pile of shorts

Writing is Hard, Pt. 2: Description

Summary: Dean wants to write a second story.

Read Part 1

Warning: Smut, dirty talk, use of a vibrator, all kinds of fan fiction clichés

Word Count: 4000ish

A/N: This is all written with love for fan fic. I’m teasing, not putting it down in any way. Hope you enjoy! XOXO

Your laptop is screaming at you from its spot on the motel table.

You ignore it.

It’s not like you’ve been waiting all day to check it. It’s not like you were impatiently stomping around as you folded clothes with Sam and Dean in the laundromat, as they took their sweet time at the grocery, as Dean dragged you to some fucking hardware store because he needed a specific type of wrench (the six identical wrenches he already owns just aren’t enough).

Keep reading

sarcasticallyinspired  asked:

Director Sanvers prompt: The trope "Person carrying an absurd and improbable number of weapons must remove them all (to the bewilderment of those around them)" with all 3 of them unloading an endless supply of weapons from all sorts of places for whatever reason. Oh and thanks for calling me a minion :)

It had always been a rule at family dinners: No Weapons At the Table. Period. End of Story. (No Kara, Kryptonian Yellow Sun Superpowers are an exception). Only when Eliza was around, really, because Kara and Alex were far too used to unexpected emergencies popping up to follow it. But then James became Guardian, Maggie and Lucy came into the picture, and suddenly Winn and Eliza were the only two walking into dinner unarmed.

It was their third Thanksgiving after Alex came out when Eliza had finally had enough.

“I mean it, take all of the weapons and put them on the side table.”

James just has a knife and a small hand gun. He quickly joins Kara and Winn at the dinner table.

Maggie puts her service weapon on the table. Alex and Lucy do the same.

Lucy pulls a small blade out of her boot.

Maggie’s backup weapon comes out of the holster at her ankle.

Alex pulls a Swiss army knife out of her jacket pocket.

Lucy takes some dangerously sharp hairpins out of her hair.

The space gun leaves its place at the small of Alex’s back.

It surprises even Kara as the mountain of weapons beings to grow. The pile is teetering slightly when the doorbell rings. Kara shakes her head and welcomes Lena into the apartment. Lena, who was made aware of the rule in the same manner as everyone else, halts halfway into the apartment to stare at the growing pile of weapons.

Lucy pulls a knife out of her boot.

Maggie drops brass knuckles on the table.

Alex pulls a handful of razor blades out of her wallet.

When all’s said and done, there are five guns, sixteen knives, thirty-two miscellaneous blades of different types, and a half dozen close combat tools.

Eliza stares at them, her arms crossed and her face blank.

Alex sheepishly drops one last knife on the table, pulled from the heel of her boot.

Eliza sighs and turns back to the kitchen, waving them to the table.

Kara is the only one who sees Lena pull a small gun from her purse and add it to the pile.

betsforsythetrash  asked:

Girl I need a pole dancing fic asap 💕💕💕

Hmm, I wonder why I suddenly got so many requests for this fic (this isn’t even all of them jeez). Y’all are sinners. Also I’m not sure if I liked how this one turned out, it’s all a bit she did this he did that, but whatever. I hope you enjoy anyway!
Warning: there is sin ahead, honestly blame the buggies. 

“Cheryl, what the hell?” Veronica exclaimed, casting her gaze around the room with a raised eyebrow. The head bitch herself had rallied the Vixens for an emergency practice, surprising them all by turning on her heel and marching into the smaller weights room off the side of the gym. Everything had been cleared out, all equipment long gone, replaced only by an array of shiny silver poles stretching from floor to ceiling.

“I’ve been doing my research and it appears that this is the best way to turn your abs to fabs in time for the end of season pep rally,” Cheryl stated, gesturing matter-of-factly around her. Betty gulped.

“Pole dancing?” she asked, voice shaking with the rising of her nerves, brows pinching together in concern.

“Pole fitness,” Cheryl clarified, striding over to a pile of booty shorts, even shorter than their regular required uniform (and significantly tighter, Betty noted), with matching sports bras. “Suit up, my River Vixens. You’ve got a lot to learn in the way of sex appeal.”

“V, I don’t think I can…” Betty mumbled in panic, eye darting between the poles and the tiny garments resting atop her open palm. Her other hand gripped at Veronica’s arm, itching to curl into itself. Veronica glanced down at it before meeting Betty’s wide stare.

“B, it’s okay!” she reassured, bringing her hands up to rest on Betty’s shoulders as she tilted her mouth in a comforting smile. “We’re only at practice, it’s just like exercise,” she reasoned. Betty’s heart rate didn’t slow any. Veronica sighed, eyes running over the room as she tried to find the right words. “Okay, think of it this way. This is an aid to becoming stronger, right? Mind and body. It’s gonna make you feel confident and powerful. So think of something that already gets you halfway there.” Mischief glinted in her dark irises. “Maybe… when you’re with a certain dark-haired, brooding, Byron wannabe? I bet you know a few ways to help him raise the flag-”

“Veronica!” Betty screeched, tilting her head to watch the open door, cheeks flushing scarlet as she pulled her hand back from the other girl’s arm like she’d been burned. Veronica grinned devilishly, shrugging her delicate shoulders.

“I’m just saying, Betty. Channel some of that ‘in the moment’ confidence.” Her eyes softened. “It’ll help,” she threw over her shoulder as she turned to go and change. Betty took a breath, releasing the tension from her back as she stretched out her fingers. She could do this.


Betty stumbled into the girl’s locker room, muscles she didn’t even know she had aching, red bruises forming between her thighs. Pole, she had quickly learned, was exhausting. Add to that a commanding Cheryl Blossom, on the warpath for perfectly arched backs and streamlined drops, and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to walk for a week.

But Veronica had been right. It did make her feel powerful, in control, even - dare she say it - sexy. It allowed her the kind of freedom she craved when she just let go, without any of the darkness clouded the edges of her vision, pulling her into an unreachable abyss. Betty bit her lip against her smile as she opened her gym locker - she could definitely get used to this feeling. Gripping the cool metal between her fingers, her thighs, back arching as she swung gracefully.

“Want me to wait for you, B?” Veronica asked, coming up behind her. Betty startled at her close voice, ponytail whipping sharply behind her, the dark-haired girl ducking out of the way.

“Wha- Oh, no. I’m supposed to be meeting Jughead to work on the Blue and Gold,” she smiled. Veronica smirked.

“Whatever you say. Enjoy your work,” she said suggestively, flitting out of the locker room with one last coy glance at Betty’s mortified expression. She huffed out a laugh, shaking her head at her friend’s antics as she pulled her clothes out.

The surrounding din quietened down as the last of the Vixens left for the night, leaving Betty alone. She glanced round cautiously, checking there were no prying eyes still, before slipping back into the gym. She couldn’t help herself; she just wanted to lose herself in the sensation for a little bit longer. She stepped gingerly towards the centre pole, clasping it with damp palms. She hooked her right knee around the object, like she’d been taught a few hours before, and pushed her weight off her left foot, propelling herself round.

She caught glimpses of herself in the mirror lining one wall. It didn’t feel like her own reflection staring back at her. She didn’t see pink sweaters and slicked back hair. She saw lean lines, strong muscles, elegant curves. There was a way about her features, her narrowed eyes, her mouth set with firm confidence, that made her blood buzz as she continued to move. She dipped her body, leg coming up in a sharp angle as she let her eyes drift closed for a moment.

“Betty?” Her eyes flew open at the low voice coming from her right. She straightened herself quickly, fingers clutching at the pole as she took in Jughead’s form standing in the doorway. Her cheeks burned.

“Juggie…” she breathed, unable to meet his eyes. “H-how long have you been standing there?” His own cheekbones were already dusted an adorable pink, blue eyes wide. He swallowed around the thickness in his throat, adam’s apple bobbing distinctly.

“Um, not that long, really. Just a while… a f-few minutes, maybe,” he stammered, ashamed of how long he’d stood silently, knowing she hadn’t seen him, while she danced.

He was entranced the moment he’d opened the door. He’d gotten worried, Betty was never usually this late to their meetings, and ventured out find her. He’d heard the music coming from the weights room and curiously pushed open to the door only to find her, twisting her body sensually to the beat now pounding in his ears. Jughead had frozen in place, boots rooted to the spot, unable to look away - not wanting to - even though he knew he was spying. She’d just looked so beautiful he couldn’t help it. His fingers itched with the desire to touch her, a pool of warmth flooding his lower belly and sending sparks southwards. His heart thudded, so loud he was surprised she couldn’t hear it, air getting too hot against his skin.

She appraised him with her usual, wide eyes, snapping back instantly into the Betty he was familiar with. She chewed on her lower lip, fingers playing idly with the elastic on her shorts. She could see the way his pupils had blown wide with lust, with want for her, as he’d been watching. His breath was coming a degree faster than normal, the way it did whenever she’d run her fingers down his chest, her teeth across his collarbone. She was turning him on just by the way she was moving, across the room entirely. The thought simmered beneath her skin, sending a delicious warmth to the apex of her thighs.

Before Betty could stop herself she was moving to grab one of the chairs stacked against the wall, placing it a few feet away from the pole she was previously using. She grabbed Jughead’s hand, his palm reassuring in hers, and dragged him over, pushing on his shoulders to get him to sit. He gazed up at her questioningly, eyebrows knit in confusion. She simply smiled, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to his soft cheek.

“Just watch,” she murmured against his heated skin. He nodded, dumbfound, not quite sure what he was agreeing to but knowing he didn’t want to say no. In the moment confidence, Veronica had said. The fluttering nervousness in her chest was blooming into something new, a need to have Jughead’s eager eyes on her as she danced, wanting him to see her whilst she reached this new high.

Betty took a breath, feeling the beat vibrating up through her legs. Her hand came up to her ponytail, pulling the band out and tossing it away, letting her honey waves free around her shoulders. Jughead shifted in her peripheries, hands coming to rest on his knees, waiting for the performance to begin.

She walked round the pole, each step measured and calculated, one hand running delicately over the metal. Every so often she chanced a glance at Jughead from beneath her lashes, finding his eyes glued to her frame. This dance wasn’t like the others from practice. Betty swung her hips back and forth, sweeping her hair over her shoulders with a flick of her head, adding a whole new layer of sensuality to her steps. She spun, enjoying the slight breeze across her warm skin that the movement caused, pulling her lower lip between her teeth as she arched her neck. Jughead cleared his throat shuffling in his chair as his fingers clutched aimlessly at the denim covering his knees. It was so apparent what she was doing to him, his tongue coming out to wet his suddenly dry lips.

Betty turned to face him, hands clasped above her head as she slowly started to slide her back down the pole, never once taking her darkened eyes from his. She reached the ground, a surge of confidence igniting a fire throughout her body as she caught sight of the prominent bulge between his shifting thighs, parting her knees and spreading her legs in a move that definitely wasn’t a part of Cheryl’s earlier routine.

“Betts…” Her name fell, slightly strangled, from his parted lips. She stood slowly, stalking towards him with a glint in her eye, like a predator seeking its prey. Her hands braced themselves on his shoulders as she swung her leg over his thighs, settling down over his lap. There was a delicious ache forming between her overworked thighs as she fought to keep her eyes from rolling back into her head. Jughead’s eyelids fluttered as they both let out perfectly synchronised moans at the long awaited pressure, but he was determined to take in every second of this moment, of Betty free of restriction before him. She grasped his wrists, placing his desperate hands on the small of her waist. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered, voice hoarse. She giggled, the sound causing his own lips to lift in a smile.

“I think I do,” she muttered, circling her hips purposefully. Jughead groaned, bucking up involuntarily at the sensation. Betty paused, lifting her weight slightly from him. “You have to stay still. This is my show,” she teased, raising a challenging eyebrow. He nodded, not trusting his voice. She dropped herself down again, continuing the torturous roll of her hips, arms locked around his neck.

She swayed gently, her scent completely overwhelming Jughead’s senses. Her firm breasts were at his eye level, heaving slightly before his face. Blue eyes followed the bead of sweat, from her earlier exertion, that rolled down her collarbone and disappeared into the valley of her cleavage, wanting to chase it with his tongue. His fingers crept up her side, cupping the underside of her breast gently. All movement ceased as she threw him a threatening look, shivers rolling down Jughead’s spine, pushing the wandering hand firmly back to her waist. Betty moved her lips to his ear, warm breath making him shudder.

“Having trouble following the rules, Jug?” she whispered, unable to stop the grin from spreading across her face as she felt his fingers flex against her skin, head tilting to allow her more access to his neck. A low groan caught in his chest as she gave a pointed swivel of her hips. He blew out an uneven breath as she trailed her lips down his flushed skin, movements unrelenting now, mouth resting over his pounding pulse point. She latched her lips over the spot and sucked, small mewl vibrating against him as she felt the responding twitch in his pants directly beneath her sensitive core.

Betty pulled back, satisfied with the purple bruise she’d left amongst the fading others already littered across his pale skin. She knew that the uncontrolled grip he had against her delicate flesh would leave lingering fingerprints for her to run her hands over affectionately later, remembering the effect she had on him.

Jughead’s breathing hitched as she dropped her forehead to his, their breaths mixing, panting into each other, as she lay her open mouth over his. Her movements were speeding up, the coil in the pit of Jughead’s stomach tightening as his vision started to blur. Betty bent closer, catching Jughead’s chapped lower lip between her teeth and pulling gently.

It didn’t take much more, every last nerve Jughead had now frayed and oversensitive because of the woman in his lap, heat of her core radiating through his pants. With one last twist of her hips he couldn’t hold back any longer, loud groan tearing itself from his chest, hips bucking upwards, stuttering, as he came, pulsing beneath her.

Betty slowed her movements, revelling in the way he twitched and grunted beneath her as she coaxed him through his release, overly stimulated and exhausted. He finally opened his eyes, fingers coming to cup her cheek, looking up at her in awe. He pulled her down, placing a sweet, gentle kiss to her bitten lips.

“I never knew I could like gym so much,” he joked against her lips, Betty dropping her head to the crook of his neck with an exuberant laugh.

“Or that you’d have a reason to thank Cheryl Blossom,” she murmured with an amused smile, tucking herself closer into his embrace.

I am seriously concerned about the casting directors on Reign...

Guys, are they ok? Are they even trying? Do they think we’re stupid? Have they employed a script adviser to check the consistency of what they’re making? If they have, they need to fire them real quick, because whoever they are hasn’t seemed to realise that CATHERINE’S CHILDREN ARE ALL REAPPEARING AS COMPLETELY DIFFERENT PEOPLE who are WAY TOO OLD!

Let’s take a trip down memory lane to the good old days when Reign was kinda alright.

Remember this little guy? This lil’ cutie from Season 1? Lil’ Charles. Just in case this picture doesn’t make it quite QUITE clear that this person is a young CHILD, here’s another one: 

He’s tiny right, I mean Megan Follows is small, and he barely reaches her shoulder. Ok good, we’ve established that Charles in Season 1 was a young child of around eight years old. Good stuff.

Now I know Reign has a habit of stretching, embellishing and basically destroying history. Mary and Francis are supposed to be like 14 at the start, and clearly they’re older, but that’s ok, that’s fine, we’ll roll with it.

 The show begins in 1557:

Nice, some fluffy goats and fluffy clouds just to prove this. I’ve done my research people.

So in real life, ol’ Francie Boi was supposed to die in 1560 after being King for roughly one year

And sure thing, as I said, Reign likes to stretch history like, BEYOND the breaking point. So it’s entirely plausible that on the show Francis was king for a little bit longer, maybe we’ll give him an extra year or two. Which means the next time we see young dude Charlie he’ll have aged… hmmm around five years or so? He’ll be approx 12, right? 

WRONG! What the FuCk ma dudes, this guy right here is NOT CHARKLES I don’t know who he is, but Catherine and the rest of them should all be really concerned, they’ve been hella duped! He’s frickin old enough to fool around with this random chick

He’s aged like 10 years in 5, and NO ONE EVEN NOTICED, not Catherine, not Francis, not Mary, and especially not anyone in the writing or casting department apparently. 

Now let’s move onto Elisabeth, Catherine and Henry’s eldest daughter, dis chick from the pilot

Remember her? The one who married the Spanish dude, and then they had to have sex while a whole lot of old men watched, and Mary and her lil’ sweet naive buddies got all hot and flustered cos they were sneakily watching too? Yeah that one.

As you can see, this woman is clearly a BRUNETTE. Well, apparently Spain has really changed Elisabeth. Like, REEAALLY changed her. So good to see her back in 4x01! She goes by Leesa now, she’s blonde and older and basically looks like a completely different person…

Oh Wait.

I guess Catherine just has so many children she honestly can’t keep track and doesn’t even notice when they return to France looking like they’ve endured intense plastic surgery to reconstruct their faces, or somehow age them enormously.

Catherine has the names of all her children written in her bible, although her youngest son Hercule is missing, but I think the camera has just cut off the bottom of the page.

 At the end of Season 3, Catherine brings back this dude below to lowkey threaten Charles with MUrdEr (the most ooc Catherine has ever been, honestly this show is just…)

Now god knows who this one is, I mean it could be Lil’ Henry making a comeback from Season 1 when he was blonde and cute (see below) and got kidnapped by his insane potato-sack-wearing half sister

If so, he too has had a significant dye job at the castle salon. Except whoever this kid is in Season 3, he can’t be Henry because he’s considerably younger than Charles

I mean, what’s the deal? Charles gets hit by the ageifying-ray gun, but his little bro Henry doesn’t? How is that fair?? They never actually mention him by name, so possibly it is Hercule.

Which would mean that this hunky blonde dude Megan’s been posting on her Instagram and captioning with “My boys”… 


This makes absolutely ZERO sense, I do NOT understand. The casting directors and writers of Reign either don’t comprehend human viewer intelligence and the ability to pick up on the ENORMOUS INCONSISTENCIES THEY THROW AT US WITH WORRYING REGULARITY, or they themselves have serious memory issues. Or possibly they just don’t care. I really don’t know.

I’ve come to the conclusion that the only way to watch Reign now is by ignoring these massively aged characters, ignoring the yawn storylines, ignoring when the only original characters we have left suddenly rewrite their whole personalities; I’m looking at you Catherine ‘I would literally die for my children’ de Medici, suddenly going, ‘Oh yeah Charles, I have loooads of other sons, don’t you forget that, I might just kill you to become regent again, k, love you, bye.’

I’ll just focus on the pretty clothes and Megan Follows’ profound talent to somehow make something out of this steaming pile of insanity.

Long story short, the only thing Reign is consistent at, is being inconsistent.

Even so, I’ll watch it every week cos I’m total trash. Rip me.

The Neighbors ( 3/?)

 Summary: You’ve been in New York for about 3 years now moving here looking for a new experience. You grew up in a small town with you parents and siblings, so your new experience was city life. You began working at a hospital doing patient records and a moved into a cute little apartment in a mostly safe neighborhood in Brooklyn. After being at the hospital for a few months, you were presented with an amazing offer to switch from patient records to shadowing nurses, you just had to take a few classes outside of work while you worked with them. Since then, your life in New York has been great. But will it stay that way once you meet your new neighbors across the hall?

Warnings : swearing, bad flirting.

Pairings: Sam Wilson x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader, eventual Steve Rogers x Reader


                                         Part 3 : The PJ Party

     After you shower and make yourself breakfast, you’re more than ready to pass the hell out. You crawl into your bed, pulling the blankets up to your chin and snuggling yourself further into them. You set an alarm for 6:45pm, making sure to give yourself enough time to get ready before going across the hall. As you lay back down, you can’t seem to stop thinking about tonight.

  What am I going to wear? Who the hell has pajama parties anymore? But Sam’s so sweet, like a little puppy. Should I wear what I have on right now?

You pull your blankets away so you can see your pajamas. You have on a pair of comfortable underwear that has flamingos all over them , and another giant band tee shirt.

I can’t wear this. I’ll look like a weirdo! Maybe I can dig out a pair of my old sleep shorts. Yeah, that sounds good.

After 15 more minutes of debating what to wear, you finally doze off.

   Beep Beep Beep

You go to hit the snooze button, but end up knocking the entire clock on the floor.

 "Son of a bitch!“ You roll yourself onto the floor to pick it up and place it back where it was. You’re still not completely awake, so you drag yourself to your bathroom and throw some cold water on your face. When you wake up a little more you start to get yourself ready to go to the guys. You fell asleep with your hair wet, so you try to tame the lions mane that your formed. You manage to smooth out your waves, so they don’t look as chaotic. Perfect start, now let’s find some pants.

 You rip through all of your drawers, looking for the pile of shorts you know you have somewhere. You finally find it in the last drawer. You drop the pile on your bed, picking each pair until you stumble across the winners.

  OH HELL YES.   You pick up a pair that you completely forgot about. They use to be your favorite before you opted for sleeping in just underwear. You slide the shorts on and switch out your band tee for a new shirt.

    You look in the mirror happy with your appearance.Your hair is down in somewhat tamed waves and you decide against makeup. You’re sporting black sleep shorts with a white stripe down the outside of your legs, and a white V-neck tshirt. The shirt wasn’t too baggy but it wasn’t too tight. You twist your body to get a better view of the back to make sure everything looks alright.

   Damn, did they always make my ass look like this…? You notice that the shorts cling on to the curve of your ass perfectly, but you can’t tell if they’re appropriate or not for tonight. You look at your clock to see how much time you have left. It’s already 7:50? How is that even possible? You decide to leave the shorts on, but you throw on some slipper boots, grab your phone and make your way across the hall.

 Before you knock on their door, you take a deep breath. Remember, they are just normal people. That occasionally save the world. And are hot. Super hot superheros. Damn it, Y/n! You make yourself blush, but knock on the door anyway.

  Sam answers and pulls you inside. You look around, noticing that all the boxes are gone and that it looks almost exactly like the setup of your apartment.

  "Well what do you think? I set everything up while those two slept last night.” You keep glancing around, noticing the décor and how awesome everything really looks. It was just a typical guy’s apartment, but it was really tidy. It was clean and simple. You love it.

“Sam it looks incredible! It’s so neat and organized,” you say as he leads you to the couch. When you look down at it, your eyes light up. It’s the biggest couch you’ve ever seen. The kind that people only see in the super expensive store. The cushions are  almost the size of a small bed and look so soft. Huh, must be from Stark.

You look at Sam before you dive onto the couch like a child. He lets out hearty laugh then follows your lead throwing himself down next to you.

“You know Y/n, you can’t have a pajama party without a fort…” Your eyes light up like a child’s on Christmas morning.

That’s it. He’s my new bestfriend.

“You’re totally right, Sam. You know what else? Candy, can’t have a pajama party without candy.”

You both just stare at each other before he speaks, “Did we just become best friends?” You both have the biggest, dorkiest smiles on your faces.

Originally posted by dailyteamcap

“Yep!” Oh my God, he just quoted Step Brothers with me. Well played Wilson, well played.

               “Fucking finally someone to get my movie quotes! Those two still aren’t caught up to this time period, all my good reference go right over their heads,” he angrily confesses. You let out a snort and put your hand on his shoulder.

  “This is going to be a beautiful friendship, Sam Wilson.” He throws a fist into the air in celebration. Just then, Steve and Bucky walk through the doors with 4 boxes of pizza and a couple bottles of Pepsi.

When they see you, they both smile and say hello while they drop the items off at the counter.

Bucky gives you both a suspicious glance. “What did you two do? You look guilty.” Sam rolls his eyes, you laugh and shrug your shoulders.

“Nothing, yet.” You and Sam burst into a fit of giggles, and that causes Steve to laugh. Bucky just rolls his eyes as he walks over and sits down next to you, handing you a plate of pizza.You thank him, and watch as Steve brings Sam his. Sam picks a movie out of his very large movie collection and plays it without telling anyone what he chose.  Before you know it, the opening credits to Billy Madison starts playing, and you almost spit out your pizza.

  “THIS IS ONE OF THE BEST MOVIES,” you yell in excitement. Sam throws his hand up for a high-five, and you gladly give it to him.

  “At least someone likes my movie choices,” he exclaims. Both of his roommates roll their eyes and continue eating.

   “So Sam…fort time?” You ask, sending him an excited grin. He jumps up, ready to do it right that second. Bucky’s expression lights up too. I already love all of them.

“That’s what you two were plotting when we got here? Steve says. “No way! No forts! Buck and Sam can’t stand each other in normal spaces, I’m not dealing with them arguing over a fort.” You all huff in response to Steve’s parent-like attitude.

  You hear Sam mumble what you think is ‘Captain Buzzkill’. Bucky just flicks Steve off, earning him a glare. You laugh, noticing a smile on Steve’s lips as you do. All of a sudden, you feel a cool metal hand lay gently on your bare thigh. You look towards Bucky, raising your eyebrow. What is he doing?

“You know Doll, if you want to fool around in a fort we could always build one in my room. I could show you a few things, if you- “

Originally posted by stuckwithbuck

  Steve cuts him off by whipping a pillow at him. Bucky glares at him, sending you a wink. “The offers always open.” You roll your eyes, and he squeezes your thigh before removing his hand. Way to be discreet Barnes.

   Halfway through the movie, when everyone was full and finished eating, Bucky turns to you and asks, “So Y/n, have you always lived in New York?” The way he asks makes you think he already knows the answer. I bet anything they had Stark do a background check on me to make sure I’m not a stalker. Not surprising. You tell him about your hometown and the need for a change. As he keeps asking your questions, Sam and Steve join in. After Sam asks about your best friend, you decide it’s your turn.

“Woah woah woah, it’s my turn to ask guys!” They all nod in agreement, so you continue. “How long after you met me did it take for you guys to have Tony Stark run a background check on me?” They were all silent, until Bucky speaks up.

“Wow doll, you think we would have Stark do a background check on you? How cold.” You start to feel guilty and are about to apologize before he continues, “We had Natasha do it. If you want snooping done right, you’ve gotta have a spy do it.” He winks at you and you smack his arm.

“You ass! I almost felt bad about that!” He just chuckles and moves to his next question.

“So sweetheart, are you single?” Steve spits out his Pepsi, right at Sam, and Sam lets out a string of profanities.

“Jesus Buck, way to be subtle,” Steve mumbles. You can see a faint blush on his cheeks.

You let out a light laugh, “It’s okay Steve, I had a feeling it would be asked. And yes Bucky, I’m single. Are all of you?” You hold your breath, half wanting to hear Steve’s answer, half not wanting to know.

They all answer yes .Looks like the Universe is on my side for once.

    The night continues with random questions, some funny, some serious. By the time you all seem to run out of questions,  it’s about 4 a.m. In one night, you feel like they know you more than most people. You tell them about your family, past relationships, more about your best friend. It’s so easy to talk to them that everything just flows out. You also find out more about them than you could imagine. From their lives before the Avengers, to what they do in their spare time. You even unwillingly learned of Sam’s shit schedule, thanks to Bucky. When you go to leave the guys’ apartment, you hug them all goodbye. You notice Steve and Buckys hugs last a little longer than Sam’s does for you. You aren’t going to think too much into it though. Bucky offers to walk you to your door, which sends a laugh through you.

“Barnes, it’s literally 15 steps away.” He shrugs his shoulders, resting his hand on your lower back guiding you to the hall.

“I’m from the ‘40s, it’s the gentleman thing to do. Just humor me, doll.” You shiver at the nickname and a blush blooms across your features. You don’t miss the victorious smirk on his face.  if it was really part of the '40s charm, why Steve didn’t offer? Oh well. When you reach your door, you give him another hug, and turn to unlock it. When you turn back around, Bucky’s eyes are still lingering where your ass was just a minute ago. You clear your throat and cross your arms.

“My eyes are up here, Doll.” You smirk. Bucky blushes at being caught red-handed.

“Goodnight Y/n,” he says. You take that as your cue to step into your home. As you’re stepping away, Barnes lands a decent smack on your ass. You let out a yelp but by the time you turn around he’s already at his door and laughing.

Being a gentleman my ass. What the hell am I getting myself into?

Originally posted by klausizking

William Nylander - White Orchid Part 2


authors note: here is the continuation of my previous william nylander imagine. i know a lot of this is william’s family. but i hope that’s ok as i adore the nylander fam. there’s some fluff in there as well. my requests are also open now, so if you want to request a imagine feel free to do so. i hope you enjoy this and don’t be shy about giving me some feedback! i appreciate it a lot.

word count: 3158

Giving Jackie a high five you handed her a bottle of water. ” Well done Jacks. You just keep on getting better and better. Soon you’ll have to hire a professional to train with you on a regular basis. ” Looking at you, Jackie chuckled. ” Yeah well, you’re way better to play with than my brothers at least. ” You knew that the competitive side took over both William and Alexander in every way, shape and form. Even when they were playing against their sisters. At least when it came to tennis.

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Hotel Sheets

Pairing: Blaise Zabini x Ginny Weasley

Setting: Modern, non-magical, college AU

Word Count: 1,656

Written For: @dracoskywalker [fic giveaway #4]

Blaise Zabini has a type.

Tall, willowy, graceful and elegant and French-manicured and soft-spoken—he dates girls with pearls at their necks and diamonds in their ears, cashmere sweater dresses slipping down one shoulder and daringly-colored lambskin boots slouchy around their thighs. Their lingerie is lacy, delicate, meant to be seen rather than simply worn, and they leave his sheets smelling like a rose garden after it rains. They order Nicoise salads for dinner, and they inevitably declare English Literature as their majors of choice when the time finally comes, and they’re well-bred, well-connected, products of prep schools with longer waitlists for admission than most of the restaurants in New York.

And the degree to which they don’t remind him of his mother—in all the ways that matter, at least—is inarguable.

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anonymous asked:

Can you imagine Grace and Garrus fighting off Reapers and Grace tells Garrus not to die because, "Tomorrow is Valentine's Day and you promised we would go on a romantic date that doesn't involve Reapers, armor, and calibrating... Fine, a little calibrating."

I can! And I will!


It had been so long since, oh, Noveria or Therum—back when Garrus couldn’t seem to find cover even when a convenient pile of shipping containers or short walls was right in front of him—that Shepard had nearly forgotten the frequency at which he’d been so often hit. 

This backwater nowhere planet with its relatively unimportant smash-and-grab mission was proving an unhealthy reminder of the old days. 

It wasn’t quite damage of the rocket-to-the-face variety, but Garrus was off-kilter, a little out of step, a lot off his game, and had already taken a handful of shots. Her HUD beeped a warning about the level of his shields, but before she could snap out a warning or a command, his grunt of genuine pain crackled over the comms.

“Get down and stay down!” she barked. Three grenades, several incendiary explosions and one extremely satisfying headshot later, the swarm of hostiles was gone. 

She found Garrus a dozen meters away, leaning up against an outcropping of smashed rock.

“Now you find cover,” she muttered, but without venom. Blue blood leaked out from between his fingers. “Tali’s gone to get the shuttle.”

“Sorry,” he offered, a thrum of pain in his subharmonics. “Should’ve–told you. Distracted. News from Palaven just before–ugh. Stupid.”

The faint pang of worry that twisted her gut was immediately relegated to the when Garrus isn’t bleeding out pile. “Medi-gel?”

“Dispenser’s busted.” His mandibles flicked another apology even as his gaze went unfocused.

“Hey,” she said, “eyes on me, Vakarian. You think I’m going to let a paltry life-threatening wound throw a wrench in our plans, you’ve got another thing coming.”

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firiona  asked:

Mom, the day after your post on Hell House ants, I saw some ants in my office. Which was somewhat concerning. This is a new house to me and who knows what issues it has, but it was only a couple and I just decide to get things to take care of them later. I promptly forgot. Then yesterday I came home to a pile of dead ants in the hallway of the basement. Which is 10 ft away from the nearest exterior wall. A PILE. But they're dead? In short: I'M CONCERNED ABOUT A COUPLE THINGS HERE. Ants. Dead???

Congratulations you have a ghost ant eater who is only interested in their souls.

♡Try To Be Gentle♡

Originally posted by saeno-e

request:hey umm [I hope you’re] not to busy can you make a smut when it’s your first time ever and it’s with leo from vixx with some overstimulation please!






You love your friend, but you hated her parties. It was only ever people fucking in your face as if they knew you were a virgin. You’ve only ever watched porn, yet have never done anything to yourself. Your friend, Taekwoon, helps you get rid of this problem.


first time; overstimulation(female receiving); being kinky af; trying new kinks; spanking; sex toys; being Taekwoon’s friend; him being a lying ass mofo saying he’ll be gentle but goes hard as fuck on you


It’s was your friends party. And, you loved your friend, but you hated her parties. It was always strangers kissing and fucking. You weren’t mad and because you had no one to fuck and/or kiss, you just didn’t want to see it.

Though, it did hurt a little. Everyone around you doing these things and you’ve never even tried.

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thetrippmeister  asked:

Gay island story! (Okay, I'm a complete sucker for anything Patater...)

(meme link)


Kent Parson shouted something after Jensy and Sello when they left the kitchen, but Alexei caught very little of it–the initial Jesus, guys, that was familiar, but then there was something incomprehensible, and then something about your mom?  But without the usual cadence of the joke; maybe it was not your mom?  That almost made sense, because then the NHL’s top point-scorer began picking up paper napkins and muffin liners left behind, and wadding them into a plastic cup, muttering under his breath.

This was Alexei’s perfect chance, left alone with a man he hadn’t seen in half a year, but instead of trying to summon conversation to his lips he sat with the newspaper and the remains of his breakfast, and watched Kent Parson clean the kitchen.

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Steve Harrington x Chubby!Reader

Notes: Deep within the Steve Harrington tag I discovered @dicckgrayson ‘s list of HC for a chubby!reader and I was in love. This was born and I think I have one more idea for Stevie. Be on the lookout for more Steve Harrington in the future! Enjoy my loves!

Word Count: 1296

Warnings: Insecurities. The sex. Cute Steve okay??

Disclaimer: I do not own the gif, or Steve Harrington, so if you own either let me know and I’ll give you full credit!

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Suicide Squad’s cast ♦ Jared Leto Imagine

Requested by Nikola
Words: 1,548
Triggers/Warnings: Explicit language

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Wrapping | Jonathan Byers

Title: Wrapping
Author: Clara
Character: Jonathan Byers
Warnings: None
Prompt: @anon: “Heyyy 😜 Could you maybe do #2 from Christmas prompts with the wonderful Jonathan Byers please?” (2. Character A can’t wrap gifts to save their life. Character B is their neighbor and can help.)

Originally posted by winter-barnes

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So you’re applying for a junior role

So, over the weekend I put a call out for a junior animator. I got a whole heap of responses, and haven’t got back to our pick yet, but I thought I’d take the opportunity to give some general feedback, while the experience is fresh.

Disclaimer: If you sent me work and one of these points rings a bell, please don’t think I’m picking on you.. I had numerous examples that fell into each trap listed, the important part is that you put your work in front of someone.. keep doing that, and please take these as the suggestions they are :) You’re all badasses for having the guts to send work to me!

I advertised for a junior animator, 3D, to work on a short term project. Here are some traps I saw folks fall into, consider it a checklist. Note that I’m a designer / creative lead.. so these are not tips from a pro animator, but tips from the kind of person who may be reviewing your work at a smaller studio.

  • Apply for the right job - I got applications from sound designers, 3D artists, 2D animators and others. Now, if invited, you should never feel any shame in sending speculative work, I want to see it.. but in cases where a specific discipline has been called for, it can very quickly become frustrating for the person reviewing a stack of work. My suggestion: Make a note of the employer, and send stuff over to them a few weeks after they’ve been in showreel swamp mode.. you’re more likely to be seen. When politely told you’ve applied for the wrong job, ‘oh I can do that too’ doesn’t reflect very well on you.
  • Be careful with humour - This goes for emails, DMs and the content of your showreel itself. The person you’re sending stuff too may not share your love for the esoteric. I’m at the younger, more liberal minded (liberal in the live and let live original meaning) end of the spectrum of people watching your stuff, so it’s not such a high risk, but consider removing that second year uni project with all the NSFW content from your showreel. It’s sort of backwards (and a little damning of videogames), but violence is fine, drugs and sex you should be careful about including. Keep things friendly and professional.
  • Be diligent about crediting - I got a couple of showreels from two people that I assume were on the same course. Both included footage from a project, crediting themselves as the animator. This of course becomes confusing and will put someone off your showreel. More importantly, while ‘getting your foot in the door’ might seem the most important thing when job hunting, staying indoors by having the skills advertised is equally important. Where work in a shot is not entirely your own, consider a title card or subtitle to make that incredibly clear.
  • Over reliance on stylisation / non human work - In this case, I was looking for an animator to work on relatively ‘realistic’ humanoid animation (which I didn’t state, my bad). Many showreels had this, but many didn’t. That’s 100% cool if you choose to specialize elsewhere, but know that without a decent demonstration of humanoid character performance, you are closing the door on a lot of potential gigs.
  • Complex websites - Give me a vimeo or a youtube link. It sounds like I’m being a dickhead, but when you have 100 people to review, the slightest inconveniences start to pile up.
  • Better a short showreel than one padded with old work - your showreel dictates a range of experience and skill to the viewer. Don’t let your showreel average be brought down by older stuff.. if that work is there to demonstrate skill X, then it may be worth making a new example of X.
  • Fundamentals - I’m not an animator, so I use entry level words (apologies), but look through your 3D animation and ask yourself about the fundamentals.. weight, arcs of movement, anticipation.. Unfortunately some of the work sent to me felt robotic, lacking in weight, or with linear acceleration. Worth looking back over stuff with that in mind.
  • Bonus - Rigging - I was genuinely pleasantly surprised to see some junior animation applicants including examples of their rigging work. This is super attractive, and a skill that is incredibly useful on a smaller dev team. If you do it and it’s not in your showreel, I’d suggest adding it.

So yeah. Thanks to those who sent stuff in, and good luck to all of you in future endeavours :)

behind bars

so idk how but holy tomatoes I just hit 300 followers. honestly I am nothing special I am but a humble young gay but thank you all so much for following me! in celebration, have a fanfic I wrote.


Simon and Baz are young and dumb. They get arrested and wind up in the same jail cell. Romance ensues

TW: underage drinking


“So what’re you in for?”

Baz had been eyeing the boy for the past hour. He was gorgeous, no doubt, especially so against the dreary background of the jail cell. The fact that Baz was still a little more than buzzed also may have been a factor in how ridiculously attractive he was.

“It’s a long story,” Baz replied nonchalantly, with a wave of his hand. The other boy pursed his lips in thought. His full, pink lips. He ran his fingers through his hair, a mess of bronzy curls piled atop his head, shaved short at the sides. He looked like he was the kind of guy who just had permanent bed head.

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” he smiled, showing off obnoxiously straight teeth and an adorable dimple wedged in the corner of his left cheek.

Baz sighed, but kept silent and leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes. Was it possible to be drunk and hungover at the same time? Maybe it was that boy giving him a headache. Baz practically had to squint just to look at him, he was so bright. It was like staring straight into the sun (except with a far better payoff). His skin, Aleister Crowley, his skin, it was gold with lovely reddish undertones and he had these dark brown moles dotted all over him, on his cheek and his neck and his chest and his arms, forming little constellations. Dozens of the things, he had. Not to mention the little dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks, and the fine blond scruff on his chin, and his fantastical, childlike blue eyes, and-

“I wouldn’t put my head on that, if I were you. The walls in here are fairly disgusting.” Baz snapped back to reality. The other boy was right, the walls were grimy and dismal, the whole place was, but it was a jail cell. It’s not like Baz was expecting five-star accommodations when they cuffed him and put him in the back of the cop car.

“I’m waiting on that story,” Baz said, barely a whisper. The boy seemed startled, because he straightened his back immediately and a slight flush came to his cheeks.

“It’s not much of one. Yours would probably be more interesting. You look like the type to be sitting in a jail cell. By any chance do you have a pack of fags and a pocket knife with a skull on it in your pocket? Or maybe you ride a motorcycle? I could see that.”

“Nope. I hate to break it to you, but it’s pretty common protocol to take away all pointy objects from people you arrest,” Baz retorted. “Bastards wouldn’t let me have the motorcycle in here either.” This got a shy smile out of the other boy, which made Baz smirk.

“How about I guess why you’re here? If I guess, then will you tell me if I’m right?” The boy replied and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands.

“Oh, no way. You already put up the only deal I’m taking. Your story for mine.”

“You go first, then.” He bit his bottom lip. Jesus. He looked like fucking Apollo or something. Seriously. Baz couldn’t think straight (no pun intended) around this guy.

“My story would pale in comparison,” Baz laughed. “And besides, you and I both know they’ve only got us in here to scare us. I mean, I’m just in for the night.”

“I’m sure that’s exactly what they were thinking when they took someone like you, who looks like he should be drinking Jack Daniels’ with his hot girlfriend at some slam poetry session, and put him with me, who looks like he just entered his first year in secondary school. I’m pretty terrifying.”

“Slam poetry? You mistake me for an artist. I’m just a mess. It’s okay, the two often get confused.”

“You didn’t deny the ‘drinking Jack Daniels with your hot girlfriend’ part, though.” Baz snorted a little bit at that.

“I don’t drink.” The boy furrowed his brow, and Baz remembered where he was and the fact that the other boy could probably smell the vodka on his breath. “Well, I don’t usually drink. Tonight was a special occasion.” He spat the word ‘special’ with a bitterness that made the other boy shudder, almost imperceptibly. He didn’t ask, but the question was written all over his face. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“So that leaves, what, the hot girlfriend? Surely someone with cheekbones like that can’t be single.” The boy grinned devilishly. Baz felt a blush rise to his cheeks.

“There’s more to life than cheekbones, my friend. People tend to be wary of boys who end up in jail cells and hotel rooms at the end of the night more than they end up at home. Something about ‘mental instability’ and whatnot. Can’t say I blame them.”

“I’m not wary of you. Not one little bit. In fact, I don’t think you’re half as frightening as you look.” Now Baz was really blushing. He could feel the blood creeping up through his neck and face like vines. “I think you wish you were.”

“You don’t know a thing about me, and for your own good, you should keep it that way.”

There was a silence. A heavy silence. It settled over the boys like a blanket, and began to lull Baz to sleep. Just as the edges of his consciousness began to go fuzzy, right at that brink between awake and asleep, his cell mate broke the silence.

“So,” he giggled. “Come here often?” Baz was starting to think this kid was a little tipsy too. And he asked him. “No,” the boy responded. “Just drunk on life. Drunk on cheekbones. A little drunk on strawberry wine.”

“So you are drunk?”

“I prefer the term ‘artificially enlightened’.” He paused. “Are you straight?”

“Depends on who’s asking.”

“I’m asking,” the boy laughed. “I’m Simon, by the way.”

“Simon,” Baz said, and Simon loved the way he said it, like he was rolling the letters off his tongue and tasting each and every one. “No. I’m about as gay as they come. And yourself?”

“I’m a little gay when I’m sober. I only admit it when I’m drunk.” Another pause. “So yeah, I guess I must be drunk.”

“A little gay?” Baz laughed. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not sure. But I’m definitely gay for boys with long black hair and navy blue cashmere sweaters. Who wear kohl eyeliner.” Simon glanced at the corner where Baz put the things they’d let him bring into the cell (not much. A jacket, a book). “And who carry around YA romance novels.”

“Well, I’m gay all the time. But I may be especially gay for boys named Simon with sleepy blue eyes and shirts with torn hems who get drunk on strawberry wine and hit on strangers in jail cells.” Baz and Simon both were grinning like idiots now. “I could be a psychopath, you know.”

“You seem like more of a sociopath to me,” Simon replied boredly. “Now, do you want to know why I’m in jail on such a lovely Tuesday night, or not?”

“Technically, it’s Wednesday morning.”

“Shut up, I’m telling a story.”


It was dark, it was cold, it was late, and Simon had nowhere to go. He had just broken up with Agatha for about the eleventh time in the past two weeks. He didn’t know why he kept going back when she obviously wasn’t into him. Probably because he knew that after every night he totally struck out, after every final exam he came this close to failing, after every single time he found himself broken down on her front porch, sobbing, she’d still be there. Because she did care about him. She really did. She just didn’t love him. Honestly, he didn’t love her either. Not even close. He wasn’t even sure how much he liked her.

And yet, there he was, dragging his ass down Main Street at one in the morning, a bit further down the 'drunk’ road than tipsy (all on strawberry wine Agatha’s mom had stashed in the cupboard- Merlin, he was such a lightweight), headed to the all-night diner for some pancakes, because why shouldn’t he be able to get pancakes at one in the morning? He was almost an adult, god damnit, and if he wanted some pancakes when he was drunk and sad (though truth be told, Simon always wanted pancakes) he could go and get some.

There were two cars in the parking lot of the diner, and it was apparent upon entrance that they both belonged to employees. Not that that was a surprise- the place was second rate in full daylight. Simon slapped some money on the countertop and watched the tired-looking cashier eye him suspiciously. “Pancakes,” he mumbled, and took a seat, laying his head down on the questionably cleaned booth table.

About ten minutes later, his pancakes came, steaming hot. Simon dug in the second they got handed to him, burning his mouth. He didn’t even bother to put the butter or syrup on them. The waitress gave him a strange look (in all fairness, he was eating like a rabid animal) but just muttered, “Enjoy your meal, sir,” and walked away.

Simon was on his last pancake when a man walked through the door with trouble on his arm.

From the back, Simon could have sworn it was Agatha. Long, corn-silk blonde hair down to her waist, impossibly long legs, wearing a pink floral dress that Simon would have bet his life belonged to his ex-girlfriend. And he didn’t know why, but that made him very angry. That she could just walk through the door an hour after their breakup with another guy, walk straight into the place that she knew belonged to Simon for his late nights when he wanted to go anywhere as long as it wasn’t anywhere important.

Looking back on it, Simon knew that it was stupid. First of all, he and Agatha had been seeing other people for weeks now. It was over, and they both knew it, and the fight they’d had that night wasn’t even a break up. It was more of a second-or-third confirmation. Also, the girl wasn’t even Agatha. But he didn’t know that until he’d already jumped up unsteadily from his chair and whirled the guy around (he had glasses, and for a split second all Simon could think was, 'you wouldn’t hit a guy with glasses, would you?’) and punched him in the jaw, hard enough to knock aforementioned glasses to the floor and shock the hell out of the poor guy and his innocent girlfriend, who turned around and was wrong, all wrong in the face. And then Simon realized his mistake.


“After that, I only remember bits and pieces,” Simon finished his story. “Like rolling around on the ground with this scrawny five-foot-five nerd who was actually kind of kicking my ass. Oh, and trying to flirt with that cop. That was a bad idea.”

“So, do you flirt with every guy and girl you find remotely attractive? Or am I even just an inkling of special?”

“Oh, no, the cop wasn’t attractive. I’m just an unforgivable sycophant. I’m definitely going to hell.”

“I’ll meet you there,” Baz laughed. “I guess I owe you a story, now.”

“I’d be slightly more interested if I knew your name first,” Simon replied. He was more sober now than he had been at the beginning of the conversation, but even mostly coherent, he found this boy more attractive than anyone else he’d seen before. Which was different. He knew he liked guys, to a certain extent, but the whole thing with Agatha had kind of pushed the thought to the back of his mind for a while.

“It’s a mouthful,” Baz sighed.

“I’m prepared,” Simon said, then winked at Baz, who blushed in his delicate way. He did a lot of delicate things, considering his overall appearance suggested gambling and smoking in back alleyways.

Baz cleared his throat as if in a drama performance. The gleam in his eyes told Simon that this was kind of performance to him, and Simon soon figured out why. “My name is Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch,” he paused for a thespian sweep of his hands through the air. “The third.” Simon stared, shell-shocked. “No, I’m just kidding about that last part. Not the third. The one and only. You can call me Baz.”

“I like it,” Simon complimented. “Baz sounds like exactly the kind of boy I’d never take to meet my parents. Which, of course, is exactly the kind of boy I want.” That coquettish smile again, and then a furrow of his brow. “Now, Tyrannus. Basilton. Baz,” Simon began, and Baz loved the way he said each of his names. The first one sounded like smoke, billowing from his perfect, full lips. The second evoked images of fire, flames licking roughly at the corners of paper, the pages curling up and blackening. And the last simply sent shivers down Baz’s spine. “Tell me your story.”

“How much would you be willing to bet I could tell you the whole thing in less than ten words?”

“I have no money, I spent it all on pancakes.”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of money. Bet me something worth my time. Bet me a secret.”

“Okay. I’ve got a few of those.”

“Ready?” Baz grinned. “Ten words or less.”

“I thought you said less than ten words? You know what, never mind. Starting….. now.” Simon cued, and Baz began. He quickly counted up on his fingers, then began to speak.

“Father. Homophobe. Snuck out. Party. Drunk. Tried to drive. DUI.”

“Wait, how old are you?” Simon asked, forgetting about the bet.

“Seventeen. But you owe me a secret.”

“Can the secret be that I’m seventeen, too?”

“Absolutely not!” Baz exclaimed. “Just because I don’t know it doesn’t mean it’s a secret. I’ve known you two hours. There’s a lot I don’t know.”

“So, arguably, that means everything about me is a secret to you,” Simon drawled. “And, also, I’d like to argue that DUI is four words.”

Baz raised an eyebrow in confusion. “Write it down. It’s one.”

“But it’s an acronym,” Simon said, a slight whine in his voice. “Driving under the influence. That’s four. And that means, more than ten words.”

“Okay, Grammar Genius,” Baz acquiesced. “How about we tell each other a secret? A compromise, if you will.” Simon considered, then agreed. “Alright,” said Baz. “You start.”

“Here’s my secret- I’ve seen you before. A lot,” Simon whispered, a little embarrassed. Baz raised his eyebrow higher.

“I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”

“For the past few months… Okay, take this in the least stalker-like way humanly possible, okay?” Baz laughed and nodded.“I’ve been following you, just a little. Mostly at the library. You’re there a lot. Saturday afternoons. Sunday mornings. Sometimes Wednesdays just after school gets out.” Simon paused, gauging Baz’s reaction, but the other boys face was impossible to read. “After school gets out for me, at least. And you want to know what?”

“Sure,” Baz said, in such an offhanded manner that Simon seriously wondered if he even cared. If he should be telling him, if it would mean anything.

“You’re like… Seventy five percent of the reason I broke up with Agatha for the first time. Because I wanted to ask you out. But.. It just never worked out that way.” Simon’s voice dropped to a low, lonely-sounding timbre. “And so, when I couldn’t ask you out, I went back to her. Over and over and over. But I kept trying. I just never tried hard enough.”

“Are you trying now?” Baz asked.

“I’m beyond trying. Right now, I’m needing.”


For the past two months, Simon had been trying to work up the courage to speak to the gorgeous, ethereal boy reading Pride and Prejudice. Whenever Simon went to the library to study, he was there-until Simon stopped going to the library just to study. Now he went when he didn’t have to study and sat among the books, waiting for him to show up, watching the hundreds of novels around him collect dust. He could feel the burning glare of the librarians as he sat in their comfiest chair in the corner and stared, never cracking a single book. He wasn’t much of a reader. But the dagger eyes were more than worth being able to look at that fantastically beautiful boy.

Whenever he stepped into the room, Simon felt like all the air had been sucked from his chest. His eyes were light grey-green and intense, but drooping some days, like he hadn’t gotten enough sleep. His skin was a flawless expanse of brown against the blackness of his hair, which nearly reached his shoulders. He was tall, so tall, definitely over six feet, and he always had earphones in with his music just loud enough that Simon could hear it from across the room, but could never distinguish what it was. Simon suspected that it was punk rock, or maybe something dark, funky, maybe alternative.

He never studied. He always sat down with a different book (almost always some sort of romance) and just read for an hour or two. Simon was always in the same corner, pretending to read the same book (it was Huckleberry Finn and he’d never read a single sentence, just stared blankly at the cover and glanced up frequently at the boy across from him).

Simon always kept as out of sight as possible. He didn’t think they’d made eye contact before. But today, it was all going to change. He and Agatha has gotten into a huge, stupid fight (something about Simon being 'distant’ and ’ hard to communicate with’), and they were done. Now was his chance. It was Saturday, two o clock, and in fifteen minutes, the boy should be walking through the doors.

It was 2:15. Simon held his breath as the grandfather clock in the corner, old and slightly mangled, ticked down the seconds.

2:16. Nothing. Simon tried not to get worked up about it. The boy was always punctual, 2:15 on the dot, but hey, everyone was late once in a while, right? Nobody was perfect (though the dark-haired boy seemed to be as close as one could get, physically at least). Simon took a few deep breaths. He’d be here. He’d been here every single Saturday at 2:15 for eight weeks.

As the clock neared 2:20, Simon began to work up a nervous sweat.

What if he was in an accident? What if he’d moved to some foreign country? What if he’d eloped with his hot celebrity boyfriend (or worse, his hot celebrity girlfriend) and was never coming back?

By 2:30, Simon was drained and he’d given up. He packed up and went home.


Baz was laughing. “What?” Simon asked defensively, cheeks a tad flushed.

“I was visiting my aunt in Prague,” he giggled. Simon almost smiled at him. He didn’t seem like much of a giggler just by looking at him, but here he was, giggling like a little girl. “I wasn’t running off with my celebrity girlfriend to drink Jack Daniels at poetry slams.” His laughter intensified.

“I tried a few times, after that, but I would always chicken out. Once, I got five feet from you, but then I spilled coffee all down my shirt and I ran away.” Simon chuckled, then looked at Baz. “Now, it’s your turn.”

“My secret?” Simon nodded eagerly. “Okay. I’d like to go on a date with you.” Simon beamed.

“I don’t know if that counts, but I’m willing to let it slide.”

Baz laughed again, a twinkle in his eye that hadn’t been there before. He admitted to himself that Simon wasn’t the kind of boy he’d imagined himself ending up with- messy, youthful, jittery. He looked like he’d been tossed up by the wind and blown far from where he belonged, and also like he didn’t really belong anywhere. But Baz didn’t belong anywhere either.

Maybe they belonged together.