Magnus had been in the institute and we can see the fear arise in Alec and when he sees Magnus alive he tells him he loves him, Alec has developed a relationship with this amazing man despite not too long ago he didn’t want to come to terms with how he truly feels about men, and almost marrying Lydia to protect his family’s name instead of being true to himself. 


Magnus in season one has no interest in Shadowhunters and their foolish wrong doings but takes and interest in Alec and admits that Alec has unlocked something in him, despite Alec telling him his plans to marry Lydia Magnus does not give up and even defends Izzy in court to show him that he truly cares about him and the people he loves. When they have their first fight they don’t ignore it and hope for it to blow over, they talk about it. When Alec almost dies trying to track Jace, Magnus is there the whole time trying non-stop to keep Alec alive, if Magnus hadn’t been there Alec would've most definitely died. Magnus lets Jace crash at his place after leaving the institute, he hosts Max’s party to celebrate him getting his first rune despite Maryse having a massive dislike towards him and her attitude towards downworlders. When Valentine has the soul sword and has hijacked the institute Magnus is more worried about Alec’s safety than his own life. 


This is what I aspire to have in a relationship, and I haven’t even covered everything that happened in both seasons. These two love each other and it isn’t hard to see and the fact they finally told one another how they strongly feel about one another and then the hug they shared straight after showed exactly that.  

Originally posted by alecsagitta

World-Shaker, Storm-Bringer

Nico, kneeling in the center of the battlefield, the light reflecting off the armor of his victims, giving his eyes a mad gleam.

His sword still frosted despite the warmth of the blood of the fallen.

He can still feel the energy that raced along his bones, calling to earth, tearing it apart. Zombies and ghosts heeding their master and dragging the enemy to the gates of Hades, punishing those who had been foolish enough to have wronged the Ghost King.

Power coursing through his veins, better than any drug, and just as self-destructive.

Percy learning blood-bending in secret, practicing on the monsters in the forest until he can snap his fingers and their neck.

Percy fighting with his eyes closed, delirious with confidence, the sounds all around are more than enough to beat anything.

His fist clenching, and a tidal wave crashing into his adversary. Drowning them with it’s riptide.

His eyes glowing green with power, storms crashing inside them, reflecting his chaotic nature. It is the first thing Nico sees in the morning, and the last thing his enemies see before death.

The two of them fighting back to back. Opponents bent and twisted as Percy tortures them by breaking every bone in their body, one by one, grinning when they finally die from shock and agony. Nico laughing as his blade razes the field of adversaries, rendering their bodies no more than empty husks.

Their hands joined as they look into each other’s eyes, an earthquake to reshape the globe brewing beneath their feet. Smiles twitching at the corners of their lips, because not even the gods would dare challenge them now.

It is quite true that I have worshipped you with far more romance of feeling than a man usually gives to a friend. Somehow, I had never loved a woman. I suppose I never had time. Perhaps, as Harry says, a really ‘grande passion’ is the privilege of those who have nothing to do, and that is the use of the idle classes in a country. Well, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. I quite admit that I adored you madly, extravagantly, absurdly. I was jealous of every one to whom you spoke. I wanted to have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with you. When I was away from you, you were still present in my art. It was all wrong and foolish. It is all wrong and foolish still. Of course I never let you know anything about this. It would have been impossible. You would not have understood it; I did not understand it myself. One day I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you. It was to have been my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece. But, as I worked at it, every flake and film of color seemed to me to reveal my secret. I grew afraid that the world would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that I had told too much. Then it was that I resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited. You were a little annoyed; but then you did not realize all that it meant to me. Harry, to whom I talked about it, laughed at me. But I did not mind that. When the picture was finished, and I sat alone with it, I felt that I was right.
— 

Basil Hallward, the painter who deserved better. (The Picture of Dorian Gray, 1890) 

This is one of the most heartfelt scenes in any book I read . 

Well, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. I quite admit that I adored you madly, extravagantly, absurdly. I was jealous of every one to whom you spoke. I wanted to have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with you… It was all wrong and foolish. It is all wrong and foolish still. Of course I never let you know anything about this. It would have been impossible. You would not have understood it; I did not understand it myself. I only knew that I had seen perfection face to face, and that the world had become wonderful to my eyes—too wonderful, perhaps…
—  Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray 
Smooth Talker

Edward Kenway x Reader

Request: Ooo can you write a modern flirty edward x shy reader pretty pleeease?

A/N: I’ve already had this in queue, but I’m hoping the drabbles can be up tomorrow.


In your opinion, it was much too loud and the lights offered no aide in trying to see. You were practically feeling your way around, only being satisfied once you sat yourself in an uncomfortable chair in front of the bar. The smell of potent alcohol assaulted your nose as you ordered your drink, looking out towards the crowded dance floor. It was a mass of sweaty, half-naked bodies all grinding up on each other, the scent of sweat and various perfumes almost heavy enough to battle the alcohol you sat near. Truthfully, if it hadn’t been for your friend dragging you here, you would’ve never come. 

But no, you, “Needed a social life, (Y/N),” and, “Sitting inside and reading a book doesn’t count”. You sighed heavily as the bartender placed your glass in front of you, an almost apologetic smile on his face as if he understood what you were going through. You smiled gratefully, swirling the amber liquid around. You weren’t entirely sure what you ordered, not really planning on drinking it so much as using it for a buffer. You’d been in this damn club for a total of 5 minutes and your friend had already left you, you were uncomfortable, and already more than willing to go home. Maybe if you slipped out now your friend would never notice…

“Excuse me,” an accented voice called from by your side. You turned to face him, audibly gulping when you did. He was attractive. He was more than attractive. You must’ve looked quite stupid, eyes tracing down every inch of his tanned skin, up the curve of his strong jaw, along the planes of his chest that were barely visible thanks to the first few buttons popped open on his shirt. Once you realized that you’d probably been staring much too long, you averted your eyes to his disheveled blonde hair. His smirk was evident in his voice when he spoke once more. “Would you like to talk or would you prefer staring at me all day?” Your face had to have been the color of a tomato, the already stuffy club feeling all the more heated.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, not even quite sure if he’d heard over the blaring music.

“No worries, it happens quite often.” You couldn’t stop your lips from twitching up at his arrogant tone, your eyes dropping down to the tanned skin peeking through his white button-down. Did he really need to wear a shirt that tight? “Although, I prefer touching more than looking.” You didn’t see him move, but he was suddenly right by your side, lips only inches from your ear, and hot breath ghosting along your bare skin. Suppressing a shiver, you looked to him in your peripheral vision. His hand was on your stool, his thumb tantalizingly close to your thigh. There was a certain amount of assurance in his stance as his jean-clad knees were hovering by your own. Your eyes met his, something that you immediately regretted. In the darkness of the club, they were practically glowing, clear and full of desire. “Edward,” he whispered, startling you out of your observation.

“W-what?” You silently cursed yourself for being so meek, the quiver in your voice only seeming to encourage him further. Salt, alcohol, and an underlying scent of crisp sage danced around you as he spoke again, his voice a little louder this time.

“My name’s Edward Kenway, lass. What’s yours?” Your name? What was your name? Your eyes were wide and panicked, your mind barely functional in this man’s presence. He looked like he was chiseled by gods and he wanted to know your name?

“(Y/N),” you squeaked, praying your voice didn’t sound nearly as weak as it did to your ears. You guessed it must have, if his low chuckle was anything to go by. The sound sent shivers down your spine, his breath caressing your cheek.

“A pleasure.” His warm hand found yours, lifting it to his mouth. He winked, keeping his pale lips plastered to your hand all the while. It felt electric, the barest touch arousing you more than you cared to admit. A wide, cocky grin was pasted onto his face as he delicately placed your hand back by your side, your disappointment evident at the loss of his lips.

“Uh,” you paused, looking for the word, “Likewise.” He looked to you hungrily, his knees that were once inches from your own, now rested against yours. The hand that had been near your thigh had moved closer so he was touching you there as well. It set your body alight with something akin to desire, the look in his eyes downright sinful. You swallowed thickly, watching each of his movements with interest as he dragged his wet tongue along his lips tortuously slow, clearly trying to rouse a response out of you. Unconsciously, you delivered, your own tongue darting out to lick your lips.

“What do you say to getting out of here?” He asked suddenly, startling you out of your own daydream. You held back the groan of disappointment, choosing to answer him instead.

“Huh?” Okay, it wasn’t exactly an answer, but how were you supposed to form coherent sentences when he was looking at you like that? His eyes were half lidded, the cerulean blue being swallowed in a sea of black. His lips were shining, the low light outlining his features perfectly. He was like sex in human form, his smirk telling you he knew exactly what you were thinking.

“It’s too loud in here to have a conversation,” he drawled. “Besides, I’d like to get to know you more intimately.” There was a dark underlying in his tone, the word intimately having much too emphasis for your liking. Or did you enjoy it? That was something you’d rather not find out. Or maybe you did want to find out. You opened your mouth to deny the offer, clicking your mouth shut when a breathy, “Yes,” tumbled out in its place. That damn infuriating smirk was back on his lips, eyes shining playfully like he knew you slipped up.

“Shall we then?” He asked huskily, not moving from his spot until he was sure you were following. You swallowed your fear, nodding hesitantly. Damn him. Damn his looks. Damn his smirk. And damn his smooth talking.

anonymous asked:

can you recommend any really good superbat fic???

*rubs hands in glee* hell yeah!

POST BVS:

in my head the unsaid words by susiecarter M  2,958

They fuck like they hate each other. (They don’t.)

coming up these steps to you by susiecarter T  10,115

Five ways Bruce said “I love you” without saying it—and the time Clark didn’t say it right back at him.

Only Human by saltedpin M  23,671

Clark temporarily loses his powers, and while it’s initially jarring, he gradually adjusts and tries to go about on a somewhat normal routine after telling his inner circle (which can also include the League since they’re building themselves up). Problem is that he is somehow an even bigger danger magnet than Lois in this state.

Learning to Deserve You by ceemobster M  4,565

“I was angry and foolish and wrong, and I don’t expect you to forgive me.” He didn’t know what he should say, so he figured he might as well start by being honest. “I made a promise that I wouldn’t fail you in death. Circumstances may have changed, but I intend to keep that promise.”

The first ten meetings between Bruce and Clark after Clark comes back from the dead.

tell all the truth (but tell it slant) by susiecarter M  33,007 ***

It takes a while for Batman and Superman to work things out, once Clark comes back from the dead. Pretending to date each other in order to explain why Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent are in the same place so often? Doesn’t help as much as you might think.

two years in the making by knoxoursavior  T  3,535

Bruce’s mornings are usually spent in bed, trying to ignore the pain in his hips and his knees as he finally gets up and answers Alfred’s insistent calls to breakfast. He expects to find Alfred waiting patiently in the kitchen, arms crossed and ready to tie Bruce to a chair if he needs to.

DCU fics:

Four Days on a Farm in Kansas by FabulaRasa E  28,418 ****my favourite superbat fic ever

Bruce comes to spend a few days at the Kents’ farm. Clark tries to be all things to all people. Bruce is kind of an asshole. Does any of this really need saying? Featuring: tractors, misogyny, embarrassing parents, Ikea, awkward barn sex.

The House of the Earth by mithen E  79,663  amazing world building

The House of the Earth is an AU in which a few thousand Kryptonians escaped the destruction of Krypton to flee to Earth and enslave its people. Years later, a young and naive Kryptonian finds himself entangled with a secret rebellion and its mysterious leader.

Love with an Old Book of Rules by capsicleonyourleft T  2,098

For so long, Bruce had tried to shut off that part of himself, to resist the gravitational pull that Clark seems to have on him. He never stood a chance.

Ten Things that Go Boom by ren_makoto M  7,466

It’s Christmas Eve and Superman needs Batman’s help to stop a Holiday Disaster. Romance explodes! Other things explode, too, but romance is the important part. 

That Which We Call a Rose by arysteia E  11,987

The course of true love never did run smooth. When Clark Kent met Bruce Wayne. And Bruce Wayne met Superman. And Superman met Batman. And Batman met Clark Kent. And Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne finally got their acts together…

Dilectus Meus Mihi… by mithen T  10,934

Clark Kent has lost all his memories of being Superman, and Bruce Wayne must retrain him in the use of his powers. But his super-powered identity isn’t all he’s forgotten…

Resonances by FabulaRasa E  10,965 side halbarry

The beginning of Clark and Bruce’s relationship becomes intertwined with the beginning of Hal and Barry’s, when Hal sees something he really, really was not supposed to see.

Stranger in a Strange Land by mithen M  27,175

Kal-El of Krypton arrives on Earth as an adult. To the Justice League’s surprise, Batman volunteers to introduce him to human ways. There’s an immediate bond between the two me, but cultural differences and miscommunication complicate their relationship.

These are my personal favourites. You can find all my superbat bookmarks here!

  • bioware: *punches me in the face* say it
  • me, tied to a chair: never
  • bioware: *slaps me* say that the Dalish deserve to be repeatedly portrayed and foolish and wrong and the constant options to wipe them out is warranted. SAY IT
  • me: *spits in their faces* fuck you

anonymous asked:

tips on learning a new language?

Listen to it. Even if you don’t understand, listen to it, specially if the videos have subtitles in that same language, so you can read what they’re talking??? That really helps me, at least, when it comes to comprehend how the words in a certain language sound, it helps you find a pattern and get used to it. 

Other than that… Practice. Write a lot, repeat a lot, don’t be afraid to act foolish by saying something wrong, you’re learning and the only way to get it right is by getting wrong a few times. 

anonymous asked:

I really love it when you call the destihellers out for their posts they always say "it was a joke!" -anti-fucking-destiel

Hello beautiful. ♥

Oh yes, it only becomes a ‘joke’ when their foolishness reaches the wrong eyes because of their crap ass tagging skills. :)

Simple solution, is for them to tag their crap properly and not put it in the general tags. Easy peasy. But they LIKE the attention, so they will continue to tag like assholes. And we will continue to school them. 

neekaxiv  asked:

Get it off your chest - "I had a list a mile long, of things I wanted to say and could never figure out how. I'm glad I finally managed to, even if it was a less than fun experience for the both of us. The only thing I have left to say is that no matter how perfect things are between us, I'll never be able to break the small fear of somethin' going wrong. Foolish, I know."