over the knuckle rings

anonymous asked:

pleaseee could you write drabble, Emma saying to Killian "I didn't know you could sing"

unrelated to the upcoming musical ep, but here ya go. sorry it’s rather messy. drabble became ficlet.

~1.3k

Emma has never really lived with a guy before. Well, she supposes that she and Neal did kind of live together in the Bug all those years ago, but this is different.

This is sharing a home.

And with that comes a few adjustments. Neither of them have ever owned very many possessions aside from their full wardrobes, but now they have this big house and it’s being slowly but surely filled with… things. Stuff. Books and trinkets on their shelves, an array of colorful toiletries and pretty things in their bathrooms, an admittedly overly stocked cabinet of alcohol, blankets and pillows meant not just for function but also for decoration.

She’s a bit disorganized and messy. Killian is kind of a neat freak after having run his own ship for so long.

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Miss .45

Originally posted by drreiid

Matthew Gray Gubler x Reader

Requested by a lovely anon!

Summary: Most actresses would jump at the chance to play in a role opposite from their husband, but when your role opposite from your husband Matthew is designed to cause pain, it’s far from a dream come true. Based on the episode Entropy. 

Word count: 1,545

A/N: This is my first time writing for MGG so bear with me if it’s a little rough! There are also some spoilers within since it is based on 11x11. I would love to know what you thought! 


Being an actress meant that you had grown accustomed to a multitude of things throughout the course of your career.

Early morning wake up calls with equally late nights on set, script changes coming within ten minutes of filming, months on end spent away from the comfort of your own home, and even invasive encounters with unapologetic paparazzi.

But yet, the act of having another person apply your makeup for the day was one that you could never fully grow used to.

“Dayne, you do realize that you can apply mascara without destroying my cornea in the process, right?” your eyes darted upwards at the makeup artist whose wand-wielding hand inched closer and closer to your line of sight.

A chuckle resonated from Dayne as he took a step back from you, “I can’t tell who’s harder to work with,” sarcasm dripped from the smirk he wore, “You, or your husband.”

At the mere mention of Matthew, anxiety clenched your chest tight, but you managed to pass it off with a breathy laugh, “Just be glad that it’s me you’re putting fake lashes on instead.”

It was unusual, and incredibly unsettling, to experience such apprehension at the thought of even seeing your husband whilst preparing for your first role opposite him.

After meeting at the Tribeca Film Festival for his film ‘Magic Valley’ it was written in the stars from then on out for the two of you to be together.

Three years of dating and another two years of marriage later, Matthew and yourself had never once starred in a film together, despite both of your affinities for indie films, which only made it even more shocking when he arrived home from the Criminal Minds set one night with a script gripped in his hand.

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Just a little Friday fluff as I try to kick my butt back into writing gear. Killian and Emma enjoy a quiet morning in their home.

something just like this

He watches her as she moves about the kitchen, a cup of coffee in her hand and her hair in her face, hopelessly tangled from sleep and his early morning ministrations. He traces the marks left behind by the pillow, how they curl just behind her ear and end right where a pretty purple mark is just starting to blossom.

He shifts in his seat and she arches an eyebrow over her mug. “Don’t even think about it, buddy.”

He hides his own grin with the newspaper situated in front of him, feigning interest in the latest of the dwarves’ machinations as detailed in Dear Doc. A dreadfully boring exercise, but efficient all the same. “I know not of what you speak.”

“Yeah, okay,” she slips into the seat across from him, her smile soft and easy. “I know right where that dirty mind of yours went.”

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Some late mornings feel like they belong in romantic stories, full of dramatic confessions, heartache and breath-taking conclusions. This is not one of those mornings; instead, it’s a halcyon thing set on the summer cusp. While the air is warm and humid, the rain softly pattering over rooftops still holds a certain chill. A film of water makes the world look clean, windows and cars shimmering in the sun peeking in and out from behind clouds, golden rays reflecting against puddles nested in the cracks of New York streets.

 

The clock is nearing the 10 a.m. mark, when Alec transfers the last pancake onto the already high-stacked, indulgent plate. There’s also freshly cut strawberries and maple syrup alongside a French press full of freshly brewed coffee. The muted music from the radio melts into his skin as Alec hums along to random notes, bare feet quiet on the kitchen floor, his hair mussed up and his face a home to dark stubble that he didn’t bother with shaving.

 

As Alec pours the bitter-sweet coffee into two mugs, there are steps near the door, then a warm hand at his lower back and even warmer lips pressed into his shoulder. A shiver runs through his skin, leaving behind goosebumps all the way down his arms and his bare chest; previous hours come back to mind, images hazy like half-developed polaroid pictures.

 

It was much earlier when they woke up, skin against skin, tangled in thin sheets and in each other, a want thrumming in their veins. There was no rush – at first kisses slow and wet and deep, kisses that lit fires along Alec’s spine and made Magnus hum with delight, kisses that left their mouths tingling and red. Then, hands pressed against hipbones and heavy breathing laced with laughter as Alec shifted himself into Magnus’ lap; it felt so good, to have Magnus so close, to have his arms around his waist as they moved together, a slow and steady trickle of heady pleasure rolling through their bodies.

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I was asked by someone to spoil the reunion scene for them, so of course I was more than happy to comply 😏 Without further ado, I give you The Print Shop.


A. MALCOLM
PRINTER and BOOKSELLER

I stretched out my hand and touched the black letters of the name. A. Malcolm. Alexander Malcolm. James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser. Perhaps.

Another minute, and I would lose my nerve. I shoved open the door and walked in.

There was a broad counter across the front of the room, with an open flap in it, and a rack to one side that held several trays of type. Posters and notices of all sorts were tracked up on the opposite wall; samples, no doubt.

The door into the back room was open, showing the bulky angular frame of a printing press. Bent over it, his back turned to me, was Jamie.

“Is that you, Geordie?” he asked, not turning around. He was dressed in shirt and breeches, and had a small tool of some kind in his hand, with which he was doing something to the innards of the press. “Took ye long enough. Did ye get the–”

“It isn’t Geordie,” I said. My voice was higher than usual. “It’s me,” I said. “Claire.”

He straightened up very slowly. He wore his hair long; a thick tail of a deep, rich auburn sparked with copper. I had time to see that the neat ribbon that tied it back was green, and then he turned around.

He stared at me without speaking. A tenor ran down the muscular throat as he swallowed, but still he didn’t say anything.

It was the same broad, good-humored face, dark blue eyes aslant the high, flat cheekbones of a Viking, long mouth curling at the ends as though always on the verge of smiling. The line surrounding eyes and mouth were deeper, of course. The nose had changed just a bit. The knife-edge bridge was slightly thickened near the base by the ridge of an old, healed fracture. It made him look fiercer, I thought, but lessened the air of aloof reserve, and lent his appearance a new rough charm.

I walked through the flap in the counter flap, seeing nothing but that unblinking stare. I cleared my throat.

“When did you break your nose?”

The corners of the wide mouth lifted slightly.

“About three minutes after I last saw ye – Sassenach.”

There was a hesitation, almost a question in the name. There was no more than a foot between us. I reached out tentatively and touched the tiny line of the break, where the bone pressed white against the bronze of his skin.

He flinched backward as though an electric spark had arced between us, and the calm expression shattered.

“You’re real,” he whispered. I had thought him pale already. Now all vestiges of color drained from his face. His eyes rolled up and he slumped to the floor in a shower of papers and oddments that had been sitting on the press – he fell rather gracefully for such a large man, I thought abstractedly.

It was only a faint; his eyelids were beginning to flutter by the time I knelt beside him and loosened the stock at his throat. I had no doubts at all by now, but still I looked automatically as I pulled the heavy linen away. It was there, of course, the small triangular scar just above the collarbone, left by the knife of Captain Jonathan Randall, Esquire, of his Majesty’s Eighth Dragoons.

His normal healthy color was returning. I sat cross-legged on the floor and hoisted his head onto my thigh. His hair felt thick and soft in my hand. His eyes opened.

“That bad, is it?” I said, smiling down at him with the same words he had used to me on the day of our wedding, holding my head in his lap, twenty-odd years before.

“That bad, and worse, Sassenach,” he answered, mouth twitching with something almost a smile. He sat up abruptly, staring at me.

“God in heaven, you are real!”

“So are you.” I lifted my chin to look up at him. “I th-thought you were dead.” I had meant to speak lightly, but my voice betrayed me. The tears spilled down my cheeks, only to soak into the rough cloth of his shirt as he pilled me hard against him.

I shook so that it was some time before I realized that he was shaking, too, and for the same reason. I don’t know how long we sat there on the dusty floor, crying in each other’s arms with the longing of twenty years spilling down our faces.

His fingers twined hard in my hair, pulling it loose so that it tumbled down my neck. The dislodged pins cascaded over my shoulders and pinged on the floor like pellets of hail. My own fingers were clasped around his forearm, digging into the linen as though I were afraid he would disappear unless physically restrained.

As though gripped by the same fear, he suddenly grasped me by the shoulders and held me away from him, staring desperately into my face. he put his hand to my cheek, and traced the bones over and over again, oblivious to my tears and to my abundantly running nose.

I sniffed loudly, which seemed to bring him to his senses, for he let go and groped hastily in his sleeve for a handkerchief, which he used clumsily to swab at first at my face, then his own.

“Give me that.” I grabbed the erratically waving swatch of cloth and blew my nose firmly. “Now you.” I handed him the cloth and watched as he blew his nose with a noise like a strangled goose. I giggled, undone with emotion.

He smiled too, knuckling the tears away from his eyes, unable to stop staring at me.

Suddenly I couldn’t bear not touching him. I lunged at him, and he got his arms up just in time to catch me. I squeezed until I could hear his ribs crack, and felt his hands roughly caressing my back as he said my name over and over.

At last I could let go, and sat back a little. He glanced down at the floor between his legs, frowning.

“Did you lose something?” I asked, surprised.

He looked up and smiled, a little shyly.

“I was afraid I’d lost hold altogether and pissed myself, but it’s all right. I’ve just sat on the alepot.”

Sure enough, a pool of aromatic brown liquid was spreading slowly beneath him. With a squeak of alarm, I scrambled to my feet and helped him up. After trying vainly to assess the damage behind, he shrugged and unfastened his breeches. He pushed the tight fabric down over his haunches, then stopped and looked at me, blushing slightly.

“It’s all right,” I said, feeling a rich blush stain my own cheeks. “We’re married.” I cast my eyes down, nonetheless, feeling a little breathless. “At least, I suppose we are.”

He stared at me for a long moment, then a smile curved his wide, soft mouth.

“Aye, we are,” he said. Kicking free of the stained breeches, he stepped toward me.

I stretched out a hand toward him, as much to stop as to welcome him. I wanted more than anything to touch him again, but was unaccountably shy. After so long, how were we to start again?

He felt the constraint of mingled shyness and intimacy as well. Stopping a few inches from me, he took my hand. He hesitated for a moment, then bent his head over it, his lips barely brushing my knuckles. His fingers touched the silver ring and stopped there, holding the metal lightly between thumb and forefinger.

“I never took it off,” I blurted. It seemed important he should know that. He squeezed my hand lightly, but he didn’t let go.

“I want–” He stopped and swallowed, still holding my hand. His fingers found and touched the silver ring once more. “I want verra much to kiss you,” he said softly. “May I do that?”

The tears were barely dammed. Two more welled up and overflowed; I felt them, full and round, roll down my cheeks.

“Yes,” I whispered.

He drew me slowly close to him, holding our linked hands just under his breast.

“I havena done this for a verra long time,” he said. I saw the hope and the fear dark in the blue of his eyes. I took the gift and gave it back to him.

“Neither have I,” I said softly.

His hands cupped my face with exquisite gentleness, and he set his mouth on mine.

I didn’t know quite what I had been expecting. A reprise of the pounding fury that had accompanied our final parting? I had remembered that so often, lived it over in memory, helpless to change the outcome. The half-rough, timeless hours of mutual possession in the darkness of our marriage bed? I had longed for that, wakened often sweating and trembling from the memory of it.

But we were strangers now, barely touching, each seeking the way toward joining, slowly, tentatively, seeking and giving unspoken permission with our silent lips. My eyes were closed, and I knew without looking that Jamie’s were, as well. We were, quite simply, afraid to look at each other.

Without raising his head, he began to stroke me lightly, feeling my bones through my clothes, familiarizing himself again with the terrain of my body. At last his hand t raveled down my arm and caught my right hand. His fingers traced my hand until the found the ring again, and circled it, feeling the interlaced silver of the Highland pattern, polished with long wear, but still distinct.

His lips moved over mind, across my cheeks and eyes. I gently stroked his back, feeling through his shirt the marks I couldn’t see, the remnants of old scars, like my ring, worn but still distinct.

“I’ve seen ye so many times,” he said, his voice whispering warm in my ear. “You’ve come to me so often. When I dreamed sometimes. When I lay in fever. When I was so afraid and so lonely I knew I must die. When I needed you, I would always see ye, smiling, with your hair curling up about your face. But ye never spoke. And ye never touched me.”

“I can touch you now.” I reached up and drew my hand gently down his temple, his ear, the cheek and jaw that I could see. My hand went to the nape of his neck, under the clubbed bronze hair, and he raised his head at last, and cupped my face between my hands, love glowing strong in the dark blue eyes.

Dinna be afraid,” he said softly. “There’s the t w o  of  u s  now.”

~ Voyager, Chapter 24, “A. Malcolm, Printer”

anonymous asked:

Your writing is phenomenal! Could you maybe write about Andrew proposing to Neil and your interpretation of how it'd happen?

thank you, i’m flattered you think so. and fuck yeah i can

Saturday is quiet for them with no practice, though Neil goes for a run anyway.  Andrew, awake out of habit, makes coffee and then retreats back to the bed with it.  He ends up falling asleep again, curled and comfortable, despite the caffeine hit.  He hears Neil return and the shower start, but does nothing beyond shift positions before he dozes off.

By the time he wakes properly again, it’s ten-thirty, and he’s alone.  He climbs up and pads through the apartment, room to room, to where he knows Neil will be.

He leans up against the lounge doorframe, feeling the cool press of it through his shirt.  Neil is stretched out over most of the couch in the late morning sun with his phone held up to his face – he’s obsessed with some stupid game at the moment.  It’s better than his brief foray into twitter was, at least.

He looks up when he catches Andrew moving out of the corner of his eye and smiles at the sight of him in that quiet way of his.  Andrew, incapable of forgetting, thinks suddenly of the man who smiled exactly like that years ago when he said this isn’t nothing and Andrew agreed with him.

He was right: it’s something.  To have him curled into the throw Renee gave them as a housewarming gift, his socked feet sticking out the end, is something.  To have him, at all.

It’s such an honest moment.  And as cliché as it sounds, Andrew could swear that it he feels his heart tick faster.

“Hey Josten,” he says.  “Want to get married?”

Neil stares at him, the smile dropping off of his face.  “You asshole.”

There’s a dizzying pleasure in the outrage creeping into his voice.  Andrew says, “Oh, I’m sorry.  Am I spoiling your plans?”

“You asshole.

“You know, I’ve heard that that question necessitates a yes or no answer.”  

Neil puts down his phone, his movements decisive.  When he stands, he moves like the athlete he is – fierce, quick, and a little brutal – and puts himself into Andrew’s space so they’re both crammed into the doorway, chest to chest.

He asks, “What gave me away?”

“You’re not that subtle,” Andrew replies.  

“I made dinner bookings,” Neil accuses, like that’s the part he’s most offended about.  “How long have you known?”

Andrew thinks about it.  It’s not that he was snooping – he’s hardly the type. It’s more that his is the kind of mind that puts clues together.  Neil, the eternal problem in need of solving, really should have thought about that.

It was the long phone calls to Renee and Dan, and Boyd’s trip out for the weekend, and the singular conversation with Kevin that left Neil in a foul mood for hours afterwards.  It was some strange withdrawals on bank statements that Andrew noticed while sorting things for their accountant.  It was Neil lost in thought and mindlessly touching his right thumb to his left ring finger.

It’s been months.  To be fair, Andrew didn’t realise that Neil’s less-than-casual invitation to dinner from last night was the culmination of all that time spent gathering his nerve to ask Andrew the question he wants to.  He’s not sorry, though.

“A while,” Andrew says.  “You have a tell.”  He picks up Neil’s left hand, strokes his own thumb over the top of his ring finger where it meets his knuckle.

Neil goes pink.  “Ah.”

“Ah,” Andrew echoes.  “I know you.  Remember?”

He still has Neil’s hand cradled in his.  Neil’s fingers curve around his palm in the same way they have done hundreds of times over the last decade, his grip as firm as it’s ever been.

“I wanted to do it right,” he says quietly, at a distance of a couple of inches, eyes gone luminous with irritation and something else.  “You usually take the lead, with us.  I figured maybe I could this once.”

That’s probably fair.  Andrew has been the initiator, first out of necessity and now out of habit, for most of the important decisions in their lives, right since the very first one.  He takes the first step, Neil the second, until they collide at the centre.

“Why change what works, though.”  That it does is undeniable – their something is the proof of that.  

Neil smiles again, crooked but still honest.  “Good point.”

Andrew hasn’t managed to steer them wrong thus far.  And perhaps he didn’t really consider marriage as a thing that they could do, until he considered what his answer would be in response to Neil’s potential question.  Maybe he didn’t think that he’d be the one asking until ten minutes ago, dazed by sleep and sunlight.  It doesn’t matter.

Because he has never backed down in his life, Andrew says, “I asked you a question.  Is it yes or no?”

“You know it’s always a yes for me,” Neil replies.  When they kiss they meet in the middle, just like they always do.

One Call Away | Peter Parker

Summary: Based on the song One Call Away by Charlie Puth where Peter Parker promises his girlfriend that he will always be there for her. When an accident happens and Spider-Man saves the day, the reader finds out that her boyfriend was telling the truth…

Warning: Cute and fluff…should that be a warning???

Pairing: Peter Parker (Spider-Man) x reader

Type: Song Inspired Oneshot

Requested: @yourstrulyspidey

MASTERLIST


Originally posted by lilpieceofmyworld

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Together

An: This is for @mickeymouse-911 for the prompt Gruvia - Outlaw AU.


Brick bit into Gray’s fingers and palms as he crouched protectively over Juvia’s huddled up form. He was certain they’d lost them, but fear kept him quiet and still as he listened for any sound of continued persuit.

Juvia’s hot breath fanned his shoulder, but she made no noise and kept perfectly still beneath him.

He counted down from a hundred once, twice, then finally let his muscles uncoil. His gaze dropped to hers and their eyes locked and then he was shifting away and his hands and were running over her body checking for wounds.

“Juvia’s fine Gray-sama,” she whispered, even as she did the same with him.

Gray nodded but continued his own assessment anyways before his hands finally came to rest on her stomach. He drew in a breath and let it out trying to calm his frantic heart rate. “I’m gonna kill that asshole. This job was supposed to be risk free.”

Juvia quirked a brow and cocked her head to the side. “Gray-sama knows there’s no such thing.”

He did. He knew that in their line of work everything had risks, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be minimized. This job was supposed to be as safe as they come, he’d never have taken it otherwise. Not with her.

Anger and frustration welled up in him to replace the fear. “Next time I’m taking someone else.”

Juvia bristled at the statement and glared up at him.

“Don’t. Don’t even try to protest I need my head about me, and I nearly lost it when that asshole shot at you.”

Juvia shoved him off of her and scrambled to her feet. She dusted off the dirt from her clothes and hissed at him. “So what? Juvia is just supposed to sit at home and wait while Gray-sama goes and risks his life? What’s she supposed to do if he doesn’t come home?”

“Better than neither of us coming home. Sides, Erza will make sure you’re looked after.” Gray regretted his choice the minute it left his mouth.

Juvia’s eyes narrowed at him and her mouth was set in a thin line. “Cause that went so well the last time.”

She threw his shirt at him, before turning on her heel and marching off towards their home.

He let it smack him in the face and sighed knowing he’d just lost any chance he had at winning this argument. He tried to figure out the best way to back track as he stood and followed after her.

Their walk back was mostly silent, but as they neared the entrance to their little shack Juvia slowed her pace. She glanced back at him over her shoulder, most of the anger and bitterness having left her. “Why does Gray-sama even need to go on so many jobs?”

Gray sighed, and closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around her and his hands landed on her stomach again. He leaned forward and nuzzled her neck. “Cause we’re having a baby. They tend to get expensive.”

It was mostly true. Though a part of his brain reminded him that he’d been mostly true with her the last time, and that had blown up royally and left this huge gap between them that he was still trying to find a way to fix.

“We can make do with less.”

His left hand found hers and his fingers traced her knuckles, lingering over her ring finger. He thought about the shiny ring on layaway, and about the hurt and fear in her eyes no less than an hour before. They could, but he didn’t want her to have to make do, and he needed her to know he wasn’t going to disappear. Know it and believe it.

“I know,” he whispered against her skin. “I know, but I don’t want that life for the two of you. We’re wanted, and on the run, and that’s tough enough. I just- I know you wanted more than this.”

Juvia turned in his arms and stared up at him. “Juvia may not have chosen this life, but this life brought her to you. She doesn’t regret that, no matter what the cost.”

Gray nodded and pulled her into him. He kissed her forehead. “Only a few more, please. Then we’ll do it your way.”

“Only if Gray-sama promises we’ll do it together.”

Gray nodded, and rubbed her knuckles again. “Together. I promise.”


AN: Sorry this one got angsty. As you can probably tell these aren’t really 5 minute drabbles. More like 20 min, but I’ll keep writing the rest once I’m at work and will post more later. :)

Blue

Summary: Three years after the murder of Jason Blossom, Jughead Jones begins writing his second novel in the comfort of Pop’s chocklit shoppe.
(Adult) Jughead Jones x OC

Words: ~1700

Author’s Note: Okay, so I got tangled in the messy obsession that is Riverdale. This is the result. I wasn’t sure if anyone would want to be tagged because this is far outside of my normal writing fandoms, so I’m just gonna, kinda, let it out there.

Originally posted by elizabethccoper

There’s a cup of coffee on the left. A vanilla milkshake on the right. A laptop in between, the screen glaring white in the darkness of Pop’s, and he absently stares at the words on the screen, the text blurring together in some sort of hieroglyphs because he’s been staring so long. Reaching out, his fingers brush the ceramic coffee cup and pull it to his lips, but he’s startled when he tips it back and it’s empty. There’s grounds in the bottom of the cup, like some Gypsy’s tea reading, and he wonders if his future lies in empty coffee cups and melting milkshakes.

“Need a refill?”

Jughead blinks once, twice, sitting the cup down, slightly off-center from the rings the cup has created on the tabletop. The coffee steams and his eyes trail up it, to the spout of the brassy coffee urn, over the white knuckles wrapped around the handle, the rings on slender fingers reflecting the purple lights of the chocklit shoppe.

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Inferno

Oh look! More trash. This time it’s DC! Hurrah.

Also I guess it’s a reader-fic?? I used “her” instead of “you” so… Whatevs. 

 

Fandom: Legends of Tomorrow (or Flash since it’s Mick Rory, but specifically LoT)

Pairing: Mick Rory x Plus Size Reader (cause Mick totally likes thick ladies)

Word Count: 775

Tags/Warnings: Sexually suggestive themes, Language, Vague mentions of cannon violence


It was a simple mission. Go in, get the out-of-time tech, get the hell out. Without drawing attention to themselves. It was fine, everything was going really well. Until, that is, Malcolm fuckin’ Merlyn showed up and everything went tits up. Everyone made it out alive, after saving the timeline, of course. Y/n never doubted they would save- well, every day; they always did. Even Sara thought the debacle was a relative success. Mick fuckin’ Rory, however, was being pissy. Surprise.

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enigma731  asked:

23. things you said [make your own] -- ON A DATE (YOU'RE WELCOME)

And for Starmora week day 2 - Hands

—–

He tells her that he loves her hands and she accuses him of being drunk. And, to be fair, he’s a little drunk. They’re at a bar, after all. But he’d only had a couple drinks, wanting to stay mostly sober because, despite the fact that they’re in a pretty sleazy, unromantic place, he thinks of this as a date.

Gamora laughs when he tells her as much. “The whole team is here. Isn’t a date supposed to be just the two of us?”

Again, technically true; their friends are all sitting at the table with them. But seeing as they’re all passed out, he doesn’t think it counts.

“Psh.” He waves his free hand dismissively. “We’re sitting on the same side of a booth, basically by ourselves. We had drinks, we’re holding hands – this is totally a date.”

She raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Those are the qualifications for a date?”

“Some of ‘em.”

“What are some of the other qualifications, then?” she asks, and there’s a hint of flirtation in her tone that makes his heart flutter. It’s not the first time he’s heard it – she’s flirted with him before, even prior to acknowledging their unspoken thing, and she’s done it more often since – but it sends a thrill through him every time.

“Well,” he says, looking at their entwined hands. “People usually talk on dates. Tell each other stuff.”

“Like what?”

He plays with her hand, just enough alcohol in his system to make him bolder than he might normally be. He twists one of her rings around, strokes his thumb over her knuckles, flips her hand over so he can trace the lines of her palm with one finger. She’s patient through it all, letting him touch her in a way she would probably stab anyone else for, and his heart flutters again.

“Like how much I love your hands.”

She sighs, though there’s a smile tugging on her lips, so she’s probably only pretending to be exasperated that he’s told her this for the second time in under a minute. “Why’s that?”

“Cause they’re beautiful. And strong,” he says sincerely. “Strong enough to break a Badoon’s arm with just two fingers.” They both grin at the memory. Then he thinks about her grasping his hands on Xandar, and in the woods on Berhert. “But they’re soft and kind, too.”

“You’re a bit of a sap,” she says, but he can see that she’s pleased. Her lips have quirked up even more, and there’s an extra light in her eyes, and the faintest flush on her cheeks, slightly darker green than the rest of her skin. He could go on and on about these features of hers, too, but that’s sappiness for another time.

“Only where you’re concerned,” he says instead, leaning a bit closer to her and smiling, a little crooked and a lot sincere.

Gamora leans closer too, even scoots a bit so their thighs touch. “So, what else do people do on dates?” she asks in a low voice, and he practically squeaks at the hint in her tone, the way her eyes dart down to his lips before meeting his again, suddenly darker.  

He doesn’t say a word, isn’t sure he could manage words anyway. He just leans in, heart pounding. He’s about to close his eyes and go for it when a loud snore startles them and makes them jump apart.

Peter turns to glare at the culprit: an unconscious Drax, who’s slumped over right next to him. “Great timing, buddy,” he grumbles. He looks hopefully back at Gamora, but the moment is ruined; she’s already turned her attention to the others. Mantis is passed out against the wall on the other side of the booth. Rocket is curled up on top of the table, Groot asleep on top of him because it’s way past his bedtime and Peter thinks they really need to stop keeping him out this late.

“I guess we better clean these a-holes up and get back,” he says, sighing heavily.

He’s about to extract his hand from hers when she suddenly tugs on it. He looks at her just in time to watch her raise his hand to her lips and press a light kiss to the back of it. “I love your hands, too,” she says with a gentle smile. She drops it to stand up and start picking up the others, leaving him stunned and blushing and grinning like a maniac for the rest of the night, even while dragging his drunk friends out of a bar.  

half-light chapter 11

one /// two /// three /// four /// five  /// six /// seven /// eight /// nine /// ten

eleven.

He drives. Scully sits in the seat beside him, flipping through a book. She is surprisingly placid for the news they’ve just received. (She’s just received. Why did he say “they”?) The flowers he’d bought her sit in the back seat, untouched.

They pass a sign for West Virginia. “Scully, I thought we were going to Pennsylvania,” he says.

“No,” she says. “We’re going to Oregon. I told you that.”

He blinks, confused as to why they didn’t just take a plane. He’s more confused that he should be, he thinks. He notices the wedding band on his left hand.

“Scully, you’re my wife,” he says.

She looks up at him, all concern. “Mulder, I’m really worried about you,” she says. She holds up her left hand. No ring.

“Where’s your ring?” he wants to know. “I-I put it on your hand. We did a bunch of sentimental junk we don’t normally do, but I wanted to do it, Scully. For you. I don’t want to lose you.” He’s babbling, nonsensical, confused, but he needs to know if his memories are real or not. He remembers a courthouse, the ring clunkily sliding over Scully’s tiny knuckle, her mouth hot under his. It can’t be fake; it’s too vivid.

“I think you should just focus on the road,” Scully says. Her nose is bleeding, and she doesn’t seem to notice. “I called you this morning to come to the oncology ward so I could tell you about my cancer. That’s what we did this morning.”

“I drove you to the hospital. I waited for you.” Or did he? His mind is a muddled mess of confusion and he has no idea what’s right and what’s wrong.

The lower half of Scully’s face is eerily stained with blood. “Just drive, Mulder,” she says, so fucking softly. “For me. Please.”

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anonymous asked:

pleeeease more daddy harry with the rings on!!! love your writing by the by

I’ve been waiting for the right time to do this one. Then Harry had to go and wear his KISS shirt and that damn embroidered Styles shirt in the same weekend. Thanks, Harry. Always looking out for me. This is very much my version of the daddy!kink, so fair warning. Rings on, please. And a little bit of fingers in my mouth. x. 

016. KISS for Styles

“You’re home late,” you remark when Harry trudges into the bedroom. You rake your eyes over his figure – his black trousers are tight, like a second skin, and he’s got that loose, flowy black shirt with his surname embroidered to the left breast on. His hair is loose and he’s got sunglasses he hasn’t needed for hours stuck on top of his head, but he deposits those on top of the dresser in a matter of moments.

“Had a lot t’catch up on,” he tells you. His voice sounds a little slower and thicker, and a few words run together. “Been away, haven’t I?”

“Good time?” You sit up in the bed a bit.

“Yeah,” his lips quirk. “Sorry you couldn’t make it.”

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“And what did you want to buy so much?” I asked suspiciously.

He sighed and hesitated for a moment, then tossed the small package lightly into my lap. 

“A wedding ring, Sassenach,” he said. “I got it from Ewen the armorer; he makes such things in his own time.” 

“Oh,” I said in a small voice. 

“Go ahead,” he said, a moment later. “Open it. It’s yours.” 

The outlines of the little package blurred under my fingers. I blinked and sniffed, but made no move to open it. “I’m sorry,” I said. 

“Well, so ye should be, Sassenach,” he said, but his voice was no longer angry. Reaching, he took the package from my lap and tore away the wrapping, revealing a wide silver band, decorated in the Highland interlace style, a small and delicate Jacobean thistle bloom carved in the center of each link. 

So much I saw, and then my eyes blurred again. 

I found a handkerchief thrust into my hand, and did my best to stanch the flow with it. “It’s … beautiful,” I said, clearing my throat and dabbling at my eyes. 

“Will ye wear it, Claire?” His voice was gentle now, and his use of my name, mostly reserved for occasions of formality or tenderness, nearly made me break down again. 

“You needna do so,” he said, looking at me seriously over his cupped palm. “The marriage contract between us is satisfied— it’s legal. You’re protected, safe from anything much save a warrant, and even from that, so long as you’re at Leoch. If ye wish, we may live apart— if that’s what ye were trying to say wi’ all yon rubbish about Laoghaire. You need have little more to do wi’ me, if that’s your honest choice.” He sat motionless, waiting, holding the tiny circlet near his heart. 

So he was giving me the choice I had started out to give him. Forced on me by circumstance, he would force himself on me no longer, if I chose to reject him. And there was the alternative, of course: to accept the ring, and all that went with it. 

The sun was setting. The last rays of light shone through a blue glass flagon that stood on the table, streaking the wall with a shaft of brilliant lapis. I felt as fragile and as brilliant as the glass, as though I would shatter with a touch, and fall in glittering fragments to the floor. If I had meant to spare either Jamie’s emotions or my own, it seemed I was very much too late. 

I couldn’t speak, but held out my right hand to him, fingers trembling. The ring slipped cool and bright over my knuckle and rested snug at the base of my finger— a good fit. Jamie held my hand a moment, looking at it, then suddenly pressed my knuckles hard against his mouth. He raised his head, and I saw his face for an instant, fierce and urgent, before he pulled me roughly onto his lap. 

He held me hard against him then, without speaking, and I could feel the pulsebeat in his throat, hammering like my own. His hands went to my bare shoulders, and he held me slightly away, so that I was looking upward into his face. His hands were large and very warm, and I felt slightly dizzy. 

“I want ye, Claire,” he said, sounding choked. He paused a moment, as though unsure what to say next. “I want ye so much— I can scarcely breathe. Will—” He swallowed, then cleared his throat. “Will ye have me?” 

By now I had found my voice. It squeaked and wobbled, but it worked. 

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I’ll have you.” 

“I think …” he began, then stopped. He fumbled loose the buckle of his kilt, but then looked up at me, bunching his hands at his sides. He spoke with difficulty, controlling something so powerful that his hands shook with the effort. “I’ll not … I can’t … Claire, I canna be gentle about it.” 

I had time only to nod once, in acknowledgment or permission, before he bore me back before him, his weight pinning me to the bed. 

He did not pause to undress further. I could smell the road dust in his shirt, and taste the sun and sweat of travel on his skin. He held me, arms outstretched, wrists pinioned. One hand brushed the wall, and I felt the tiny scrape of one wedding ring chiming against the stone. One ring for each hand, one silver, one gold. And the thin metal suddenly heavy as the bonds of matrimony, as though the rings were tiny shackles, fastening me spread-eagled to the bed, stretched forever between two poles, held in bondage like Prometheus on his lonely rock, divided love the vulture that tore at my heart. 

He spread my thighs with his knee and sheathed himself to the root in a single thrust that made me gasp. He made a sound that was almost a groan, and gripped me tighter. 

“You’re mine, mo duinne,” he said softly, pressing himself into my depths. “Mine alone, now and forever. Mine, whether ye will it or no.” I pulled against his grip, and sucked in my breath with a faint “ah” as he pressed even deeper. 

“Aye, I mean to use ye hard, my Sassenach,” he whispered. “I want to own you, to possess you, body and soul.” I struggled slightly and he pressed me down, hammering me, a solid, inexorable pounding that reached my womb with each stroke. “I mean to make ye call me ‘Master,’ Sassenach.” His soft voice was a threat of revenge for the agonies of the last minutes. “I mean to make you mine.”

-Outlander

Something More Than Love Pt. 5 (SSC/Rosvolio)

Some slightly adult content at the very end, nothing crazy though


As she approached the very same cell Benvolio had occupied just days before, Rosaline shuddered and had to remind herself that he was safe back at House Montague.  He no longer awaited execution…he’d been cleared of all accusations leveled against him.  She’d seen him back to his home…his villa now, though the transfer of title and power had not yet been formally made…before excusing herself under the guise of seeing her sister.  She would see Livia…after making this brief stop first.

Damiano Montague looked up as the guard led her to him. The same guard, she noted, that she’d bribed to allow her to see his nephew.  “L-Lady Rosaline!  Thank the Lord you have come, perhaps you will be able to speak sense to Benvolio!  The Prince will surely execute me if he does not rescind his accusations!”

Fury burned her cheeks, and Rosaline took a calming breath before speaking.  “Your nephew is a good and honorable man, Signor Montague.”  He flinched at the informal title…one small victory.  “Despite his upbringing, he grew into a kind and gentle soul…seeking to love and be loved above all else.  He would far sooner offer his hand to help someone up than raise it to harm even an enemy.  He is the best man I know…despite you.”  The man, staring at her dumbfounded, opened his mouth to speak, but Rosaline silenced him with a glare.  “I will never hope to understand how you could have deprived a hurting boy affection, security…love.  I cannot fathom how you justified to yourself abusing him day after day.  I am sure I will never know the true extent of what you did to him…and yet.”  An affectionate smile curled her lips.  “And yet, he would not see you dead.  Your nephew requested that the Prince stay your execution…that he allow you to live out your days in this prison.  In spite of all the grief you brought to him, he refuses to see the last of his blood killed.  Make no mistake, though, Damiano.”  She stepped closer to his cell, all pretense of nicety gone in an instant.  “So long as there is breath in my body, I will do whatever it takes to ensure he does not suffer another moment by your doing.  You failed in every attempt to break him; instead, he became the Lord your House truly deserves…he became the man I imagine his father would have raised him to be.”  Her proud smirk left Damiano withering before her.  “I suppose that means you have failed in every way...even the murder of your brother could not hinder his influence on his rightful heir.  And where his blood failed him day after day, I will honor your nephew with the love and devotion he so desperately deserves.  He will have the family you tried to take from him, and he will lead House Montague to a greatness that you could never have hoped to achieve.  Goodbye, Singor.  You shall not see either of us again.  May God have mercy on your soul.”

Before Damiano could gather his wits to form a reply, Rosaline turned and left the dungeon without a second glance.  She knew there was a chance that Benvolio would be displeased with her visit to his uncle, but she could not bring herself to care; if anyone deserved a champion, it was him, and Rosaline would fill that role for the rest of her life.  Every word she’d spoken was true, though he would never speak most of them on his own behalf.  

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SO let’s expand on Hamilton-marries-Angelica-instead AU

(Disclaimer: I love Eliza don't get me wrong. but let’s just think about this shall we?)

Part one

Originally posted by slut-for-pencils


- After meeting Angelica, Hamilton becomes busy sending letters to her. She’d let them sit and steam on her desk for a few days so that he ‘knew his place’

- but she really does love getting them and she watches for them all the time.

- at some point, hamilton makes one comment about women needing men and Angelica sends him a letter back that takes seven stamps to send and an hour for Alexander to read. It ends, ‘in conclusion, you’re wrong’

- she nearly stops writing him altogether because maybe he’s just like all the other men she knows and ugh

- alexander ends up at her door when she stops replying

- “why the hell should I let you in?”

- “Cause I walked seven miles to get here and I’m cold and it’s raining please?”

- and gosh darn it if his eyes weren’t so friggin adorable everything would be so much easier.

- They spend hours in the garden, looking at the stars and talking about the universe.

- I imagine they had very deep talks.

- Angelica strings out their… whatever this is for longer than is probably necessary, but she has to be sure he is the right man. Especially if she is going to be giving up status and money and probably her sanity for this scruffy, indignant, young revolutionary.

- Mr. Schyler is not entirely pleased with her relationship with Hamilton, but Alexander has enough sense to behave himself in front of the man, and eventually, wins his favor.

- Hamilton doesn’t make a big scene when he asks her to marry him.

- They are on the back porch on a warm summer day and the clouds are high a cotton candy-like. Both of them are very proper, but no one is around for once and Hamilton slips his hand into hers. He runs his thumb over her knuckles and smiles halfway at her.

- “about time I put a ring on that, don’t you think?”

- Angelica rolls her eyes and kisses him softly on the nose and then on the lips. They smile into the kiss and their teeth clink as a soft chuckle bubbles up from the both of them.

- “So… is that a yes?” he almost looks nervous

- Angelica snorts and shakes her head. “of course it’s a yes you idiot”

- When they announce their intentions to their family, Peggy squeals and Eliza laughs and gives her a tight hug. But there is something in her eyes Angelica does not understand, and cannot unless Eliza tells her. Eliza does say a word.

- At the wedding, Angelica isn’t quite able to convince people to let her wear her normal clothes ‘honestly, I am only going to wear a wedding dress once, it will be a waste and-”

- “Angelica just wear the dress for goodness sake your feminism is showing”

- Angelica kicks her shoes off during the ceremony. No one can tell because of the dress’s length, but as she stands, her hands in Alexanders, a sly smile sneaks up her mouth and she pokes her toes out just enough for Alex to see.

- Alexander snorts and the priest stumbles in his words.

- “… as I was, ah hum… saying…”

- After the ceremony, Alexander carries her into their tiny house. 

- She screams and laughs when he drops her onto the couch. Alex laughs too.

- He falls down next to her and grins. “So… do you come here often? To this… strangely smelling abode?”

- “Don’t forget the view”

- “Aw yes, with the glorious view of a very, very wonderfully red brick wall.

- Angelica shrugs and kisses him deeply. “If you behave I might come over all the time.”

(to be continued)

(probably)

The sun was setting...

The last rays of light shone through a blue glass flagon that stood on the table, streaking the wall with a shaft of brilliant lapis. I felt as fragile and as brilliant as the glass, as though I would shatter with a touch, and fall in glittering fragments to the floor. If I had meant to spare either Jamie’s emotions or my own, it seemed I was very much too late.

I couldn’t speak, but held out my right hand to him, fingers trembling. The ring slipped cool and bright over my knuckle and rested snug at the base of my finger—a good fit. Jamie held my hand a moment, looking at it, then suddenly pressed my knuckles hard against his mouth. He raised his head, and I saw his face for an instant, fierce and urgent, before he pulled me roughly onto his lap.

He held me hard against him then, without speaking, and I could feel the pulsebeat in his throat, hammering like my own. His hands went to my bare shoulders, and he held me slightly away, so that I was looking upward into his face. His hands were large and very warm, and I felt slightly dizzy.

“I want ye, Claire,” he said, sounding choked. He paused a moment, as though unsure what to say next. “I want ye so much—I can scarcely breathe. Will—” He swallowed, then cleared his throat. “Will ye have me?”

By now I had found my voice. It squeaked and wobbled, but it worked.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I’ll have you.”

“I think…” he began, then stopped. He fumbled loose the buckle of his kilt, but then looked up at me, bunching his hands at his sides. He spoke with difficulty, controlling something so powerful that his hands shook with the effort. “I’ll not…I can’t…Claire, I canna be gentle about it.”

I had time only to nod once, in acknowledgment or permission, before he bore me back before him, his weight pinning me to the bed.

He did not pause to undress further. I could smell the road dust in his shirt, and taste the sun and sweat of travel on his skin. He held me, arms outstretched, wrists pinioned. One hand brushed the wall, and I felt the tiny scrape of one wedding ring chiming against the stone. One ring for each hand, one silver, one gold. And the thin metal suddenly heavy as the bonds of matrimony, as though the rings were tiny shackles, fastening me spread-eagled to the bed, stretched forever between two poles, held in bondage like Prometheus on his lonely rock, divided love the vulture that tore at my heart.

He spread my thighs with his knee and sheathed himself to the root in a single thrust that made me gasp. He made a sound that was almost a groan, and gripped me tighter.

“You’re mine, mo duinne,” he said softly, pressing himself into my depths. “Mine alone, now and forever. Mine, whether ye will it or no.” I pulled against his grip, and sucked in my breath with a faint “ah” as he pressed even deeper.

“Aye, I mean to use ye hard, my Sassenach,” he whispered. “I want to own you, to possess you, body and soul.” I struggled slightly and he pressed me down, hammering me, a solid, inexorable pounding that reached my womb with each stroke. “I mean to make ye call me ‘Master,’ Sassenach.” His soft voice was a threat of revenge for the agonies of the last minutes. “I mean to make you mine.”

I quivered and moaned then, my flesh clutching in spasms at the invading, battering presence. The movement went on, disregarding, on and on for minutes, striking me over and over with an impact on the edge between pleasure and pain. I felt dissolved, as though I existed only at the point of the assault, being forced to the edge of some total surrender.

“No!” I gasped. “Stop, please, you’re hurting me!” Beads of sweat ran down his face and dropped on the pillow and on my breasts. Our flesh met now with the smack of a blow that was fast crossing the edge into pain. My thighs were bruising with the repeated impact, and my wrists felt as though they would break, but his grip was inexorable.

“Aye, beg me for mercy, Sassenach. Ye shallna have it, though; not yet.” His breath came hot and fast, but he showed no signs of tiring. My entire body convulsed, legs rising to wrap around him, seeking to contain the sensation.

I could feel the jolt of each stroke deep in my belly, and cringed from it, even as my hips rose traitorously to welcome it. He felt my response, and redoubled his assault, pressing now on my shoulders to keep me pinned under him.

There was no beginning and no end to my response, only a continuous shudder that rose to a peak with each thrust. The hammering was a question, repeated over and over in my flesh, demanding my answer. He pushed my legs flat again, and bore me down past pain and into pure sensation, over the edge of surrender.

“Yes!” I cried. “Oh God, Jamie, yes!” He gripped my hair and forced my head back to meet his eyes, glowing with furious triumph.

“Aye, Sassenach,” he muttered, answering my movements rather than my words. “Ride ye I will!” His hands dropped to my breasts, squeezing and stroking, then slid down my sides. His whole weight rested on me now as he cupped and raised me for still greater penetration. I screamed then and he stopped my mouth with his, not a kiss, but another attack, forcing my mouth open, bruising my lips and rasping my face with bearded stubble. He thrust harder and faster, as though he would force my soul as he forced my body. In body or soul, somewhere he struck a spark, and an answering fury of passion and need sprang from the ashes of surrender. I arched upward to meet him, blow for blow. I bit his lip and tasted blood.

I felt his teeth then on my neck and dug my nails into his back. I raked him from nape to buttocks, spurring him to rear and scream in his turn. We savaged each other in desperate need, biting and clawing, trying to draw blood, trying each to pull the other into ourselves, tearing each other’s flesh in the consuming desire to be one. My cry mingled with his, and we lost ourselves finally in each other in that last moment of dissolution and completion.

2

My progress on Captain Cipher from @ancestors-lullaby and @aureateparalian ‘s fic Devil With A Silver Compass

I’m probably going to make my own shirt instead of using this one; and my trim i ordered forever ago for my coat hasn’t come yet so I haven’t started that fully, but it’s all getting coming together nicely!~

More than a broken ring

[[ @ask-yayaha ]]


Funny enough he began to adapt rather quickly to the life in Kugane. Making sure he attends any gatherings he lays eyes upon and shaking the right hands in order to give good impression. In a way it was refreshing new start, almost made him feel like he was reliving the early days of the Mirage Trust. 

Of course he was keeping eyes on Hancock and making sure he gives dubious answers to any questions making one guess whether his words were true or a jest. He intended to start a business, this much anyone could guess. Exactly what and in what field however… this was still a mystery. Some local merchants didn’t quite like the idea of a former magnate from Thanalan taking over their market but as the rules stated, no violence in the city.

That applied to him too. Much to his dismay. He had to watch his drinks and his words and even then he ended up punching a wall and regret it after. The Twelve be cursed! No, he didn’t lament his bloodied knuckles rather he was heartbroken over the ring that got a visible crack. At least no one was around to witness this moment of frustration in his room late in the eve.

And so here he was with hand bandaged and stepping inside the nearest goldsmith store early in the morning, chin up and looking ahead as if he was a royalty himself. 

“A fair day.” he began and before any answer came, he placed the broken ring on the counter, “I’d like this fixed by the evening.”

Once one would draw eyes away from the demanding lalafell, they’d see this ring carried the crest of Ul’dah, rather a symbol of the Syndicate and the name of Teledji Adeledji engraved on the inside.