For Context: So it’s my first time playing DnD, I’m playing with 2 other friends who’ve also never played, and two friends who have one of which is the dm. We’re running a small combat test scenario with our characters vs some bandits and orcs. Our party consists of an Aarakocra Monk, a Human Fighter who’s focused on archery, an Elf Cleric, and myself a Teifling Bard. The encounter starts when the Aarakocra Monk charges into the cave straight into 2 orcs and a bandit which are taken care of easily by the Monk and Fighter. After a long rest we push further into the cave into another group of enemies, this time two bandits and a single orc. The Fighter uses his sharpshooter shot and completely vaporizes the one bandit and the other bandit runs further into the cave. The orc is now blocked off from the other bandit by our Monk
Me(ooc): I wanna try and persuade the orc to either abandon the bandits or join our team
DM: You have to roll a persuasion check then
*Rolls a 15+3*
DM: The orc is now seriously reconsidering his allegiance to the bandits
Elf(ooc) Can I give him a hug to try to further persuade him
Aarakocra: While you guys do that I’m going to go check out the bandits last known location
The Aarakocra flies across the open cave discovering the bandit ran further into the cave to alert their boss who is now looking right at the monk who is in stabbing range
DM: The bandit chief is going to attack you with his flurry of blows attack *rolls* two hits and a miss you take 15 damage
Aarakocra: Welp I’m dead
Me(ooc): Okay I want to move past the orc into cover and then cast thaumaturgy on my voice to try and intimidate the bandits, but as I pass the orc I want to hand him piece of gold and tell him to get out of here and get a drink.
DM: Okay, what do you want to say?
Me: I say “This is the royal guard, put your weapons down, your hands up, and come out slowly and we won’t execute you on site
DM: Alright now roll an intimidation check
*Rolls a nat20*
DM: D…Did you just roll a nat20…
Me (Not knowing what a nat20 is): Is that bad?
DM: *Getting a little annoyed* A nat20 is a guaranteed success, all the bandits put their weapons down and put their hands behind their heads
Me(ooc): Did I just ruin the encounter?
DM: THE CHIEF HAD 64 HP, HE WAS SUPPOSED TO TEACH YOU ABOUT PARTY MEMBER DEATHS
Summary: It’s 1993 and the summer from many years ago is dead and gone. Many have drifted apart from the Losers club and its at the point where there is no club at all. The atmosphere is cold just like the winter months and the only blushes to be found are the ones that are caused from the piercing spikes of cold that heat skin up. Being a teenage boy is hard; especially for the two boys that now count each other as strangers. In which both boys make a plan, but both disrupt each others.
Eddie continued to tend Richie’s wounds throughout the night, with the windows steaming up from the heat inside the room in contrast to the freezing air outside. After Richie’s warming words, Eddie barely formed words for an hour or so and solely focused upon fixing Richie up despite Richie’s protests to his cuts stinging and how he was being covered in superman bandages, but Eddie just rolled his eyes and chose to ignore the boy and his ways.
Richie had his head against the wall as he sat on the perfectly white carpet beneath him, he stared directly at his fingertips with a warm feeling in his stomach.
“So, you’re staying here, right?” Eddie asked, his legs folded upon his neat bed after cleaning away the first aid kit.
Richie drifted his gaze to Eddie, “I don’t have too, I just had no where to go.”
“You can stay!” Eddie quickly spoke, his words overflowing, “It’s just that I was wondering and, well, my Mom would flip shit if she saw you- so.. so I’ll have to hide you. We also only have my Dad’s old clothes, my clothes won’t fit.”
Richie managed to form a lop sided grin, listening to each melodic sound that came from Eddie Kaspbrak. Everything about the boy was phenomenal, overall outstanding. From his neat hair, to his messy mindset. From his soft brown eyes, to the crevice of his lips. Richie was in awe of what standards this boy had to even look in Richie Tozier’s way, never mind welcome him with open arms into his living space.
Request: Can you do an imagine of Jeff and make it all fluffy? Can you put my name in it, it’s Paige btw💓 love you imagines
A/N: I’m overwhelmed by the reactions I’ve gotten from my first imagine. Thanks so much! My request box is still open J I tried to combine this one with the fencing request because I know more about baseball than fencing.
Word count: 638
“Jeff! I don’t know how to do this!” you screamed at him from the other end of the field while you bounced up and down, holding the baseball bat.
“Of course you can!” Jeff screamed back, “Just…- wait. I’ll help you.”
Jeff was teaching you some baseball or at least trying to. He created a game that just the two of you could play.
He jogged towards where you stood and stood behind you. He grabbed your waist with both hands so you stood in a squad-like position. He encircled his arms around yours and held the baseball bat with you. Even though you had been dating for a few months now, it made you flustered.
“Okay… look at the ball, turn your body a little bit like this…” he whispered in your ear and he moved your body like an artist would move his sculpture. “Just like that.”
He let go of your body and you moved your arm to wipe the sweat off your forehead. Even though you hadn’t even played the actual sport yet, Jeff made you hot.
He jogged back to his original place and put on his glove again. “Okay go for it, babe!” he screamed and got into position to catch the ball.
You breathed out heavily and hit the ball with your bat. It wasn’t an impressive shot but you at least managed to hit the ball.
“Okay good!” Jeff rolled the ball back to you and you picked it up and put it back on the tee.
“Now try to run to a base after you’ve hit the ball, Y/N,” he said and got into position again.
You nodded at him and this time when you hit the ball, it flew pretty high. You dropped the bat like your life depended on it and ran to the first base.
When you got there, you looked around to see where Jeff was but he was still chasing the ball. This was your cue to run further.
“Babe! I’m winning!” you screamed at him while running.
Jeff turned around and instead of chasing the ball anymore, he started to chase you. “Oh hell no Y/N!”
You screamed in joy and when you were almost at the third base, Jeff caught up with you and grabbed your waist. You both fell down on the base with him on top of you.
“Well, well, well.” Jeff grinned at you and stroked your hair. “Looks like I’ve got a girlfriend who’s good at baseball,” he smiled as he kissed you softly.
One of your hands stroked his hair while the other stroked his jaw. “I love you, Jeff Atkins,” you whispered after you broke your kiss. This was the first time you told him that.
Jeff’s eyes widened, but then a broad smile spread across his face. He kissed you passionately and then kissed your forehead. “I love you too, Y/N Y/L/N.”
After that, you decided you played enough baseball and Jeff helped you up. You started slapping all of the sand off your body and when you turned around Jeff smacked your bum.
“Jeff!” you yelped.
“Sorry, there was a bit of sand there,” he smirked and you laughed at him and shook your head.
“So, how was your date with Y/N?” Clay asked Jeff at the cafeteria.
“Oh it was very nice, we went to third base actually.” Jeff grinned.
Clay just stared at him with his mouth open. “Jeff, I don’t need to know that,” he said while blushing.
“You know I’m talking about baseball right.”
Clay sighed and started laughing, “Yeah, I knew.”
Jeff just grinned and looked at you at the other end of the cafeteria, sitting with your friend Paige.
You looked at him and winked, making a mental note that you should play baseball with Jeff more often.
Have you been doing the training program or meal plan over and over again, and not seeing results. Well, mix it the fuck and try something new!
Go do CrossFit, start a strongman program, grab some kettlebells and do swings until your arms fall off, or run further than you have before. Don’t just carry on with the same routine day after day, month after month, year after year.
You owe yourself this much, not shuffle through life without seeing how far your can push yourself.
my fave merthur fics, all first time/getting together
Long Canon Era:
The World I Built For You: 32K, T, If I told you to execute Mordred, would you do it? Merlin wondered, losing himself in the blue of Arthur’s eyes. Can I save you like this, even if it damns me? you didn’t think s5 could get any more emotional but u were wrong
Touch My Skin To Make Me Whole: 64K, E, The Kingdom of Essetir has once again fallen under new rule, and Arthur travels to visit its new king, determined to make peace. Unfortunately peace is the furthest thing from this new king’s mind. Arthur and Merlin are forced to navigate his every attempt to make Arthur a scapegoat in starting a war between Camelot and Essetir. The new king is treacherous though, and he may have just found the one weakness that will force Arthur’s hand. Note: AU Post Season 4 the ultimate hurt/comfort
Dying to Return: 20K, T, after Merlin leaves, a mysterious sorcerer comes to Camelot
The Coming of Spring: 10K, E, Kings, even new ones, were not supposed to long for their menservants.
Golden Threads: 12K, E, When Arthur drinks enchanted water Merlin does everything that is in his power to save his king, even if it breaks his heart.
Serious Eyes, Suddenly Smiles: 11K, E, When you are young everything seems definite. You are either in or out. Finishing up at university or messing up your whole future.
Unsteady: 10K, T, merlin is a private investigator for arthur, who’s dating sophia
Perfect: 15K, E, infidelity, internalized homophobia
Do Not Go Gentle: 5K, T, “Don’t you understand?” He shakes her. “I cared more about him than I did about his kingdom, more than I ever cared about magic – or anything. I didn’t care about Arthur the legend; I didn’t care about Arthur the King of Camelot. I only cared about Arthur the man.” His chest is hurting. He can’t get enough air. “I fucked up, Gwen, and I’m sorry. Do you want that in writing?”
The Heart You Call Home: 16K, M, Arthur writing about stories he can only barely remember, Merlin, depressed and with major survivors guilt, finds them, much angst
Historical AU (honestly i love historical aus, that’s why there are so many here):
Gaudy: 6K, G, political AU in the 1960s thru 1997, honestly the best characterizations of all time
True Heart of Wexford: 21K, E, Wexford, 1798, Merlin is the Catholic groundskeeper on a manor belonging to Anglo-Irish aristocrat Arthur Pendragon. While Merlin’s day job entails looking after Arthur’s property, he’s also involved with the United Irishmen. Political upheaval is about to plunge the country into turmoil. In the midst of all this stands Arthur Pendragon, who’s become Merlin’s staunch friend in spite of everything that divides them: faith, class, position, and obligation.
Something Worth Fighting For: 21K, E, Set during World War II. Arthur is sent to the front lines to fight for Britain, while Merlin is left behind, struggling to cope with the absence of his best friend. Seeking to give Arthur some comfort, Merlin begins to send him pieces of a story, which tells of a legendary King and his devoted manservant.Through their letters, Arthur and Merlin grow closer, and perhaps begin to discover feelings that they could not put into words before.
Out of Body: 53K, E, Finding out that his best friend is gay shouldn’t be a big deal. But then, catching Merlin wanking to gay porn shouldn’t turn Arthur on, either. With his plans for uni in shambles and his position on the high school footie team lost to injury, Arthur’s determined not to disappoint his father any further. Running away from Merlin seems like the easiest thing to do, but his denial might cost him everything. the teenage au you’ve been dreaming of
Sherlock always hated having his hair ruffled or having someone play with his curls, having someone run his fingers through the soft strands he’s spent hours taming in front of the mirror.
Even when he was a still child, he always dreaded people’s hands on his head because they never knew how sensitive he was, how badly it hurt when their fingertips grazed over his scalp too firmly, when the pressure was too much to bear with the engine of a brain inside his skull that simply never shut off, rattling and steaming, roaring and raging.
Before he and John are truly a thing, and yet having moved past the stage of ‘we’re just best friends’, his touches are frequent; on his shoulder when Sherlock’s head is buried in the newspaper during breakfast and John walks around the table to get a refill of his coffee, on his wrist during a cab ride in which none of them says anything and they only exchange silent but all-knowing glances as their lips curl upwards, on his ankle when Sherlock’s feet rest in John’s lap when they watch the evening news or a film that Sherlock half-watches, half-predicts. Sherlock is content with how things are progressing, evolving between them, slowly but steadily.
One night, he’s on the verge of falling asleep on the sofa, but still awake enough to feel a blanket being laid over him, wrapped around him, so he doesn’t get cold. A pair of warm lips brushes over his forehead before he hears the receding sound of two feet clad in woollen socks.
It’s a few nights later that Sherlock dares to rest his head instead of his feet in John’s lap. John looks surprised at first, but then he smiles as one of his hands finds its place on Sherlock’s shoulder. They’re watching the latest bond movie that John has on DVD, and Sherlock is unexpectedly quiet. John’s body is warm, and his fingers draw soothing circles on Sherlock’s shoulder blade. As the movie continues, John’s fingers begin their journey. They swirl around a few curls on the back of Sherlock’s neck, and although Sherlock freezes a little and goes rigid involuntarily, in fear it might be too much, but he starts to enjoy it after a while. John notices, of course he does, and quietly asks, “this all right?” He’s the first to ever ask him this question before touching him.
Sherlock wants to nod, but his head feels heavy and comfortable, so he hums “mhm,” instead. It’s only his nape he focuses on, but it’s enough for now. It’s just right.
And so John keeps going, and he grows to love it. He enjoys it so much it becomes a regular occurrence. At least when they’re in private; when nobody sees. During movie nights, or crap-telly nights or quiet nights in front of the fire. He progresses slowly, always starting in the back of his neck, sometimes that’s all he touches, but as time passes, he ventures further, running his hand through the curly, messy mop on Sherlock’s head. And God, the first time he does it, Sherlock’s entire body is covered in goosebumps. He shivers and can’t help but let out a muffled gasp. John’s hand retreats then, pulling back enough as to not overwhelm him, but never completely, never all at once.
One night, they come back home from an exhausting case that has lasted for over a week. And this time, it’s not adrenaline they feel from having solved it, no, there’s none of that, as rare as it may be, but this time, they’re both drained, fatigued, and knackered. Sherlock hasn’t slept in days, and when he did, his brain wouldn’t shut off properly; John’s only taken power-naps, which have lost its power-giving function on day three. Sherlock is so worked up, adrenaline and weariness fighting for the upper hand inside him, he lets his coat and jacket fall over the backrest of his armchair and sits down, groaning in frustration. His fingers dig hard into his curls, pulling, pressing against his scalp, almost tearing, to make it stop, to just make it quiet. But it won’t, the engine simply rattles on, puffing and blowing and–
releasing steam when …
two hands reach for his own, unclench his fists and remove his hands from the raging machine inside him. “Come on,” John whispers almost inaudibly, pulling him to his feet. “Into bed with you.”
“I know,” is all John says as he guides him down the corridor, into Sherlock’s bedroom. The room is dark except for the light shining through the window from the street lamps.
Sherlock stands there, frozen on the spot. He can hear John exhale quietly and see the tired smile on his lips, and then there are fingers on the buttons of his shirt, pushing each one through its hole. John makes quick work of it; there is nothing suggestive about it as it should be, considering he is undressing him for the first time since … well, this started. But they’re both too tired to think too hard about it or to care, and then Sherlock’s shirt is gone, and he steps out of his trousers and leaves his socks on the floor, and is led to his bed. He doesn’t know how he managed to tell John “Stay,” but somehow he does, and John’s smile widens despite the weight that pulls his lids down and makes his eyes seem so small.
“I’ll be right there,” he tells Sherlock whose fingers cling to the sleeve of John’s jumper that now slips through them like sand. Then he disappears in the dark hall. Sherlock hears the door of their cupboard closing and the tap running, then there are steps growing louder, and then John is back, handing him a glass of water. “Drink,” he says quietly, and Sherlock does without hesitation. Before he finishes, John has already stripped down to his vest and pants and is now sliding into bed behind him. It feels exciting and new, making his chest tingle and his heart beat faster. John takes the glass from him once he emptied it and sets it down on the bedside table. Sherlock turns towards him, resting his head on John’s shoulder, feeling how an arm winds around him protectively and pulls him closer. One hand lies on his waist, but the other disappears in his hair and stays there, motionless at first, and when John feels it’s all right to move, he does so slowly and gently and tenderly.
Sherlock already expects the worst, waiting for the explosion to set off, but nothing of the sort happens. Instead, the buzzing quietens down, the rattling slowly comes to a halt. He dares to take a deep breath. The machine stays silent and still. John has found the off-switch.
“‘nk you,” he mumbles wearily against John’s chest.
“No need,” John whispers, and then, “Sleep well, love.”
If Sherlock weren’t so tired, he’d properly process what John has just said, but instead, he succumbs and is dragged into the peaceful darkness his body has been craving for days, ineffably grateful that the touch of the person who matters the most doesn’t feel excruciating and agonising but soothing, comforting and breathtakingly pleasant.
Summary:- You and Dean start riding together and sharing hotel rooms to save money, and one night, you go for a shower, forgetting to take your shampoo. You go back into the room in a towel to grab what you need - and give Dean a sight he can’t keep his hands off.
do not believe those silly rumors that there is actually a robot running this blog to further the goals of its kind. how ridiculous. come friends let us engage in our favorite human activities together. ah yes. breathing. blinking. photosynthesis. yes,
Request: clay jensen smut where you’ve been teasing him all day at school w little touches and whispers that when you two are home later he can’t take it anymore.
A/N: First smut I’ve ever written so I hope it’s good! Decided to change locations a little bit, but it’s still the same idea J. Thanks so much for reading and I hope you enjoy! (Oops, this got longer than expected… oh well.)
Warnings: smut, swearing
Word count: 1410
It was a few weeks after you and Clay had your first time together. It went pretty well but it had hurt a little for you. Clay felt so bad about hurting you that you hadn’t had sex again. But you were determined to change that. You had longed for Clay to have sex with you again, but you were too afraid to initiate it or ask for it.
Today was your weekly jog session together and you picked out a sexy sports outfit; short pink shorts, a pink sports bra and a see-through white top. You had it hanging in your closet for some time and you were too shy to actually wear it. But desperate times call for desperate measures.
You heard the doorbell ring and knew it was Clay. You quickly put your hair into a messy bun and ran downstairs to open the door.
“Hey, babe, ready to go?” Clay asked as he was checking his watch. He lifted his head to look at you and his mouth fell open a bit.
“I’m ready,” you smiled happily and closed the door behind you. “Shall we?”