this is inspired by
Jim’s in the closet with Joe video and I am not sorry at all. To understand all
the clothes I mention go check out the video!
Word Count: 2250
Rating: R (Smut)
I hope you guys enjoy!
It was nice to have a boyfriend who had a fashion sense,
because it meant your closet doubled in size. You rummaged through the closet
you both shared, trying to pick your outfit for the day.
“Can’t find anything to wear?” Joe grinned, sliding past you
to grab a hat from the top shelf. He was already dressed and ready for the day.
“I vote you just stay in that.” He looked you up and down, eyes narrowed. You
blushed a bit, but you loved it. After buying two bra and panty set options for
valentine’s day, you weren’t about to let one of them go to waste, and it was
so comfy you really would be content to wear it all day.
“Maybe I will,” you grinned. He groaned in exasperation,
grabbing your hip and pulling you closer to him. He pressed a hard kiss to your
lips, one you knew too well. One that meant something a bit more than usual.
“Don’t do this to me baby, you know I’ve got meetings all
day,” his head dropped to your shoulder, his hands tracing your skin.
“The sooner you leave the sooner you’ll get back,” you
whispered, walking him backwards out of the closet, pressing kisses to his lips
along the way.
“Or I could just cancel for the day. There are some things I
would much rather do right now,” he murmured, holding you closely.
“Nope. Go on,” you teased him, pressing one last kiss to his
now swollen lips before pushing him back. He stumbled slightly, rolling his
eyes before they settled to look at you again.
“When I get home then? Please?” He pouted at you. You didn’t
want him to leave, hell, you wanted nothing more than to throw him onto the bed
right that moment and get on with it. But you also knew how fun the day would
be if you drug it out. One of his favorite things was when you had missed him
all day; it made you both desperate to get your hands on each other.
“Depends on if you can make it through all your meetings. If
you make it through the day, then yes.” A smile played on your lips, and his
eyes narrowed again, suspicious.
“What’re you up to?”
“Nothing. Now go on, you’re going to be late.” You danced
over and pressed another kiss to his lips before he turned to leave. He looked
back at you once more before he left, but you only put on your best innocent
smile and gave him a wave.
You waited just long enough to be sure that his meeting had
started, occupying yourself with making breakfast and coffee. You headed back
into the closet, plan in mind. His meeting were usually loose, so you knew he’d
be looking at his phone occasionally.
It’s an experiment in limitations, unofficially titled how drunk is too drunk for a person who doesn’t do the drunk thing. The mistake had been in thinking that a few extra drinks would do nothing more than loosen a few of Neil’s strings. Andrew had forgotten to consider the unfortunate side effect, that alcohol amplifies natural tendencies, and so as soon as Neil hits one too many, he takes the opportunity to thoroughly roast all of his teammates (with the exception of Andrew, who spends the evening braced for it anyway).
The non-monsters plus Nicky (and baby Foxes, whose existence Andrew ignores on principal) only egg him on, while Neil remains oblivious to the fact that they’re exceedingly entertained and not mortally wounded, like he intends. It’s a mess that Andrew watches silently from the kitchen, carefully nursing his own drink, while making sure Neil doesn’t do or say anything irreversibly stupid, or there would be additional messes for Andrew to clean in the morning.
It’s all well and good, fun and games, no one quite loses an eye, but Neil trips over a chair leg on his merry way to assault Kevin and goes sprawling on the carpet instead, amid a laughing (but concerned) chorus of fellow drunkards.
Neil rolls onto his back and claps a hand to his forehead, even though it was not his head that he hit, but most everything else.
Relinquishing the stormy hold he has on the empty kitchen, Andrew crosses the living room to loom over Neil, unimpressed and ignoring the triumphant cheers and disappointed groans as money exchanges hands behind them. (The game: how badly will Neil’s first drunken adventure end? Provide examples. Nicky whines, “Twenty bucks on Kevin bitch slapping him. So close. Damn chair. You rigged it, Allison, you put that there.” She did not.)
Neil looks up at him through his fingers and with unfocused eyes, but he smiles brilliantly. Andrew considers wiping it off of his face with his foot, but then Neil says, practically sings, “Andrew.”
Someone on twitter said that Yuzuru is unexpectedly different from the “prince” she’d imagined and claimed that he is far from ideal.
Welllll~ how far were you dreaming about him,actually?? LOL
And if he’s far from ideal (perhaps “your own ideal”?), does that make you allow to spit some trash he doesn’t deserve to ??
As for general people opinion, HE is beyond ideal in the meaning he’s too good to be true, be it his mental strength, intelligence, emotional quotient, attitude, kindness, and so on.
I can’t digest this kind of ignorant opinion 😕
Headcanon for levi taking care of his messy drunk s/o in modern verse pretty please ( 🌸•⌄• )◞◟( •⌄• 🌱 )
I kind of just went with drunk without the messy. I hope that’s okay, anon!
Let’s be real: Levi Ackerman can hold his alcohol incredibly well so, if his s/o was trying to keep up with him at a function, they are going to end up super wasted.
The minute he realizes what’s going on, Levi doesn’t let them out of his sight. If they have to use the bathroom, he forces a co-worker to go in with them just to make sure nothing happens.
If his s/o wanted to drink more, he’d quietly tell the bartender to water down their drinks until they are drinking about 95% water. He knows they are going to have a killer migraine in the morning, so he wants to do his best to make sure they stay relatively hydrated.
He’s pretty calm about getting them up to their apartment and to the bathroom just in case they begin to throw up.
You know that scene from 30 Rock? This one? Yeah, that’s Levi if his s/o starts throwing up. Nothing disgusts him more, but he’s going to try and be there just to make sure they don’t choke on their own vomit.
He’s the type to humor his s/o if they are just babbling nonsense. There’s plenty of “uh-huhs” and “you’re drunks” tossed in his sentences, along with a string of curse words when they fall over or do something incredibly sloppy.
By the time they are settled down for the night, Levi stays by their side and refuses to leave just in case they might need something. Even though he isn’t one to state how he feels often, it’s obvious that he loves them if he’s willing to put up with how ridiculously wasted they were.
The next morning, his s/o would wake up to Advil on the side of the nightstand with a glass of water and the smell of bacon. Levi would force them to eat breakfast before taking off, knowing that the only way for them to get over their hangover was to sleep it off and drink lots of water.
Overall, he’s more supportive and caring than one might think he’d be. If he seriously loves a person, Levi is going to do everything in his power to ensure that they are comfortable, even if it’s something as simple and stupid as taking care of them when they are drunk.
The first thing Yuuri registered when he woke up was the soft pitter-patter of rain outside.
He smiled. Rain meant he could stay in bed just a little longer, since Victor liked to drag him out for a morning run. He liked running, but he also liked the feeling of just waking up, when your bed’s still warm and it’s the most comfortable place on Earth.
Yuuri pulled the sheets up to his neck and burrowed into his bed. He felt so nice, so warm and boneless. He could almost fall asleep again…
An ice cold hand traced over his side.
Yuuri shrieked and tried to wiggle away from the intrusion. An arm wrapped around his middle and pulled him back against a hard chest.
Yuuri turned over and saw a slightly blurred Victor. He smiled down at Yuuri and bent forward to kiss his forehead. Yuuri smiled and pushed his face into Victor’s neck. The hickey he left there last night stood out on his pale skin.
@mychakk requested #45, “I had a nightmare about you and I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
Blood matted her chestnut locks to her face. She wasn’t dead yet but she was dying quickly.
“Molly, no,” Sherlock muttered in horror. “No. No no no no no!” He kept repeating it as if it would keep her from going under.
“Sherlock,” she spoke roughly, her small hand wrapping itself around his fingers.
“Please don’t leave me,” he said sadly, his voice breaking. The tears welling up in his eyes fell fast. She struggled to lift her arm but managed to wipe the tears from his cheek.
“I love you,” was the last phrase he heard her voice say before her heart stopped beating.
Sherlock sat up quickly, causing a bout of dizziness. He pressed his palms to his face, sliding them down to get rid of the tears. Though he was relieved that it was only a nightmare, nothing stopped him from throwing on his coat over his pajamas and hailing a cab.
Molly awoke to the frantic knocking at her door. Groggily, she slipped out of bed, threw on her dressing gown and crept toward the noise.
“Sherlock, it’s almost two in the morning–” she trailed off as she took in his distressed state. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” His lips were caressing every inch of her face before crashing onto her mouth.
“You’re alive,” he murmured over and over as he kissed her. Sherlock stopped suddenly, wrapping his arms around her, and leaned down to press his ear against her chest, listening for the thrumming of her heart. Molly stroked his curls gently, understanding his need to reassure himself that she was fine. He turned his head ever so slightly to drop soft kisses over her heart.
“It’s okay, love. I’m here,” Molly told him. “What happened?” He straightened himself up and allowed her to guide him to the sofa.
“I had a nightmare about you and I just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” Sherlock answered. Molly kissed his forehead and then his lips.
“Everything’s alright. I’m here, Sherlock. It was just a bad dream,” she reassured him.
“I don’t want you to leave me,” was all he said.
“I won’t ever leave you,” Molly promised. “Come on, you can stay with me tonight. Would that make you feel better?” He nodded, a small smile gracing his lips.
“There’s my Sherlock,” she smiled, leading him to the bedroom. He curled around her once they slipped under the duvet and didn’t let go all night.
Jin: he lives with taehyung so nothing you throw at him fazes him. he reacts
normally & calmly, sometimes getting pulled into your 4D antics too
Suga: there’s a 50% chance he’ll just sleep through whatever you’re doing, a
40% chance he’ll judge you and 10% chance he’ll actually join in
J-Hope: thinks you will get on well w taehyung so introduces you to him & now you three are “extra”
together. the others can’t keep up with you when you’re with those two
Rap Monster: gets a good laugh out of you & doesn’t mind your 4D-ness but will
make sure you behave yourself if you’re in a serious setting
Jimin: he can’t find it in himself to judge you or call you weird (except in a
joking way). in general, he finds you superadorable and precious and feels the need
to protect you from strangers that give you weird stares if you’re being 4D in public
V:“hi, I’m taehyung. want to go on a date sometime?”
Jungkook: acts like he doesn’t know you. “yeah, that person is so weird. I’m glad
that I don’t know them”
Author’s Note: For the Jeffrey Dean Morgan “Rare Character Red Velvet” Challenge”. I chose his character , Henry Delarue, from the movie “The Salvation”.
Synopsis: After the reader, a shopkeeper’s daughter, repeatedly defies Henry’s unwanted advances, he has had enough. He’s always been a very persuasive man and not used to getting exactly what he wants.
Contains: coersion, blackmail and vague elements of noncon (no smut)
“Here you are Mrs. Hadler. Four bolts of yellow fabric, just like you ordered.” You say sweetly, carefully setting the folded material on the counter in front of you. Mrs. Hadler gave you a wide, grateful smile, running a wrinkled aged hand over her purchase. “Thank you dear. I plan to make my great granddaughter, Abigail, a new church dress with this. She’s turning five this year,” she replied, her eyes crinkled warmly, as though cherishing a fond a memory.
“Well if it’s anything like the last dress you made her, I’m sure she’ll love it,” You compliment, wrapping the material up and placing it in a bag. Handing it gently to the elderly woman you say, “Please give my best to Hannah and Michael.”
Mrs. Hadler takes the bad, nodding appreciatively, “I will dear. And please send my regards your family as well. I know things have been…difficult lately.” You couldn’t help but despise the look of pity that etched into Mrs. Hadler’s face. That was how everyone regarded you and your family these days. But you hid your annoyance with a strained smile as you reply, “I will, thank you. Have a lovely day.”
Another curt nod and the elderly woman turned and shuffled out of the shop. Letting out a sigh of relief, you spin away from the counter to begin organizing the rest of the supplies that had recently come in. There was still so much that had to be done. Ever since your father had fallen ill with the fever, he had left you in charge to run things at the family store. It wasn’t far different from what you were used to considering you had started working there practically from the time you could walk. But it was certainly an adjustment. Especially since everyday, you would leave the store after closing, only to immediately come home and help your mother take care him. It was taking quite a lot out of the pair of you. It seemed as though you were perpetually tired, with never enough drive or energy. Truth be told, you were unsure how much longer you could keep up this pace. There was this suffocating air of desperation that clung to your household.
And what’s worse, things were not looking good for your father either. He was only getting worse, the sickness virtually stripping away everything that made him the devoted, loving, stubborn man he once was. At his last visit, the town doctor had informed them that without continuous administrations of proper antibiotics, there was no saving him. At first, the profits from the store were able to pay for your father’s medicine, but they quickly took their toll and even drained the family savings Your family could barely keep up.
You hear the bell of the door chime behind you, pulling you from your pessimistic thoughts. Taking a deep breath, you pull your lips into your usual welcoming smile and turn to greet the customer when you freeze.
Sauntering into your father’s store, was Henry Delarue. Earning quite the despicable reputation, this man had spread his cruelty over the town like the vice of death. Under his “persuasions” he had managed to buy out almost the entire town right out from under the citizens. Your father, despite many many visits from this man, always refused his offers, no matter how seemingly generous. Thankfully, after your father fell ill a month ago, Henry had stopped coming by. It was foolish of you to think he had simply given up and moved on.
with the FAHC can be wildly beneficial; so long as you play by their
rules. So long as you pay your dues, defer to Ramsey and fulfil your
promises, so long as you remember that for all their wicked laughter
the Fake’s do not play around when it comes to threats. When it comes
to debts. If you don’t produce what you owe, if you fall behind, try
to deceive or slink out of the city, you’ll quickly find yourself
hosting an unwelcome visitor.
FAHC have three key enforcers, three heavyweights who enact the
majority of the crew’s dirty work. There are others, of course, some
that come and go, some that have other roles, but all of Los Santos
recognise these three. The guard dogs, the brawlers, the muscle; the
violent core of an inherently dangerous crew, they keep order,
deliver punishment, deal with any who grow more problematic than the
FAHC are comfortable with.
they merely accompany one of the others, shadow Ramsey to a meeting
or the Frontman to a deal, they’ll be silent warning, visible
promise; so long as everything goes to plan they are no danger,
unnecessary unless they aren’t. If they come alone though, if one
comes knocking all by himself, shit is about to hit the wall and
nothing you do or say can stop it. There’s no telling which enforcer
will show, and there is great debate surrounding which of the three
is the worst, which is the one you should pray to avoid.
Vagabond is a popular option, the obvious choice for worst of the
worst; no one want’s to open the door and see that skull grinning
back at them. Nobody wan’t to explain their shortcomings to the
boogieman of Los Santos, to the mercenary who’s said to have no
mercy, who’s said to have no restraint, whose lust for death is
curbed only by the wishes of his master. Everyone’s heard the
stories, everyone’s seen the aftermath; the Vagabond is not a man to
be taken lightly.
quietly, privately, some have admitted that when it comes to a
shakedown, to a threat and a nasty reminder rather than an actual
punishment, a visit from the Vagabond might not be the worst Ramsey
has to offer. There’s something meticulous in the Vagabond, something
endlessly patient; it’s an unspeakably horrifying quality in a
killer, but not quite such a bad thing in an enforcer. He’s
terrifying, yes, and if he actually plans on carrying through there
is no escape, but in terms of deadlines and ultimatums at least he’s
upfront. At least he’s clear; there are rules to interacting with the
Vagabond, and so long as you abide by them you won’t attract his ire.
He’ll fulfil Ramsey’s wishes to the letter but so long as you keep
your head down and your nose clean that’s as far as he will go.
is not always the case with the Fake AH Crew’s resident short fuse;
Jones, Mogar, rage incarnate, the walking personification of
destruction. If Jones is sent to knock some heads together there is
absolutely nothing stopping him from throwing in a few broken bones
for free. As loyal to the boss as the Vagabond but where the
mercenary seems willing to carry out orders as requested, Jones likes
to embellish on them. There is no overstating the volatile nature of
the mans temper; Jones can jump from complete calm to irrevocable
rage in the blink of an eye, can seem utterly reasonable one moment
and irrationally furious the next.
fully capable of unexpected bouts of tolerant patience Jones has no
time for perceived idiocy, no sympathy for broken promises. He is, in
a way, a man of honour and once you’ve lost his respect there’s no
coming back. Even those he leaves unscathed may not escape unmarked;
like a dog with a bone his disdain will follow you, a dark blot noted
by all who fear his wrath. He might not have the same reputation as
the Vagabond, might not swing the same flavour of danger, but stories
of his temper are no less prevalent, warnings against pinging his
radar no less profound. If Jones turns on you not even your gods will
there’s Dooley, Little J, the newest of Ramsey’s attack dogs. Based
on looks alone he seems like he could be trouble, compact but visibly
strong, handling his weapons with practised ease, but unlike Jones or
the Vagabond Dooley always comes in smiling. Comes in with a slap to
the shoulder, a friendly chat, some commiseration over the
difficulties of the job. It’s easy enough, after that, to think that
he’s a light touch. To think Ramsey’s newest enforcer lacks the
presence of his partners, lacks their eager viciousness, to think he
is easily the best of the three to have turn up at your door.
for all that banter Little J is no less committed to his crew, no
less judgemental of your disappointing display, no less
breathtakingly ruthless. When the Vagabond brings up your failings he
gets begging. When Jones sneers at your incompetence he gets excuses.
When Little J asks about the complications you had, friendly and
understanding and naively inexperienced, you’ll open right up. You’ll
spill your fucking guts, and he’ll let you. He’ll listen and nod in
all the right places, he’ll smile like you’re buddies and you’ll be
so sure you’ve gotten away with it that you’ll fail to notice the way
he never let go of your shoulder. The way he never stepped out of
your space. You’ll keep digging your own grave right up until his
hand tightens and shoves you into a wall, until he holds you there
effortlessly despite your struggles, until he leans in close and
explains just how badly you’ve messed up. There’s no room for excuses
now, not after you’ve admitted everything, no chance to change your
story; all you can do is nod, is agree, is promise and grovel and
plead, say whatever it is you need to say before Dooley is satisfied.
He’ll step back then, let you go and straighten your shirt, clap you
on the shoulder as he turns to leave, still chattering away like
nothing happened. Still smiling like you’re buddies.
great debate about which of Ramsey’s enforcers is the most
intimating, which would be the worst option to find knocking at your
door. Its a conversation with no resolution, an eternal loop; they
argue about the worst, because god knows which of the three is the
best. God knows which could be called relief, called merciful. They
argue about the worst, all knowing exactly what the answer is.
Knowing nothing could trump a visit from more than one, nothing could
be more dangerous, more worthy of abject terror. If Ramsey sends a
pair of his enforcers things are guaranteed to get nasty, things are
guaranteed to get wildly unpleasant, but even two cannot compare to
all three. If all three come knocking there is no escape, if all
three come knocking the game is up, your run is over. It’s overkill
to the extreme, the rare combination of raw threat, blinding rage and
subtle menace so powerfully unnecessary it can only be a message. If
the Fake’s key enforcers come knocking the very best you can hope for
is to be the one chosen survivor left to spread the word.
Hi - I've been trying to find a story that I think you wrote. It's after Dumbledore is murdered. Snape meets with the Death Eaters and Voldemort rewards him by letting him choose any prize and Snape chooses sex with Narcissa. I don't remember anything else - it might have been a twist? I think it was you who wrote it but I can't find it on your blog. Do you remember?
Hi, yes, this was me - well remembered! It wasn’t quite as fully formed as a whole fic - just a snapshot.
I can’t put my hands on the original post, but if I remember correctly, I think I talked about the scenario where Voldemort offers Snape a reward for murdering Dumbledore, and to Narcissa and Draco’s horror, he chooses Narcissa. Something in the idea of, “I stepped in as a father figure, so I deserve the spoils of the father.”
Anyway. This is the version from my drafts folder though:
Her face was stoic. Since Lucius’ incarceration, this
is what her life had been like; a terrifying descent into madness with each day
bringing a new horror. Why would today be any different?
Now he was gaining on her; his smile predatory and his eyes
feral. She could sense it on him; smell it on him even. She’d
sensed it upon Lucius enough times to be certain. That tinge of brutality
- of murder - that doesn’t go away, no matter how hard you scrub.
Oh and she knew he had scrubbed. Not that the Dark
Lord could tell, but she knew Severus. She remembered him as a scrawny,
underfed slip of a thing, who had avoided the showers for his first few weeks
at Hogwarts, until Lucius had dragged him under the spray, kicking and screaming
whilst the prefect held him under the soapy water.
Over the years, he hadn’t changed.
But this time, he’d scrubbed. Dumbledore was dead, and
Severus had scrubbed. His skin was pink,
his pores devoid of sebum - and as he lent over her, the strong odour of carbolic
soap masked his usual scent of potion concoctions.
Frankly, she preferred the potion concoctions.
Narcissa had no choice. And so, she nodded her assent.
He bundled her through the door to his small house, and
propelled her roughly towards the seat in the corner of the living room.
She glanced down, noting the myriad of papers and books strewn around it,
realising that it was his chair she was sat in.
Narcissa almost laughed; a slight tinkle in the back of her
throat that was quickly stemmed by the fear she felt. It wasn’t that she
hadn’t done this before - oh, she had: with Lucius and without. But that
was Severus. Scrawny, serious, good-for-nothing Severus. She’d been
throwing him a bone, at the encouragement of her debauched husband.
The murderer who stood before her was not Severus.
“-I think,” she swallowed hard, trying to rid her voice of
the quaver she could hear. “I think,” she tried again, “that we
should dispense with the niceties and get on with what you came for.”
He tilted his head, a slight smirk playing across his face. “Really, Cissy?”
She flinched at the use of her pet name. How dare
he. How dare he now, how dare he do this - how dare he
play the part of her husband’s best friend, of her…of her… She didn’t
know how to think of him, standing there with his sleeves rolled up, and the
smell of soap, and that grin widening across his thin face.
“Really, Cissy?” His grin faltered for a
second, and he knelt before her, his arms splayed wide.
And then she knew.
She took a deep breath; her body almost sagging with relief.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice a whisper. “Thank you.”
He settled on the floor by her feet. “You know how the Dark Lord likes to punish family
members for failure.”
“It had come to my attention. …what of Draco?”
Severus took her hand and briefly squeezed. “He’ll be safe. Of course, he won’t sleep well tonight,
thinking of his dear mother reduced to a prize, and being ruined at the hands
“It’s rather the point.
It’s what they all think. It’s
what they have to think.”
She paused, reaching with her fingertips to graze his cheek.
“We could, you know.”
He didn’t move.
“It’d be like before. Not a reward; a thank you.”
The shake of his head was so slight, she barely caught it.
“Because I want to, not because you expect it,” she pressed.
This time, he smiled. “I never expected it,” he said,
his silky voice soft. He stood, and straightened his collar. “This
was to stop Draco from being punished further.
To prevent the Dark Lord from using you as a means to get to him.” He stared down at Narcissa, his eyes back to
the fathomless depths she’d become accustomed to. “I feel you should be aware
that the Dark Lord is arranging for Azkaban to be dealt with.”
Summary: Imagine after the Joker saves you, he falls for you and wants to help you get revenge on the man who abused you.
A/N: Theres going to be a part 4 to this, so don’t worry XD~ <3
Warning: swearing, mentions of Abuse and Rape, violence
Pairings: Joker x Reader
The club lights were bright and hot, but nothing was hotter then what was happening between yourself and the green haired villain who’s lap you were sitting in. Your hands were moving up his chest as your lips refused to leave his. His hands gripped your hips, pulling at the fabric of your tight club dress. The moment was mutual between the two of you, both wanting to rip off each other’s clothes and make the most of the evening.