- Go skinny dipping with
- Make weird sex noises while standing next to C
- Get unhappily married to D
- Get kissed on mouth by E
- Have sexy dream about F
- Go on a terrible date with G
- Get cheap flowers from H
- Get murdered by I
- Accidentally Wink at J
- Have painful sex with K
- Pee yourself while looking at L
- Loudly yawn while looking at M
- Zombie dance with N
- Paint red nails to O - Hold hands with P
- Take blurry photo with Q
- Pray for R
- Cry while talking to S
- Get purplish hickey from T
- Scare to death U
- Throw up on V
- Play Pokemon go with W
- Gossip about X
- Naked for Y
- Smell like Z
- Tell terrible sex joke to
initial of your last name:
- Domen Prevc B - Daniel Andre Tande C
- Vojtech Stursa D
- Andreas Wellinger E
- Noriaki Kasai F
- Robert Johansson G
- Richard Freitag H
- Cene Prevc I
- Maciej Kot J
- Andreas Stjernen K
- Gregor Schlierenzauer L
- Walter Hofer M - Kamil Stoch N - Peter Prevc O
- Markus Eisenbichler P
- Evgeny Klimov Q
- Jurij Tepes R
- Stefan Kraft S
- Michael Hayboeck T
- Piotr Zyla U
- Denis Kornilov V
- Mackenzie Boyd-Clowes W
- Karl Geiger X
- Stephan Leyhe Y
- Kaarel Nurmsalu Z
- Jane Ahonnen
initial of your mothers name:
- In his bathroom B
- In his bed C
- In a hot tub D
- At the church E
- On a parking lot F
- In your best friends bed G
- In front of Daiki Ito H
- In your bed I
- At the supermarket J
- In the shower K
- In front of his wife/girlfriend L
- In front of camera M
- In front of his mother N
- And Dawid Kubacki O
- In front of Sara Takanashi P
- While it’s raining Q
- At the hospital R
- In the museum S
- In the graveyard T
- In the dark U
- At the wild party V
- Next to his best friend W
- At the gym X
- At the hotel Y
- In his kitchen Z - In the bookstore
You should really write something about harry going bare for the first time... please?
Okay I know this is a little dirty but can you write a blurb about Harry coming inside of you for the first time dmnffsaa
A little dirty is the name of the game around here. Thanks to @inkedferns and @stylesunchained for keeping me sane during this. Thanks also to @stylesunchained for providing the basic framework and agreeing that combining Dunkirk Harry with a Harry who gets to nut inside his girl for the first time was a good idea.
I don’t know that this is really dirtier than anything else I’ve written, but… it feels it. I think it’s the uniform. Read at your own risk. x.
P. S. I’ve got to proofread this a little more but I’m on a train later today and away for a few days so I REALLY wanted to get this out. Turn a blind eye to anything egregious until I’m home?
046. Important or Summat
“Be back for
weekends,” he’d promised you while you’d knelt on the bed with your arms around
his neck while you kissed him next to his suitcase and run your hand over a
short head of hair that you weren’t quite used to. “Won’t hardly miss me, will
But weekends had turned into overtime shoots, and dinners,
and, “Train was all booked out, love, m’sorry,” and weekends when you’re, “Too
busy, it wouldn’t work. Next one?”
And when he had managed to make it work his beautiful green
eyes were so dull and lined with exhaustion that you’d just been wrapped around
him in bed when the two of you weren’t out catching up with friends and family
who were eager to see him and hear all the news from the continent. You had
been grateful to be near him again and to have his snores in your ear again
(even if you did have to shove him until he rolled so they stopped), and it had
been nice to shuffle sleepily around him in the kitchen once more while you
both went about your morning routines.
But then he’d left again and when the two of you had done
hardly anything more than a steamy make out session that hadn’t gone farther
than a quick bout with his fingers curling inside of you, regrets always
started to sink in.
You offer Justin an apologetic smile before sighing. “Ross seems to be in a little bit of a mood,” you tell him. “Sorry about that,” you say, raising a hand to gesture you were talking about Ross’ previous behaviour.
Justin shakes his head, “It’s cool,” he assures you.
“I should probably go find him,” you continue, looking over your shoulder in the direction your boyfriend had headed in.
“I think that’s a good idea,” Justin confirms. “It was good seeing you again.”
You pull him into a hug, “It definitely was. I guess I’ll see you around,” you smile, pulling away.
He nods and goes to speak, but something catches his attention. He uses his head to gesture to something behind you. Turning, you find Ross waiting off to the side with both your bags.
Wanna Be Yours, 6/7 (Olicity, College AU, Explicit)
Summary:College AU. Felicity’s car breaks down in a major rainstorm, sending her walking to the closest house she can find. It just so happens to belong to Oliver Queen, and he’s having a ‘Skivvies Only’ party. (See AO3 for Author’s Notes.)
A/N: I don’t have words for how much the response to this fic means to me! Every single comment and kudos and reblog and retweet, it’s amazing. Thank you! And now the chapter we’ve all been waiting for…
This wouldn’t be anything without my amazing beta Margaret. She does so much for me and I’m so grateful! Enjoy!
One second he was watching an
old movie about jet fighters and the next someone was carding their fingers
through his hair.
She was back.
Oliver turned into the touch,
smiling when his nose brushed the inside of her wrist.
Not opening his eyes, he nuzzled
his face into her arm before reaching for her. His hand found her legs first
where she was curled up next to him. He sighed, his palm skating over her knee
and thigh, up over her hip to her waist. His smile grew as he turned his entire
body towards her, wrapping her up, folding into her. She said something that
sounded a lot like, “I didn’t mean to wake you,” but he just hummed, angling himself
so he could bury his face in her chest.
When his mouth passed over her
breast, she let out a breathy giggle, smoothing his hair down as she wrapped
herself around him in turn.
It was the best fucking way he
could ever be woken up, he decided - his Felicity, warm and perfect, fitting so
wonderfully against him, her giggles echoing her quickening under his ear.
“Mmm.” Oliver cuddled into her.
“You feel so good.”
He could hear the smile on her
lips as she replied, “So do you.”
Oliver nose brushed the opening
of her shirt, her skin so soft against him. He didn’t stop there, moving until
he found her breast again. Her nipple was harder this time and when his lips
hit it, she gave him a stilted gasp. His body tightened, his jeans becoming
constricting as he did it again. Her nails dug into his scalp, silently urging
He waited for the inevitable
interruption, bracing himself to pull away from her because they weren’t alone…
except they were alone. Everyone had left. They had the entire house to
Sherlock hates owing Mycroft anything. That’s why he never
asks him for favors. But when Mycroft comes to pull him out of that god
forsaken Serbian hell hole, Sherlock can’t help himself. As if the rescue wasn’t
enough, he has to ask Mycroft to do one more small thing for him, or rather to find one more small thing. He can’t go
back home without it.
Sherlock’s return doesn’t go at all how he planned. He disguises
himself as a waiter, interrupts John in the middle of proposing, and, when he
reveals himself, is raged at for his deception. Repeatedly. Sherlock supposes he
should have expected this, but in reality, he really hadn’t. He had been so
focused on how much he missed John that he’d never even really
considered what would result of John missing him. He hadn’t understood at all
how badly his leaving would hurt John. That’s why he’d ended up on the floor of
a restaurant with John trying to strangle him. That’s why he was now suffering
from a potential broken nose. That’s why he has found himself back at Baker
Street utterly alone.
Sherlock doesn’t know if anything will ever be able to bring
John back to him. John doesn’t seem to understand that Sherlock did this for
him. To save him. Even though he told John why he did it.
He tries to tell himself that all that matters is that John
is alive and well, but the selfish bit of him aches at the thought of John
being alive and well and not a part of Sherlock’s
It’s been a week since he came home, and Sherlock has heard
nothing else from John. Radio silence. Mary had said she’d talk him round, but
apparently that tactic hadn’t been very successful. He tried to wait, he really
did, to let John come to him when he was ready, but now Sherlock is tired of
waiting. He needs to show John exactly how much he cares, to prove to him why
he had to do what he did.
Sherlock has an idea of how to do this. And if it doesn’t
work, then he’ll know that John is really and truly lost to him.
John comes home from work to find a parcel on his doorstep. It’s
about the size of a shoebox and wrapped neatly in brown paper and twine, with John
Watson neatly printed across the surface in a hand he doesn’t recognize.
He has a feeling about where this package might have come
from, and he’s not sure he’s ready to face it yet. He tucks it away in a drawer
of his desk and heads to the kitchen to help Mary with dinner.
Later that evening after Mary has gone to bed, John sits
down with a glass of scotch and the package. It takes three fingers of the
liquor before he has the courage to open it. Inside he finds a small card. The
all-too-familiar scrawl simply says
thought it was time I returned this to you.
John pushes apart the tissue paper to find one thing he’d
never thought he’d see again. His breath catches in his throat, and John stares
and stares at the visible patch of oatmeal-colored jumper as he wills himself
to remember how to breathe properly. Gently, he runs his fingers back and forth
across the cable knits, remembering a night long ago full of taxi chases and
laughter, Chinese food and powder burns. John’s gripped by the simultaneous
desire to hug the jumper to his body as tightly as possible and the desire to hurl
it across the room. In the end, he settles for removing it from the box and
holding it up to properly see it. One of the cuffs is filthy and worn, far more
than the other. Leave it to Sherlock to return something of his without
bothering to clean it first. He looks over the rest of the jumper and finds a
multitude of dirt spots, discolorations, holes, and snags. He even sees a few
spots that look suspiciously like blood.
Many months ago John had thought—no, hoped—that maybe
Sherlock had had this jumper with him when he fell from the roof of Bart’s. But
it was more than that. He realizes that Sherlock took this jumper with him to wherever
it was that he went when he left, and judging by the state of it, Sherlock was
not off gallivanting around in five-star hotels and having a laugh. His return was hard won, and whatever he went
through, he went through it for John. And when he came back, John pushed him
John has never hated himself more. In the promises you make
in the dark of the night in the depths of despair, he had told himself that if
somehow Sherlock could ever come back to him, he wouldn’t waste another minute.
He would tell him just how loved he was. And when by some miracle he had
returned, just as John had secretly asked him to, John had let his anger and
his pain dictate his reaction. Not anymore. He has to fix this. He can fix this.
When Mrs. Hudson climbs the steps to 221B, Sherlock hasn’t
moved in over 16 hours. He had sent John the jumper by way of the homeless
network and had waited for a response. He waited and waited, and as the evening
melted away into midnight into early morning, he heard nothing. Hope poured out
of him, and desolation flooded in to fill the cracks it left behind. He’s so
lost in his own misery that he doesn’t notice Mrs. Hudson until she shakes his
shoulder and presses a small box into his hands.
“Sherlock, dear. You’ve had a delivery.”
She’s looking at him with such pity that he nearly throws
the parcel at her head. Instead he glares until she leaves him alone again. He
moves to set the package on the floor and return to his misery when he notices the
writing on the top of the box. It simply says Sherlock, but it’s in John’s
messy, doctorly, nearly illegible handwriting. In his haste to open it,
Sherlock tears the entire top off of the box. He hastily pulls out a blue scarf—one
of his, he’d know it anywhere—and stares at it in disbelief.
Without thinking about it, Sherlock presses the scarf to his
face and inhales deeply. It’s an action reminiscent of so many nights spent
alone in desolate places longing for home, his face buried in a jumper that no
longer smelled of John, Sherlock trying to breathe him in anyway.
Did John send this for the same reason he had sent John the
jumper? Or is he merely complying with social convention and returning the
gesture of gift-giving? Or is this some kind of goodbye present, and John will
ask to be left alone now that he no longer has any of Sherlock’s things to hold
Sherlock needs to pace. He can’t think about this sitting
down. As he rises from his chair, a flutter catches his eye. A small card has
fallen from his lap. In his haste to remove the scarf, he hadn’t even noticed
the card. There in John’s untidy, utterly perfect scrawl it says
wanted to return something of yours, too. But it turns out I had two things
that belong to you. The other one is waiting for you on your doorstep.
Sherlock can’t make it down the stairs fast enough and
nearly falls on his face when he misses the bottom step entirely. He stumbles
to the front door and wrenches it open.