Imagine how different acotar would have been like if Feyre had seen Rhysand’s dreams as well.
Think about it: he sees her painting stuff, and she sees him UtM or maybe glimpses of his court of Dreams. And then when she gets over the Wall, she sees his dreams more clearly and when he sends an image of the night sky she starts to send things back, trying to lift his spirits. Perhaps a painting of hers. Perhaps that painting of the pool of starlight that Tamlin was so quick to dismiss.
And then she starts liking Tamlin but she can’t forget the man in her dreams. Can’t fully commit to Tamlin because there’s just something about this man she dreams about, who sacrificed so much for his court. And then Calanmai. She knows who he is, and when she turns around after he saves her they just kind of stare at each other, not knowing what to do. Because Rhys can’t scare her off, she’s seen Amarantha and knows why he would try to do so. She knows it’s a mask. So they both know that they can’t afford to really talk and are just happy to get a glimpse of this person they dreamt of.
Imagine later, when Tamlin sends Feyre away (she never said she loved him, and though she comes close, she can’t forget the man who everyone thinks is a monster, who just threatened them in the dining room. Who she knows wears a mask to protect) and she comes back not just for him, but for Rhys too. No one guesses why she’s really there and she doesn’t care. Except Rhys. He knows. He sees that she came back for him too.
Imagine her trials. Still horrible, but how much of a difference would it make if Feyre knew she truly had an ally?
Imagine acotar where Feyre sees Rhysand’s dreams just as he sees her’s. What a different story that would be.
It’s close approaching the anniversary of Maria Stark’s death, post cacw,
and Tony dreams about one of the more comforting memories he has of her,
always brought to the surface in times when he feels most vulnerable.
Headcanon that the reason Rhysand tried to catch the Suriel was to find out who Feyre was when he was having visions/dreams about her. He wanted to know who she was, where she was, when their paths would cross…
Requested: Yes. Anon: hey! I really love your blog and I was wondering if you could do a reid x reader where the reader has a wet dream about Spencer and she finally tells him about her dream after he asks her what’s wrong and it ends in smut?? thank you so much
Word Count: 3,589, Warnings: Swearing, NSFW, Oral Sex.
A/N: Oh my God okay so I went a little crazy on this one and it’s a full fledged long fic. I was writing this and I actually needed to take a break my palms were sweating because Reid is so fucking hot. Anyway, I hope you like it! Please let me know if you want a Part 2 ;)
- M xo
(Gif not mine, credit to owner)
Sprawled out on your bed, your naked form was being admired and touched by a handsome man. He glided his fingers up and down the sides of your thighs as he placed sensual kisses on your stomach. “God, you’re so beautiful.”, whispered Spencer.
Wait what? Spencer? Hold on. Did you just have a wet dream about your nerdy co-worker?
You woke up in your bed covered in sweat as you tried to calm down your flustered state as you panted heavily trying to vaguely recollect the memories of the dream you had just had. It wasn’t a bad dream, in fact, it was amazing. You squeezed your thighs together in hopes of some sort of relief, but all you could do was think about the dream, which made your state even worse.
You sat there in silence as you tried to comprehend what had just happened. You’d been working at the BAU for 4 years now and you had never thought of Spencer that way. Sure he was tall, had gorgeous chiselled cheekbones and never failed to amaze you with his intelligent brain. Oh, God. Here you were thinking inappropriately about your co-worker at 3 in the morning when you had to be in for work at 7. There was no way you were going to act normal in front of him after this strange yet intoxicating image of you and Spencer practically having sex ingrained in your brain. All you could do was try to get back to sleep and hope that the flush would be over in the morning.
Warnings: Objectification of reader (sorta - he means well), Implied smut, smut, Dry Humping, Oral (69), unsafe sex (wrap it before you tap it), training kink (is that a thing?), rough(ish) sex, NSFW gifs under the cut.
Word Count: 3500ish
A/N: This is me proving to myself I still remember how to smut. I haven’t written anything smutty for the longest of times and I have been feeling like it lately. It was harder than I thought getting back into the saddle though. Sorry if it is a bit rough - pun not intended.
It is somewhat inspired by the Ed Sheeran song Shape of You - and maybe a little by the video too.
“Fuck,” she breathed out, instantly drawing Jensen’s attention. He was sprawled out his couch, waiting for Y/N to return to his side. It was movie night and she hadn’t bothered leaving the room to take the phone call. Jensen never eaves dropped and even if he was to overhear something it wouldn’t matter. There was nothing to two of them hid from each other. Literally nothing.
They had both been single for a while and some drunken night they had come to the conclusion, that helping each other blow off some steam when either of them needed it was much prefered from picking up some random dude or chick at a bar.
“If you want I am game,” Jensen teased her, throwing her his best Dean smirk, making her eyes roll so hard he was sure Jared would hear it across the hall from Jensen’s apartment.
“It’s not funny, Jensen! They offered me the part. I’m gonna be Wonder Woman,” she complained, making Jensen shoot from the couch and wrap her in his arms, spinning her around the air not caring one bit about her objection.
“That’s amazing Y/N/N,” he laughed putting her down but not releasing her from his hold, “what are you so worried about?” Jensen gently stroked her hair away from her face, studying her face and trying to figure out why she wasn’t over the moon about this. She had a tendency to overthink things. He knew that. He literally spent 2 hours on the floor of her bedroom leaning against her bathroom door trying to talk her out after the first night they had slept together.
Can we talk about how Joey Tribbiani is such a wholesome loyal great character? As much as he’s a lady killer, he’s also just a decent person who doesn’t go behind his friends backs or anything. Like when Rachel was pregnant and planning to move out, he made a baby’s “room” for the baby, he told Rachel how he didn’t care about the noise and a baby hanging around and all around ready to change his lifestyle to help with the baby. And then he takes her out on a date when she says she misses dating. And when he falls for her he is nothing but respectful to her and Ross. He feels guilty that he is in love with Rachel bc of Ross even though Ross and Rachel hadn’t dated for five years. He wants to be a father to Rachel’s kid, like he’s ready to give up his bachelor lifestyle for that, even dreams of it. He takes her to the hospital and worries about her and asks the doctor questions about her health and then Ross rushes in and is an ass and even then Joey tries to make Ross feel better when Joey is believed to be the father. Mostly this is a giant post about how Rachel x Ross sucks and how she belonged to be with Joey.
Of his time at Bakka, of midnights at the skate park with Yousef and Mikael, or weed tinted laughs and screams all along the streets of Oslo. He dreams about Sonja, with her bright eyes that grew dull and her smile that turned forced. He dreams sometimes of Sana, two years younger with a sly smile and sharp wit and he dreams of the times when all of them hung out together- before words like bipolar and illness and reckless ever entered his vocabulary.
He dreams of running really fast. He dreams of tears running down his face and missed calls on his phone and terror because what has he done? Why can’t he control himself and why won’t his mind just shut up shut up shut up?
He dreams glimpses in between of nights locked in his room and the last words between his best friends and him. He dreams of silence and loneliness and the amount of effort it took to keep waking up day after day when all he wanted to do was fade away.
And then he dreams of his first day of Nissen. Of a boy in a red snapback singing wildly off tune to some rapper and half jumping onto his friend with dark eyebrow’s back. He dreams of blue eyes meeting green ones across the space of a cafeteria. He dreams of nights huddled together, of the weight of a teenage boy in his lap on their very own couch in their very own apartment.
He dreams of the moments in between too. Chlorine kisses and and warm skin underneath his fingertips, the distant sound of pop songs in the background and dancing. Of more tears and more fears and the sensation of being welcomed home into his arms.
Even dreams about a lot of things.
But when he wakes up and the dream is replaced by his reality- dirty laundry and a cuddly body and little plants decorating the sill of their window- he is gripped by the notion that he’ll take all of the dreams, good and bad and heartbreaking in between, if it means he gets to keep this.
Remember back before Bulma became romantically involved with Vegeta, when she said she had a dream about him, and that he was good to her and was a good kisser to boot? Now remember recently when Vegeta was baffled that Goku didn’t know what kissing was?
I would like to request ftm trans!draco coming out to Narcissa/ them bonding! thank you so much ilu <3
Hi my love ♡ I hope it’s okay!
Draco couldn’t do this.
He had dreamed about how he would tell his mom - make
her dinner, buy her flowers and hug her tight.
Just in case she didn’t want to hug him ever again.
He would tell it to her slowly, breaking the news as
carefully as possible.
(Anything to save her from an imminent heart attack.)
He had made a speech, wrote it down on paper in the
middle of the night, the paper stained with tears because he couldn’t focus on
anything but the fact that his mother is
going to hate him.
Pansy had calmed him down from several panic attacks, Blaise
had basically just told him to “suck it up and tell them” and he was still
convinced that he’d rather jump into the Hogwarts lake and be drowned by the
giant squid than go through with this – because oh dear Merlin he couldn’t do this.
But he couldn’t back down now.
Because his mother was standing in front of him, her
hands full of clippings he’d stashed in his room, his binder wrapped over her
wrist and – oh no.
“Love,” his mother began, slowly, looking up from the
muggle Trans Teenagers magazine
clippings, “what’s this?”
He had prepared a speech. He was going to do it, but
he wasn’t ready now – he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t he couldn’t he couldn’t –
He had to.
“I’m..” he took a deep breath, looking down at his
hands. “I’m sorry, mother.”
“Darling,” she started again, her voice slightly off,
as if she was on the verge of tears. “Are you – is this –“
It felt like there was a hippogriff on his chest now,
pressing down on him until all he could do was choke. Please, please, she’s going to hate me - “I – yes, mother, I –“ why
couldn’t he breathe, he needed to breathe
–“I’m so, so sorry that – I didn’t mean to –“
Then, suddenly, she lurched forward and wrapped
herself around him.
She hugged Draco tight to her chest, locking her arms
around him and her head against his hair – crying and kissing his forehead,
whispering impossible things to him, “shh, darling, it’s okay, I’m here –“
“Mom,” Draco sobbed, hugging her tightly. His heart
was going bonkers. Was this really
happening? “I’m not your –“
“You’re my child,”
Narcissa said through the tears, firmly and clearly. “And that’s all that
Draco hiccoughed a laugh, a broken one but it felt
real, and he buried his face deep in her chest. She didn’t hate him – she was
hugging him, she wasn’t appalled, she wasn’t locking him up – he couldn’t
believe this he couldn’t –
“And I think,” Narcissa continued softly, “that your
father has always wanted a son, anyway.”
They both snorted at the same time, and then started
Because at the moment, it was fine. Draco could
finally breathe in deeply, knowing that whatever his father would say, he’d be
able to go through it, to keep standing and face him, knowing that his mother
was right there beside him to hold his hand.
“I love you,” he murmured finally, and she squeezed
The first time it happens, Derek is seven years old and having a nightmare.
He’s dreaming of the counselor his parents had made him see after the divorce, the mean one, the one who had pushed and pushed and pushed him to talk even after he’d started to cry and said he didn’t want to. He’s pushing in the dream, too, and finally, Derek, in his dream, thinks, with all of his might, I want my mom.
And then he’s not in his dream anymore. He’s somewhere else.
Hey, I don’t know if this is how this works, but I adore the Elsewhere University world, and as a former theatre person it really spoke to me. I wrote something for you. I hope it’s half decent.
Elsewhere U turned out fantastic stage managers. They were punctual, sharp, attentive, and—most importantly—incredibly flexible in scheduling and communication, honed from years of having to contact entire casts and crews at the drop of a pin. Rehearsal has been moved to the gym; 3:30 call. Fitting schedules to come. Leave your schedules free. The theatre department always had a few too many of them, but that worked out. Freshmen got assigned their own stage manager buddy to help them out. Perhaps the software engineers didn’t need the extra help with the rules, but They loved theatre, and without the help the underclassmen would disappear in droves. The more jaded stage managers would meet up after welcome week and cast lots on which ones would disappear first.
This year, the top candidate was universal: ‘Andromeda’, some costume technician from God-Knew-Where. She was the kind of shiny-eyed kid who already liked the Weird Stuff (the kind of high schooler who read about demons and bought crystals and did tarot cards with no real regard for the Rules) and really liked it. The upperclassmen techs were content to show up in their blacks, clutching their teas and coffee and blinking blearily into space. She showed up dripping in jewelry and piercings and vibrant colors. She’d talk to anyone (nervous chatter, mostly, but chatter inevitably lead to slips) and wrote fantasy stories and, worst of all, couldn’t seem to follow the unspoken rule of Don’t Look.
“But why not?” She demanded one time. Her beleaguered partner, “Pinstripe”, moaned and rubbed their tired eyes.
“Look, if you want to see what happens, be my fucking guest,” they snapped, “But don’t ask anyone to come and Trade you back.”
Andromeda survived somehow. Freshman year dulled her sparkle. Sophmore year spun around and she learned not to look, to be a little less conspicuous, not to chatter so much or so loudly. She started dating a sweet guy in the Music Department (a bassist, safe enough from Them) and drew less attention.
Even so, sometimes, when she was the last one to leave the basement Costume Shop, she’d pause in the empty theatre and stare across the seats, listening. Sometimes she swore she heard it; an undercurrent of whispers, the slight shift in the echo of air conditioner. Andromeda paused at the door like she did every night and unzipped her backpack, pulling out a six pack of vanilla pudding.
“Good night,” she whispered to the dark. Peeling open the containers, she left them in the last aisle and locked the doors behind her. It wouldn’t be there tomorrow.
Tech weeks went easier with her there, when the whole crew was tired and cranky and on the twelfth hour of blocking and light staging. When the whispers from the empty chairs got loud and angry and time started warping again, she’d pull out her writing notebook and read very softly until it hushed again, only the electricians on the catwalk shouting cues overhead. When wardrobe finished their laundry she stayed behind until the small hours of the morning, escorting them out into the stillness of the night and back safe to their dorms. She never came to harm alone out there; she had learned not to look, and now all of her jewelry was iron.
Imagine your favorite turtle cuddling with you. It’s late and it’s cold and he’s had a stressful day. All he wants right now is to hold you and kiss you and fall asleep. The best part about being in a relationship is that all of those things can happen.
Leonardo is exhausted.
Today has been an exhausting, difficult day. And it seemed like those days were coming along more often.
Sometimes, the line between brother and leader can be confusing and tiring. There are some days when he just wants to hang out and not do anything…but that can’t happen.
He has a job to do.
A job that his family counts on.
So after training and patrol and meditation and butting heads with his brothers, all he wants to do is to crawl in bed. He slowly walks through the dark hallway, his brother’s voices and laughter slowly vanishing from his ears. He approaches the final circular door.
His door. His bedroom. His sanctuary.
He shuts the door behind him and leans against it, pressing his head to worn out wood, lost in thought. He thinks about everything he had to do today and how he will do it again tomorrow and he wonders if it will ever get any easier. He had been the Leader for five years, since he was fifteen, and as he got older his job only seemed to get harder.
Leo sighs and turns around, acting to get into bed, when he notices a small figure underneath his sheets. He stiffens but relaxes when the figure mumbles something. He would know that voice anywhere.
He strides over, quietly, and pulls his blue comforter away, revealing Y/N’s peaceful face. He notices the book tucked away next to her, a copy of Cinder that has her finger tucked between the pages.
He laughed softly at the sight before him.
“Did you fall asleep waiting for me?” He whispers.
Leonardo carefully takes the book, making sure to mark the page, and places it on the nightstand. For a moment, he simply watches her breathe softly.
She looks so content and he wonders what she might be dreaming about. A little part of Leonardo hopes that she’s dreaming about him…Eventually, he decideds to join her in her dreams.
Moving away, he removes his armor piece by piece, putting it away. He looks in the mirror. He tools older. Tired. He examines his green skin, littered with scars and a few tattoos. His eyes linger in his left forearm, where he had the kanji symbol for “love” tattooed.
He had gotten that for her and she had held his hand the entire time. He hadn’t really needed her to but he certainly had enjoyed it.
He looks up and he can see her reflection in the mirror. Y/N has rolled over and is now facing him, her arm reaching out towards him as though to say
“Come to bed.”
Love. His fingers run over the inked skin before he turns away and goes to join her. Carefully, so very carefully, he slides in bed next to her. Leonardo is always surprised about how small she seems next to him. How delicate, almost doll like.
She suddenly stirs, her eyes just barely opening.
“Leo?” She asks, her voice thick with sleep.
“Hey. Sorry for keeping you waiting.” he whispers.
Y/N smiled sleepily and says
She’s drifting off to sleep once more and Leonardo gives her a quick kiss before she resumes her peaceful breathing.
It has been a difficult day for the turtles but being able to hold her like this…made it all worthwhile.
Within moments, Leo had joined her in her slumber, still holding her in his arms.
Imagine Harry and Ginny a few months into their marriage and they’re so happy and in love and then one day they go shopping for food and household items and Harry just casually grabs certain items before Ginny hisses at him to “Check the prices, Harry, God! That bed set is far too expensive, we’re not going to have anything left to get the food with!” And Harry starts to laugh and say “We don’t have to worry about -” and then he stops and he and Ginny look at each other. And Harry realizes that she’s grown up having to measure out all her money and decide what she can and cannot have for a certain week or month or year. And Ginny realizes that she is actually no longer obligated to worry about money ever again.
Imagine Harry and Ginny eating dinner together and Ginny’s telling him about certain meals her mum made and teasing him about how he wolfs everything down and “Honestly Harry, you’re worse than Ron!” and Harry retorts laughingly “well old habits die hard, I had to fight Dudley for meals all the time, you at least knew you were going to eat every day!” And Ginny’s grin starts to fade and she asks “You…you didn’t get to eat everyday?” And Harry realizes what he said and he changes the subject quickly and Ginny looks at the plates in front of him and resists the urge to pile on some more potatoes. And the next day Vernon Dursley’s car is egged.
Imagine Harry and Ginny both suffering from night terrors and PTSD and agreeing that maybe going to that therapist Hermione recommended isn’t such a bad idea, and that’s how Thursday night became Therapy Night when they go out to dinner or to the pub after each session and agree that they need to talk to some Healers about introducing these sessions since therapy is still widely seen as muggle nonsense in the wizarding world.
And Ginny murmurs over her fire whiskey that sometimes she can still hear Tom Riddle murmuring in her ear, and Harry whispers that he dreams about running after his mother and father and Sirius and Remus as they disappear behind the Veil in the Department of Mysteries and he doesn’t know if he wakes from terror or regret about not making it through. And they go back home and hold each other closer that night and both wake up with raging hangovers.
AN // I’m so sorry this took so long, it’s been a weird week.
TW // smut, profanity
It was an angel, I really saw an angel
The most beautiful things are found where you least expect them. He found her sat on the pavement outside a liquor store in a skirt short enough to make even an atheist mother clutch a cross but she had eyes that could make flowers grow from places in you that you thought were long dead. Walking over and sitting next to her was almost instinct, like she was an old friend or a lost child, but talking to her until sunrise? Well that was just because her voice was like violins and it made him forget about time. She’s not left his side since you know, like he needs her with him constantly just to be sure she’s real. She’s his saving grace, she’s an earthbound angel and she doesn’t know it. She doesn’t believe in angels. But he does. He believes in her.
Demons are so shy around her, other men stutter when she looks them in the eye and he can’t believe she’s his.
He catches himself staring at her a lot but he can’t help it, watching her do anything makes him feel like he can do everything, and he can’t help but mirror her smile when she catches him too because I swear when that girl smiles so does the entire goddamn universe and her laugh could make him forgive her for thing she hasn’t even done yet.
She would never confess, in her fine world, that she really preferred chaos but he knew and he thinks that’s why she’s with him. He’s sure she’s an angel and he doesn’t plan on letting her go because God has a whole choir and Harry only has her.
He’s her favourite sin, the only one who could get her
on her knees with her wrists tied behind her back and her swollen cunt making unseemly suggestions. She’s his good girl and oh how he loves to ruin her, the image of tears and mascara running down her cheeks as she begs him to fuck her is constantly on repeat in his mind like his favourite movie scene. Touching her feels like euphoria. The arch in her back could cause a holy catastrophe and the only thing reassuring the devil of her angel stance in moments where she’s writhing is the chant of God and Harry’s name falling from her pretty lips. He never knows what he’s saying when he’s moaning into her mouth. Is it her name? Is it gospel? He’s not entirely sure what the difference is but he is sure that the only heaven he wants to be in is her. He always has love dripping from him in everything he does with her, like when he kisses her wrists before he pins them above her head. The ecstasy they feel with one another is hedonistic and it’s nights like these, when she lays exhausted and filled with him on his chest, that he sings her to sleep just so she’ll dream about slow dancing with him. She’s an angel, his only angel.