look at his mole by his collar bones ;;;;;;;

anonymous asked:

So I'm really needing some bughead multiple orgasms or denied orgasm smut and I'm blushing so hard as a read this 😳😳😳 the phrase "don't come" does crazy things to me...

Well hello anon! You’re blushing? You should see me after writing this haha

Sorry for the wait on this one! I hope this is sort of what you were after!

warnings: smut. smut. smut. sin. smut. more sin. more smut. I’m going to hell because smut. 

In the Night: 

It’s late; her room shrouded with darkness, the soft pinks and coordinated pastels disappearing into shades of black. Betty likes the nights. She likes the stillness outside her window, the insanity of the town fading away for a few hours as the people slept. The line drawn between the North and South sides of Riverdale ever so stark in the day, blurring into the cloak of ebony; still inherently there, but easier to ignore.  

But there was one thing about the nights that she liked far more than any of its rivals. And that thing was the dark haired boy that climbed through her window as the hours of late night morphed into early morning.

He would clamber through the frame sometimes with a charming smile on his lips and a light in his eyes, sometimes with a deep frown and a tense jaw. Sometimes he would find her with clenched fists and tear stained cheeks, other nights a playful smirk and a teasing comment. His beanie discarded, her hair down they would talk into the next day about school, movies, books and his new home, about civil wars and leather jackets, about well-established facades, jailed fathers, pregnant sisters, and struggling friends.

Sometimes they would lie comfortably on the bed, leaning into each other, subtle brushes of hands on skin or through hair. And other nights-nights like this one- their embraces were much more passionate, their intent far from innocent. On nights like this, they would muffle moans in pillows and necks; make the other writhe as they succumbed to the inferno they had built. Their eyes would meet heady and dark, a breath would hitch, a groan would resound, fingers reaching, filthy words whispered in ears. It was slow and sensual, hot and heavy, fast and passionate; an intricate push and pull of control.

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Wicked Games

Word Count:  1,757

Genre: Angst, Smut

Author’s Note: This story is based on The Weeknd’s Wicked Games (obviously), and it’s inspired by that incident when Jhope was doing a live talk and fans kept asking for the other members until he got hurt and left, because I love to dig my fingers into wounds and tear them open.

His visits to her were becoming more and more frequent. This time, however, was worse than any other.

He sat there in her living room, fingers drumming against the leather armchair, one leg bouncing nervously. She was always late. He swears that she does it on purpose to keep him on edge. Not too much so he would get fed up and leave, and not too little so he wouldn’t notice. It worked like a charm.

As he sat there yearning and waiting for her like an obedient little housewife, his brain starts to wander, taunting him with thoughts about the reason he was here. It had happened again, and he was dangerously close to breaking down.

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Truth Or Fuck [a Barry Allen AU]


a/n: frat boy barry ayoooooo yas

Frat parties: the perk of being in college. Other than, you know, freedom. The base of a dubstep song shakes the whole house, vibrating through your sunshine colored flats into your body. Your pale orange tank top flutters around your torso as sweaty bodies bump into you.

Someone suddenly steers you towards the living room, where a big circle of people are. They’re playing a game but you’re not sure what. There’s no bottle so it might be- “TRUTH OR DARE!” one of the frat boys yells, running his fingers through his messy chestnut brown hair, laughing when he sits down next to you.

You cringe slightly but giggle, deciding to play along. It’s pretty fun watching people do stupid shit or spilling secrets. Until it gets to the guy next to you, meaning you’re next. “Barry, truth,” the tan frat boy, Cisco, gestures his hand, “or dare?” he asks, voice dropping an octave.

The other college boy, Barry, scoffs, shifting on his legs, continuing to squat. “Come on, duh, dare!” he replies, as if his answer is completely obvious. The crowd ‘ooh’s in anticipation, making you stifle a chuckle. For a second you swear his green eyes sneak a peek at you.

Cisco hums, scratching his chin, pretending to be coming up with some sort of evil plan for his friend. He snaps his fingers, taking a swig of his beer, “I dare you,” he points at Barry with a coy grin, “To do Seven Minutes In Heaven, with…” he skims the room, gaze finally landing on you, smirking, “with you!” That makes the crowd go wild and you blush.

“Okay.” Barry nonchalantly stands, dusting the back of his skinny blue jeans and offering his hand out. Shyly, you grab it, getting up; you try your best not to cringe at the loud hoots and hollers while you follow him into the closet. Cisco starts the timer on his phone when the cream door slams shut. “You’re really hot, by the way.” he breathes, cupping your cheeks in his smooth palms.

Luckily it’s dark and he doesn’t notice your face turn bright red. “Erm, tha-” Before you can even finish, his lips press to the side of your mouth, slowly trailing down your jawline, only stopping to bite and suck on your skin. Gasping, your hands find their way to his lower back, slipping under his dark frat polo, scratching his pale skin.

A shaky breath meets your neck and his long fingers dance underneath your thighs. “Jump.” he orders, hoisting your pastel yellow skinny jeans around his thin torso. Barry pushes you against the wall harshly, causing the small room to shake; both by his force and the music.

Your arms snake above his shoulders, clasping your hands together at the base of his neck. “You’re really hot too, by the way.” you pant, lips attacking his pale collar bone, mouth leaving open mouth kisses on his cute little moles. He moans, head tilting backwards, exposing his Adam’s apple; you take the opportunity to lick it and he squeaks, cheeks rosy in embarrassment.

There’s a knock on the door. “Yo! Times up, guys!” Cisco practically cheers, swinging the door open. You immediately hop off of Barry, fixing your tank top while peering down. “Dude, look at the hickies you gave each other!” he opens his mouth, pointing at his frat brothers neck.

Barry swats Cisco’s hand away; polo falling down, resting above his plaid green boxers. “Not now, bro.” he scolds, grabbing your hand, “Me and…”

“Y/N.” you giggle, playing with his popped up collar.

He smirks at you, “Y/N, are going to my room.” He pulls you to the stairs, handing you another drink. This is going to be a fun night. You can tell.

anonymous asked:

Imagine Stiles is really insecure about his body but Derek makes him feel beautiful and slowly builds his self esteem up to be comfortable with himself *swoon*

Stiles being insecure about his body is one of my major headcanons actually, mostly because I genuinely think Stiles has major self esteem problems. Actually, there is no denying that, especially in scenes with his dad. Couple that with the fact we never see Stiles shirtless and boom, thoughts like this start floating around my head.. I mean, if were were to see Stiles half naked, that side of the headcanon could pretty much be thrown out the window because


Yeah, Stiles could still be insecure, insecurity isn’t non-existent just because you look like THAT, that isn’t how body confidence works, but in my head Stiles kind of strives to hide his body because he’s maybe embarrassed by it. He wears clothes that don’t show him off, but hide him. He changes as fast as possible after practice, not even letting Scott see him.

He never used to think much about it really. Scott always shared the same body type as him, but then the werewolf thing happened and Scott started working out and the abs came easily and Stiles…well, Stiles is still struggling with the suicide runs. Everyone he knows is pretty much perfect and while logically Stiles knows there is nothing he has to be ashamed of, that his body is his body and he shouldn’t and doesn’t have to change it, he can’t help but feel, well, down about it. For all his talk about wanting sex- and god, does he want it- the thought of being naked while having sex is a different story.

In clothes he’s fine, and there are very few situations where he has to be out of them in front of anyone, and while he is constantly reminded of what he sees as huge body flaws in himself compared to others- pale skin, an embarrassing amount of moles, more boyish definition than man- he learns to live with it. He doesn’t even masturbate naked, or in the light, so really it’s all going pretty well for him. He learns to ignore the problem, hoping one day it will just magically go away. After all, that’s his preferred method for most things.

That is until he starts dating Derek. Derek and him come about out of the blue, really. Looking back, Stiles sees how it was a long time coming, that both of them may have been dancing around each other in ignorance for a crazy amount of time (five years to be exact). But the moment it happens shocks Stiles’ whole system, taking him completely unaware. One second they are arguing, and the next Derek is kissing him. It is an angry kiss and at first Stiles is convinced Derek has gotten so mad at him it was either kiss him or punch him out of the need to do something, because words were growing futile at this point, but when Derek pulls back from him, his eyes scared, hands trembling slightly, Stiles just pulls him right back in because fucking godammit he knows then. HE KNOWS. Why didn’t anybody tell him he is in love with Derek?

Kissing Derek is fine. More than fine. It’s fan-fucking-tastic. Their mouths fit together like there are fucking meant to be or something equally as corny. Making out is just as natural and Stiles isn’t even ashamed to say he has come in his pants more times than he can count now.

Of course, bliss never lasts forever and when Stiles moves Derek’s hand away from sliding under his shirt when they are kissing on Derek’s couch one day to stop him from feeling the skin there, moving it to his neck instead, Derek pulls away completely from him rather than just going with the flow.

“What?” Stiles asks, trying to sound annoyed and confused, although he knows exactly what.

“Stiles,” Derek sighs. “It’s not that I mind going slow. In fact, I really like slow. But, is something wrong? Every time I try to-” he nods in the direction of Stiles’ shirt- “you stop me.”

Stiles swallows. He wants to fight Derek on this, claim he has no idea what he is trying to get at, but Derek isn’t good with words and Stiles doesn’t feel right about making Derek work for the answers. Plus, Derek will just hear his heartbeat beytray his lie anyway, right?

“I hate my body, okay?” he mumbles, averting his eyes. “And please don’t tell me I have nothing to hate, or that I am being stupid, because that won’t change anything. It’ll just make it worse.“

Derek stares at him for a moment, but Stiles doesn’t meet his eyes to see his expression, holding his breath instead until Derek finally just whispers “okay”, and goes back to kissing him, keeping his hands beside Stiles’ head exactly where Stiles likes them. Stiles knows Derek isn’t just going to let the whole thing go, but it’s nice to pretend it is that easy while he kisses him back with everything he has got.

At first, Stiles doesn’t notice the changes Derek starts making. Or rather, the comments he starts making. The brief kisses followed by phrases like “you’re beautiful” or stealing a bite of Stiles’ breakfast, cutting off his cry of protest with something like, “you’re so fucking gorgeous in the morning”.

Derek is far more playful than he used to be- it’s a little scary sometimes, but entirely welcome as far as Stiles is concerned- so Stiles just rolls his eyes when Derek says these kind of things, not even considering them as compliments, even if they do make him feel kind of good (in a totally non school girly kind of way, alright?)

That is until Derek starts saying them not so casually.

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The sun’s warmth on his face felt like some sort of liberation after being cooped up in the cramped classroom all morning. Baz’s eyes roamed the quad as he made his way to his spot (a nice, shady nook tucked away in a quiet corner of the courtyard).

His spot wasn’t empty.

A boy with brazen curls was stuffing a pastry into his mouth with wolffish hunger. Dammit.


“What the hell are you doing?”

Simon tore his eyes away from the scone he was about to eat. Another student was standing a few feet away, staring at him with a blazing expression. There was a cup of coffee in one hand and a hefty textbook tucked under an arm.

“Eating a scone,” Simon replied flatly.

The man ran a hand through his long, silky black hair. (Simon felt a sudden urge to run his hands through his hair). “I can see that, but this is my spot.”

“This isn’t your spot.” Simon took a large bite of the scone. He didn’t give a shit about the (attractive) stranger, as long as he could eat his food before it got cold.

“I always come here,” the man persisted.

“You weren’t here five minutes ago.”

The man wrinkled his nose. Good, be disgusted with my lack of manners and get out of here.

“I was in class.”

“Shame.” He swallowed his mouthful of scone and shrugged.




Baz clenched his jaw, holding the man’s stubborn, blue gaze for a few moments before sighing. “Fine. I guess we’ll have to share the spot.”


Baz sat down onto the grass, setting his coffee aside to make room for his text book. It was the prime place to study; cool and quiet and away from the other students.

Except this student.

Baz really did try focusing on the material (a detailed description of the endosymbiotic theory), but he couldn’t keep his eyes off of the boy’s moles. They traveled up the length of his arms, across his collar bones, up his neck, onto his face.

“Why are you staring at me?”

“Because you’re making an absurd amount of noise,” Baz sneered. “Why don’t you find some manners?”

“Why don’t you find a new spot?”

Baz beat the boy to the spot the next day. Good riddance you freckly bastard.

“Don’t look so happy, I’m just late.”


Simon needed scones like he needed air. It was a morning ritual to stop by the bakery just off of campus, except he had gotten stuck at the tail end of a long line. Which was utter bullshit, he would’ve loved to see the look on the man’s face when he found Simon waiting for him with a bag of fresh scones.

The man rolled his eyes before taking a seat. Simon watched him unfold his long legs and sprawl them in front of him in the grass. He was wearing skinny jeans. Simon hated how good they looked.

He rolled his eyes. “And here I was about to have a party.”

Simon plopped down and unwrapped his scones as loud as he could. “Sorry, mate.”


“I don’t know your name.”

They had made it to the spot at the same time today.

“Do you need to?” Baz cocked an eyebrow.

The boy stuffed a steaming scone into his mouth and shrugged his shoulders. Baz had notice shrugging was practically a second language to him. “We’ve been doing this for almost two weeks.”



“My name.”

“Oh, I’m Simon.”


Baz didn’t show up for a week.


“Where the hell have you been?”

“Wow, you sound almost offended.” Baz dropped his bag into the grass and sat down beside it. “I’ve been studying.”

“You could’ve studied here.” Simon plucked absentmindedly at a loose string on his sweater.

“I can’t with you around,” Baz admitted.

“Because I’m loud and disgusting?”

More like because I want to replace your moles with my kisses. “Something like that.”


“We’ve been doing this for weeks.” Simon handed Baz a scone before taking a bite of his own.

“Yeah, and you’ve only just shared your food,” Baz mumbled around a mouthful of pastry.

That was the first time either of them had laughed in front of each other.

Simon started notice things about Baz when weeks became two months of sitting together.

Like that he was chiseled from hard marble, pale and all swooping edges. And the way his eyes match the color of the ocean before a storm. And the loose strands of black hair that fall into his forehead from the occasional bun. And everything

He wanted Baz.


Simon was an oblivious idiot. Baz didn’t take homework or text books with him anymore to the spot. He went there for the golden boy now. To hear his laugh, to memorize the trail of moles and over his skin, to breathe him in.

He wanted Simon.


“Do you even go to class?”

“Yes.” Simon fiddled with the zipper of his jacket, unable to meet Baz’s eyes. He couldn’t stop thinking about spending the day lying on the grass with their fingers entwined.

Simon had never been attracted to a boy before. This was the first time he had ever fantasized about kissing a boy. Was Baz gay? He didn’t know.

Was Simon gay? He didn’t know that either. But he did know that he wanted to feel Baz’s lips against his.

Simon’s cheeks burned under Baz’s gaze. He could see the storm clouds rolling in his eyes, sharp and grey like everything else he was, beautiful.


Simon kissed him with smiling lips and winding fingers. Baz’s hands slid beneath the hem of Simon’s tee shirt, pressing into hot skin and drawing him closer until they tumbled backwards into the grass.

It was a mess.

A beautiful mess made of tangled limbs and hungry lips.

It had become their spot, and Baz could live with that.

Baby, She's a Wild Thing: Chapter One.


The world was a little fuzzy and on it’s side when Lydia woke up. The street lights made her room glow peach, the sounds outside still thrumming lively with music coming from underneath the floorboards. The air was humid, sticking to her skin and it smelled like summer - with ocean air and candyfloss making it sweet and suntan lotion lingering on her pillow.

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it’s burgundy! not red!

Happy birthday to the amazing @matildajones!!! I wrote you a little something ^_^ because you’re awesome and I’m super happy we met! Hope you like the fic and that you have a really awesome and great birthday <3

A huggee thank you to @authorkurikuri for reading it over and to @lena221b for teaching me about Nutella and climate norms <3 <3 

If Derek were to calculate the percentage of Stiles’ conversations which featured Lydia Martin it would probably amount to nearly 75%. Not that he’d actually calculated it, because that would mean giving Lydia and her “gorgeous strawberry-blonde hair,” “perfect nails,” and “flawless smile” a definite, concrete fraction of Stiles’ attention. Which, subsequently, would force him to admit that Stiles was probably never going to stray away from his unachievable crush long enough to notice that Derek was kinda, maybe, hopelessly in love with him.

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What Was Yet to Come: Ch 4

Read Ch 1 Here

Fic Summary: Nico isn’t happy with his life at the moment. He’s stuck in a house he doesn’t feel like he belongs in with a hopeless crush he never asked for. He doesn’t feel accepted at school or at home and just wishes to get away. Will is scared for his life. Tensions are rising in the Wizarding World and, as a muggleborn, he doesn’t know what his future will entail. The only thing he knows for certain is that he’s very in love and highly annoyed with his friends. Their lives are thrown for a loop when the Wizarding World falls into turmoil and it’s all they can do to hope that the next day will be better than the last.

This chapter is on the shorter side due to the fact that I spent a fair portion of the week dying over The Hidden Oracle (read: oh my fucking gods that book both gave me life and ripped it away someone help). Luckily, it’s extremely fluffy, so I hope you all enjoy :)

Word Count: 2227

Read on ao3

In all honesty, the fact that they were now dating didn’t immediately relieve any stress from Will’s shoulders.

He went over to the Hufflepuff table, and it was only when he went to pick up his fork that he realized his hands were shaking.

He needed some time to process.

He couldn’t believe he’d actually done it. He’d actually asked Nico out, and even more unbelievably, Nico had said yes. The next time he saw Cecil and Lou Ellen, he’d be able to tell them that he hadn’t chickened out, that he’d actually gotten a date.

But what now?

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