-Read on here

@bleebug. A little extension of the pancake moment. And for @spartanguard for chest hair comments. Because.  And for: @this-too-too-sullied-flesh on her birthday.

Rating: M

He really doesn’t care.

The Charmings have dragged them all throughout town for the past few weeks and pestered him with questions he seldom had an answer to. What kind of flowers did he like? What was his favourite cake flavour? What colour did he want to wear? (Okay, that one he had cared, but he thought the answer of black was bloody obvious.) Who did he want to invite?

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The moderator team of @victuuri-week is happy to announce NSFW Victuuri Week - a week long event celebrating the more adult side of Yuuri and Victor’s love. From sweet to spicy, we’ll have prompts to ramp up the Eros for an event full of scintillating art, fic, graphics, and all creative ventures in between!

Please follow us at @nsfw-victuuri-week for updates as they come, including prompt announcements once they are finalized!

-Mod Team

anonymous asked:

is having a ginormous fat peen a deal breaker for you? yano cuz u short

Anonymous looked up at the sky, not trusting the colour smeared upon the horizon. Horizons could be misleading, they knew. Horizons could convince you it was still daylight, even when the whole of the sky arced above you in a sprawl of midnight. Looking forward was not always enough. Sometimes, you had to look up. 

Directly above Anonymous, the moon cut its teeth into the clouds, drawing blood and bruising the darkness with its waxen light, waning at the edges. It was time. 

They did not have long. The witch had told them, as she reluctantly handed them the bag of herbs, that the spell would only be useful for the minute or so that the moon was at its highest. The minute was upon them. 

Fifty five seconds left. 

Cursing themself for having lost track of time, Anonymous reached into their trouser pocket and pulled out the little drawstring bag. With hands shaking in anticipation, they emptied the contents into the small well they’d dug into the earth all those hours ago, and covered it back over with dirt. Fingers crossed behind their back, they stepped away and waited.

It did not happen immediately. Magic takes time, the witch had said. Magic does not come to you when you ask for it; it comes to you when it’s good and ready. You can cast all the spells you like, scatter all the herbs and make all the offerings, but magic cannot be summoned - only tempted. 

The seconds ticked by, and Anonymous waited.

This had been a long time coming, they reflected. They had waited too long for the taste of power on their lips. They had been too long distant from how it felt to be in control. They had learnt too early their place in the world, and they had too soon come to rue it. The chasm between want and have had grown inexorably bigger since the day they were born, and now they were here. 

The mound of earth did not move. Anonymous thought about the time they had first felt insignificant - the first time they had realised that they stood small in the face of all things - and counted the seconds. 

With ten seconds left before the spell died, the magic came. 

Magic has no face, has no body. It takes no form and it holds no weight. The witch had told Anonymous this herself. Magic simply is; it is because no other word will do, but it is not. It cannot be, and has never been, and yet it is. 

When Anonymous thought about it, it was all rather complicated.

Best, then, not to think at all. Best to give voice to thought and make it speech. 

Anonymous cleared their throat and began. 

“I suppose you’re wondering why I summoned you here - ” 

I was not summoned. 

They flushed, the soundless sound surprising them even though they had been expecting it. Do not fear the voiceless voice, the witch had warned. It speaks, and is silent. The words are only half your own. 

Breathing slowly, they tried again. 

“No, of course not. Sorry. I’m not - I haven’t used magic before.” 

And you still have not. I am not here to be used. Say what you would have, and I will do the same. This is not a service. This is a trade.

“Right. Yes. Sorry.” They inhaled, exhaled. This was the only chance they would have to resolve the conflict that had been the shape of all their life. This was the resolution of aporia; of feeling as though they deserved everything, yet having nothing. Of knowing that they should be free, but being everywhere in chains. Of wanting, and of not having. “I want to feel powerful.” 

In what sense? Power is not all-encompassing. The queen ant is powerful to the workers, but weak to the heel of the boot. What power would you hold? Do you seek to command nations, or to master the arts, or to take another as your own? 

Anonymous considered how best to formulate their response before replying. Precision was key here. The witch had made it clear that magic would grant you what you asked, whether or not it was exactly what you wanted. 

“I’m tired of being silent,” they said eventually. “I’m tired of being unable to say whatever I want. I’m sick to the teeth of thinking all these thoughts - great thoughts, too; thoughts that could topple cities and part seas - and being forced to keep them to myself, all because other people think that their own feelings are more important. Well, what of my feelings? What of feeling inadequate? What of the weight of being told to keep silent? Do they know what that does to a person?”

As they spoke, they could feel their heartbeat rise, pumping and roaring in their ears, in their veins. “Sorry,” they added. “I’m getting carried away. But to answer your question - I want to have the power to speak my mind.”

In all things?

They contemplated it. “Yes. In all things.”

The silence was real for a few moments before it became illusion.

I can help you.

“And will you?” 

Yes. It will require exchange, however.

At these words, Anonymous could hardly contain their excitement. “Anything. I’ll give you anything.” They took their purse out from their other pocket, and held it out towards the mound. “I have money. I have a house, too, but that’s back in town. You mightn’t like it there. My neighbours - ”

I would have your face.

Anonymous faltered. “My what?”

Your face. That is my offer. I will give you unlimited and unprecedented power to speak your mind. All thoughts you have will be given voice, and you will never again be forced to turn away from speaking aloud what you have always been taught to keep silent. In return for this extraordinary power, I would take from you your face, and in so doing I would give myself form and body. You would never again be silent; I would never again be invisible. 

“But wouldn’t I suffer without a face? How would anyone know that it was me who was speaking?” Anonymous asked, wringing their hands around their purse. 

I have named my payment. Now I would name my price. The price of this power is thus: the knowledge that all thoughts you give voice to will be dampened by your lack of face. That everything you ever say to another will be tempered by your lack of identity. That no-one will again know whose thoughts you speak; only that you do speak, and in all things. 

There was nothing for it. They would have to decline. They could not accept these terms. What power came at such a price, after all? What king had ever ruled his country with no name or face? What lover had ever made another theirs with no identity? 

All the times they had been asked to hold their tongue; all the times they had been scolded for speaking their mind; all the times they had uttered the wrong words at the wrong time and had suffered for it: all this had been for nothing. 

Although, Anonymous admitted to themself, the thought did appeal on one front, and one front alone. It was undeniable that a certain freedom was gained by completely giving up one’s identity. After all, who could be held accountable for a deed when the deed was done by one with neither name nor face? Who would they scold when the words that were given were not the words that were wanted? Who would suffer when the things said were not things that people wanted to hear?

Only those who heard them, of course, and not the one who spoke them. 

And immediately, ashamedly, wonderfully, the decision was already made, had perhaps been made years ago. 

“It’s a deal.” 

You agree to the payment and price?

“I do. Take my face, and give me the power I seek.”

The deal is struck.

And then the moon, which had begun to falter at its peak, was suddenly once more at its highest. The minutes had been returned. 

Hand trembling, Anonymous reached up to touch their face, only to find that, of course, there was no face. Where their image had been - the folds of their mouth, the curve of their nose - was now smooth and featureless. There was nothing there at all.

“Are you happy?” came a voice from behind them. 

Anonymous whirled around, and came face to face with their own face, worn by another. “Who are you?” they asked, and a thrill chased up their spine at the realisation that there was no fear behind these words at all. Their voice did not falter. The question was biting, crystalline.

“I am Magic,” replied the impostor, “given form by our deal. Is it to your satisfaction?” It cocked its head inquisitively, Anonymous’ old eyes seeking validation in their new setting, and Anonymous felt powerful. They were looking at their old self - their weaker, voiceless self - and they were free.

Anonymous drew a deep breath in before responding. “is having a ginormous fat peen a deal breaker for you?” they asked.

Magic blinked. “I don’t understand.” 

“yano,” continued Anonymous, “cuz u short.”

“Why are you saying that?” asked Magic, eyes darting left to right in placid uncertainty. “I don’t understand. I gave you what you wanted. You could say anything you wanted, and no-one would ever hold you accountable. You could take a lover with intricately crafted sonnets, bend ears with your scintillating rhetoric, and yet you choose - ”

“is having a ginormous fat peen a deal breaker for you? yano cuz u short,” interjected Anonymous, feeling giddy and drunk with power.

Magic blinked again. “You have the choice of a thousand languages, billions of words - ”

“is having a ginormous fat peen - ”

“Sometimes,” Magic interrupted, “silence is the more powerful weapon after all. I could undo what I have done, but I think it best not to bother. Some people will never learn. I wish you luck with all things, and may you one day find your power useful, for it will not aid you in the pursuit you have chosen.”

With that, Magic was gone, and Anonymous’ face was lost to them forever. Now alone, Anonymous looked gleefully at the small mound of earth that had been their salvation. They thought of all the things they would say tomorrow, and they smiled.

At least, they would have smiled, had they been able.

Far away, Magic rolled its new eyes, and decided to write a sonnet. 

Just Friends

Requests: (1) Could you do a Draco imagine that consists of Cedric Diggory, Draco getting jealous, feels, conflict, and a load of jealousy?;

(2) Could you do an imagine where Draco and the reader are best friends and lowkey in love with each other but refuse to admit it, and progressively Draco starts making, erm, suggestive, comments to the reader and there’s just lots of sexual tension and eventually they get together?

⇢  A Draco x Reader work featuring a very jealous and steamy Draco.

Draco took a sip from his goblet, peering over the rim as you walked into The Great Hall with a handsome Hufflepuff by your side. Not that it bothered him, of course. In fact, Draco would say he hardly even noticed.

“You alright, mate?”

“Just fine. Why do you ask?”

Zabini shrugged. “Your nose has been inside your goblet for some time now. Trying to drown yourself, Malfoy?”

“Of course not.” Draco lowered the goblet from his face, never once taking his eyes off you. You were still talking to that boy.

Blaise followed Draco’s gaze and smirked. “Tell me, Draco, where’s that best friend of yours? She usually would have dropped by for her daily chat by now.” He watched as Draco’s jaw clenched ever so slightly. “Oh– I see her. She’s preoccupied by that Hufflepuff. Diggory, is it?”

“I don’t know. And I couldn’t care less, really.”

“Didn’t you two agree to attend the Yule Ball together?” A look of mock realization dawned on Zabini’s face. “Oh, that’s right. You two agreed to go only as friends. And now she’s chatting up the Triwizard Champion while you’re here dateless.”

“Appears so.” Draco remained impassive. “But at least I have an excuse for not bringing a date. Can you say the same?”

Zabini sobered as he took in Draco’s expressionless tone. Zabini may have been a tosser, but he knew when to stop. “You really like her, don’t you?”

Draco heaved a sigh, rubbing his temple and finally turning to face Blaise. “Is it obvious?”

“Only to someone with a brain.” Blaise paused. “Which explains why Y/N hasn’t caught on yet.”

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6: “Marry me” (part 2 from the 5/6 request, also andreil!)

It takes 4 months and 2 weeks to organize Matt’s proposal to Dan. 

Neil knows because he’s been pretending to understand most of what Matt says to him for 4 months and 2 weeks.

It’s not that he’s not happy for them, it’s just that being told to celebrate love feels like being told to celebrate the way the world turns, or the gravity that continues to pin us like the bar on a rollercoaster seat. Neil celebrates love by staying alive to see it. He celebrates it by keeping it.

He looks at prospective rings and says they’re fine over and over again. He dutifully tells Dan nothing even when she asks outright. He answers the phone when Matt calls him in a panic at midnight and says “what if she says no” so many times that Neil hands the phone to Nicky.

It does make him think though, about Andrew. Without meaning to.

He doesn’t think of it as marriage in his head (to Neil, marriage has always been something that swallows you like quick sand). Tying himself to Andrew though — having something legally binding like Neil Josten on his documents, like their names on the lease, like his contract with his team — that means something to Neil.

Being with Andrew is the thrill of being in the game, but having it on paper would be like points blinking onto a scoreboard. He knows he’s scoring now, but he wants the crowd to know too. He wants this win to stick.

He doesn’t mention it because it doesn’t matter, ultimately. Neil doesn’t need other people to tell him that they love each other.

Andrew scoops Sir off Neil’s lap and smuggles him to his side of the couch. He pours one bowl of sugar crisp and one bowl of granola in the morning. He catches Neil’s sleeve before he goes for a run and uses every ounce of 5 AM energy he has to hold Neil’s eyes. Neil knows how he feels.

But he really does support Matt and Dan, separate from the way he’s scared of hospital rooms he won’t be allowed into or the box on a form that labels them ‘roommates’ like that’s anywhere close to enough.

The engagement lines up with a weekend that all the original foxes are scheduled to meet up on, scraped together by Matt’s meticulous hands and Nicky’s constant phone calls.

Andrew isn’t interested in going, but Neil asks, so. They’re the first ones there.

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The Goiânia accident

The Goiânia accident was a radioactive contamination accident that occurred on September 13, 1987, at Goiânia, in the Brazilian state of Goiás, after an old radiotherapy source was stolen from an abandoned hospital site in the city. It was subsequently handled by many people, resulting in four deaths. About 112,000 people were examined for radioactive contamination and 249 were found to have significant levels of radioactive material in or on their bodies.

In the cleanup operation, topsoil had to be removed from several sites, and several houses were demolished. All the objects from within those houses were removed and examined. Time magazine has identified the accident as one of the world’s “worst nuclear disasters” and the International Atomic Energy Agency called it “one of the world’s worst radiological incidents”.

What follows in a incredible series of events motivated purely out of ignorance, childish wonder and greed, and the dire consequences this brought to the people involved and the city as a whole:

The accident began when two thieves, Roberto dos Santos Alves and Wagner Mota Pereira, broke into the abandoned and partially demolished Instituto Goiano de Radioterapia (IGR), where they came across a caesium-137-based teletherapy unit.

 They partially disassembled the unit, and placed the source assembly – which they thought might have some scrap value – in a wheelbarrow, taking it to Alves’s home, and once there, they began dismantling the equipment. That same evening, they both began to vomit. Nevertheless, they continued in their efforts. The following day, Pereira began to experience diarrhea and dizziness and his left hand began to swell. He soon developed a burn on this hand in the same size and shape as the aperture – he eventually had partial amputation of several fingers. 

On September 15, Pereira visited a local clinic where his symptoms were diagnosed as the result of something he had eaten, and he was told to return home and rest. Alves, however, continued with his efforts to dismantle the equipment. In the course of this effort, he eventually freed the caesium capsule from its protective rotating head. His prolonged exposure to the radioactive material led to his right forearm becoming ulcerated, requiring amputation.

On September 16, Alves succeeded in puncturing the capsule’s aperture window with a screwdriver, allowing him to see a deep blue light coming from the tiny opening he had created. He inserted the screwdriver and successfully scooped out some of the glowing substance. Thinking it was perhaps a type of gunpowder, he tried to light it, but the powder would not ignite.

On September 18, Alves sold the items to a nearby scrapyard. That night, Devair Alves Ferreira, the owner of the scrapyard, noticed the blue glow from the punctured capsule. Thinking the capsule’s contents were valuable or even supernatural, he immediately brought it into his house. Over the next three days, he invited friends and family to view the strange glowing substance.

On September 21 at the scrapyard, one of Ferreira’s friends succeeded in freeing several rice-sized grains of the glowing material from the capsule using a screwdriver; Alves Ferreira began to share some of them with various friends and family members. That same day, his wife, 37-year-old Gabriela Maria Ferreira, began to fall ill. On September 25, 1987, Devair Alves Ferreira sold the scrap metal to a second scrapyard.

The day before the sale to the second scrapyard, on September 24, Ivo, Devair’s brother, successfully scraped some additional dust out of the source and took it to his house a short distance away. There he spread some of it on the cement floor. His six-year-old daughter, Leide das Neves Ferreira, later ate a sandwich while sitting on this floor. She was also fascinated by the blue glow of the powder, applying it to her body and showing it off to her mother. Dust from the powder fell on the sandwich she was consuming; she eventually absorbed 1.0 GBq, total dose 6.0 Gy, more than a fatal dose even with treatment.

Gabriela Maria Ferreira had been the first to notice that many people around her had become severely ill at the same time.

On September 28, 1987 — 15 days after the item was found — she reclaimed the materials from the rival scrapyard and transported them to a hospital. Because the remains of the source were kept in a plastic bag, the level of contamination at the hospital was low.

In the morning of September 29, 1987 a visiting medical physicist used a scintillation counter to confirm the presence of radioactivity and persuaded the authorities to take immediate action. The city, state, and national governments were all aware of the incident by the end of the day.

News of the radiation incident was broadcast on local, national, and international media. Within days, nearly 130,000 people swarmed local hospitals concerned that they might have been exposed. Of those, 250 were indeed found to be contaminated— some with radioactive residue still on their skin— through the use of Geiger counters. Eventually, 20 people showed signs of radiation sickness and required treatment.

Ages in years are given, with dosages listed in grays (Gy).


  • Leide das Neves Ferreira, age 6 (6.0 Gy), was the daughter of Ivo Ferreira. When an international team arrived to treat her, she was discovered confined to an isolated room in the hospital because the hospital staff were afraid to go near her. She gradually experienced swelling in the upper body, hair loss, kidney and lung damage, and internal bleeding. She died on October 23, 1987, of “septicemia and generalized infection” at the Marcilio Dias Navy Hospital, in Rio de Janeiro. She was buried in a common cemetery in Goiânia, in a special fiberglass coffin lined with lead to prevent the spread of radiation. Despite these measures, news of her impending burial caused a riot of more than 2,000 people in the cemetery on the day of her burial, all fearing that her corpse would poison the surrounding land. Rioters tried to prevent her burial by using stones and bricks to block the cemetery roadway. She was buried despite this interference.
  • Gabriela Maria Ferreira, aged 37 (5.7 Gy), wife of junkyard owner Devair Ferreira, became sick about three days after coming into contact with the substance. Her condition worsened, and she developed internal bleeding, especially in the limbs, eyes, and digestive tract, and suffered from hair loss. She died October 23, 1987, about a month after exposure.
  • Israel Baptista dos Santos, aged 22 (4.5 Gy), was an employee of Devair Ferreira who worked on the radioactive source primarily to extract the lead. He developed serious respiratory and lymphatic complications, was eventually admitted to hospital, and died six days later on October 27, 1987.
  • Admilson Alves de Souza, aged 18 (5.3 Gy), was also an employee of Devair Ferreira who worked on the radioactive source. He developed lung damage, internal bleeding, and heart damage, and died October 18, 1987.

Devair Ferreira himself survived despite receiving 7 Gy of radiation. He died in 1994 of cirrhosis aggravated by depression and binge drinking.


Demain n'existera peut-être jamais. Tes rêves sont peut-être les rêves de quelqu'un d'autre. Tes espoirs ne sont que des désirs enfouis. Hier n'existe plus. Aujourd'hui est une chance. Ton cœur n'est pas qu'une pompe à oxygène. Tes rêves de chaque nuit ont une signification. Tu peux donner un sens à ta vie. Les livres ont quelque chose à t'apprendre. Les gens viennent et partent. Tout est éphémère. Ce que tu veux faire, tu peux le faire. Rien n'arrive par hasard. Chacun de nous a un bon et mauvais côté. Tu as le droit de faire des erreurs. Tu as le droit de tomber mais tu as le devoir de te relever. Tu ne peux pas laisser les autres diriger ta vie. Tu es le maître de tes décisions. Tu n'as aucune responsabilité à prendre. Tout n'est pas de ta faute. Tes passions doivent te faire vibrer. N'ai pas peur des autres. Ton sourire est ta plus elle arme. Arrête de te cacher. Tu as ta place dans ce monde. N'ai pas honte de ce que tu es. Arrête de te focaliser sur ce qu'ils attendent de toi. Peut-être que la mort n'existe pas. Peut-être que c'est le commencement d'une autre vie. Le mystère doit te poursuivre. Tu as le droit de croire ce que tu veux croire. Les étoiles ne sont pas que des points scintillants. L'univers n'est pas vide. Chaque coucher et lever de soleil est unique. Chaque seconde t'appartient. Sois toujours honnête envers toi-même. Sauve-toi si tu es en danger, si tu te sens oppressé. La première impression est toujours la bonne. Tu ne peux pas tout contrôler. Laisse-toi aller. Fais des folies. Ne te berce pas d'illusions. Entoure-toi d'ondes positives. Tu as des défauts et des qualités. Les gens ne sont pas si différents de toi. Tu ne peux pas être toujours aimé. Ce que tu regrettes ne doit pas te consumer. Passe délicatement tes doigts sur des mots. Admire l'art, reste planté devant une œuvre. Ton lit ne peut pas toujours être froissé. Écoute le silence, il a parfois plus de choses à te dire que n'importe qui. Tu ne peux pas rattraper le temps que tu as perdu. Tu ne peux pas vivre ce que tu as déjà vécu, tu peux faire en sorte que cela se ressemble. Tu ne peux pas sauver quelqu'un qui ne veut pas être sauvé. Sois prudent. Méfie-toi de temps en temps. Apprends à aimer être seul, la solitude n'est pas ton ennemie. La nature ne mérite pas d'être détruite. La Terre te permet de vivre. La végétation t'offre de l'oxygène. Les animaux sont tes amis. Certains attaquent pour protéger l'Homme, certains sont plus humains que d'autres. Profite de ce que la vie a à t'offrir. La technologie n'a que des maux de tête à te donner. Tu n'as pas besoin d'argent. La beauté de la simplicité est merveilleuse. Chaque fleur a une odeur unique. Le ciel n'est pas toujours bleu, l'eau n'est pas toujours transparente. Les forêts sont remplies de mystère. Les déserts ne sont pas que des mirages. Les montagnes attendent que tu les gravisses. Les vagues de chaque océan et de chaque mer veulent ta peau. La pluie veut ruisseler le long de ton corps; ce n'est pas grave si ce maquillage superficiel coule. Le soleil veut réchauffer ta peau frêle. Le vent veut caresser ta peau et si la neige se fait rare, laisse-la fondre dans la paume de ta main. Fais le tour du monde ou traverse-le. Reviens sur tes pas, trompe-toi; recommence. Vis tout ce que tu n'oses pas vivre. Tu es né seul et tu mourras seul. Ne base pas tes rêves sur des choses matérialisées ou susceptibles de disparaître, base tes rêves sur ce que toi tu as envie et ne laisse personne te faire croire que tu ne peux pas y arriver. Tu vas y arriver. Tu es fort, tu es parfois faible. Tu es tout ce que tu veux être.
—  lespiquresaines
Fifty Seven.

Fifty seven isn’t a special birthday but at the Potters’ everything worth celebrating is special.

Sirius and Remus buy party hats and balloons, in Gryffindor red and gold of course and the whole living room is filled with streamers and Remus has also charmed a little smoke stag to prance around the room. 

Lily bakes a cake, praying she’d remembered to put sugar instead of salt. She cleaned out the frills from the Moony-Padfoot decorating party and made sure everything was in order and everyone was coming in on time.

Harry, even after 38 odd years spent the most time in a futile effort to flatten his messy hair. He grabbed his little Lily Luna as she whizzed past him in her green frock and made his way down to where Ginny was also trying to flatten Albus’ hair, but alas. James Sirius was calling to them eagerly from near the fireplace, jumping in anticipation to go visit his hero, his Grandpa James. With last minute checks and cries of “Come on, Dad!” into the Floo they went.

The whole family was already there, Hermione and Ron holding on to Hugo’s hand. Rose and Albus had already disappeared when Harry stepped out of the fireplace of his parents’ house at Godric’s Hollow. Remus was deep in conversation with Victoire and Tonks and Teddy were laughing as they had changed their hair to a scintillating shade of red.

It was about half past 7 when James walked in, greeted to a chorus of “Surprise!” by his family. He was swarmed and suffocated with hugs and presents and kisses, the last of which were mainly Sirius and Lily. 

The whole family sang an out of tune rendition of “Happy Birthday” as James cut into his large cake, grinning wide as a party hat was slapped onto his head by Padfoot. His smile didn’t even dim when a mouth full of salty cake was shoved into his mouth, instead he just kissed Lily and thanking her for the “best piece of cake he had ever eaten.”

As the night began to close and James sat in their home, Lily beside him, surrounded by his best friends, children and sleeping grandchildren, he was warm and happy and thankful he got to celebrate fifty seven with the people he loved most in the world.

Happy Birthday James Fleamont Potter (27th March 1960 - 31st October 1981)

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine | Ao3

“What’s taking so long?”

Sherlock’s voice, petulant and lazy, drifted in through the open door of the loo, and John grinned around his toothbrush, absolutely bursting with affection.  It had taken him roughly seven minutes to learn how to move again after Sherlock had collapsed on top of him.  The sticky mess between them had made itself a bit of a hindrance, and John had pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head and reluctantly left him laying there to nip into the loo for a wet rag.  He’d spotted his toothbrush out of the corner of his eye and thought it wouldn’t hurt considering where he’d had his mouth not too long ago.

He poked his head around the door.  Sherlock was on his back with his hands behind his head and his eyes closed, still completely nude and absolutely shameless about it now.  John’s heart lurched in his chest at the sight; he was still getting used to the idea that this was real.

“Here,” John said, the word garbled around the toothbrush still stuck in his mouth.  Sherlock cracked one eye open to look at him, and John tossed the wet flannel, which landed with a plop on Sherlock’s chest.  “Clean off a bit with that.  I’ll be out in a minute.”

He ducked back into the loo, unable to wipe the smile off of his face.

“If I don’t clean myself off would it convince you that I’m not posh?”

John laughed.  “Nope.  I’d still think you were posh and maybe just a bit kinky.”

Sherlock grumbled unintelligibly, and John could just picture him rolling his eyes, which only made his grin widen.  He spit into the sink and rinsed his toothbrush. When he rounded the doorway into the bedroom the wet flannel hit him squarely in the stomach.  He caught it before it could fall to the floor and gave Sherlock a look.

Sherlock shrugged.  “That was for taking so long.”

“Impatient git,” John said, but he couldn’t keep the fondness out of the words. It was impossible to be annoyed when Sherlock was looking up at him from the bed, naked and relaxed and soft beneath the thin veneer of his irritation.

John threw the flannel into the hamper in the loo and then crawled back onto the bed.  Muted light peeked through a gap in the curtains on the window, announcing the beginning of another cloudy day in London, but John couldn’t find it in himself to care about the time or his lack of sleep because Sherlock’s hands were warm on his arms as he leaned over him for a kiss.  It was soft and unhurried, a slow press of lips and tongues that teetered precariously between chaste and the scintillating promise of more.


“Mmm?”  John let his lips wander to Sherlock’s jaw, freeing his mouth up to speak.

“I was thinking.”

“You don’t say,” John said.  Sherlock pinched him gently, and he smiled, nudging his nose just behind Sherlock’s ear.

“I was thinking,” Sherlock said again, “we’ll be needing to come up with a different name for me.”

John frowned, pulling back to look at him properly.  “What, for a case or something?  Did Lestrade text you while I was in the loo?”

He was met with that certain expression that told him he was being extraordinarily daft.  

“I meant for Little Watson,” Sherlock said, over enunciating each word as if he thought it possible that John might have forgotten how the English language worked. John couldn’t muster the brain space to be offended by it because every thought in his head was pushed aside to make room for the words now streaming out of Sherlock’s mouth.  “She already calls you ‘daddy.’  It will be far too confusing for her to associate that word with me as well.  She’s quite intelligent, of course, so I don’t think it would matter in the long term, but it would probably be best for her language and cognitive development if she were to learn to associate us with two separate–”

“Sherlock, stop talking.”

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Tempered by Your Love

Pairing: Park Jimin / Reader

Genre: Cupid!Jimin, Fluff + Light Smut with a hint of angst.

Rating: PG-15

Warnings: Sexual content

Summary: While even Cupid has fantasies too, they aren’t always rosy.

Words: 808

Note: Part of a Cupid!Jimin drabble series I’m working with the lovely @dimplecoups. And thank you, @sydist, for giving us the initial idea!



In a seemingly ivory expanse, his name resounded otherworldly. Eyes had opened and he squinted, blinded momentarily by the scintillating illumination caused the odd environment. Face down upon what appeared to be the ground, Jimin groaned whilst he pushed himself onto his knees and ran a hand over his face. Where was he? He contemplated the radix of his arrival, absolutely perplexed and his name was given voice to again.

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The power in your brevity
took me by surprise,
like a camera bulb flash -
eyes stunned; fluorescence
sparked in the air surrounding.
The world started to burn -
a fever dream of forest fire;
everything lit up, glowing
for an ephemeral moment -
I blinked away the scintillation
and you were already gone.
—  But I still see you when I close my eyes // © @rarasworldbro
Your Face Between My Thighs

Summary/Prompt: After a long night out, both Tyler and I had longed to touch each other. To grope onto places that were in fact inappropriate to grope in public. The only feeling I wanted that night was feeling Tyler’s scruff on my inner thighs.
Length: 2354 words
Warnings: smut af, language, nsfw, oral sex, drinking
Pairings: Tyler Seguin x Reader

Authors Note: So its been about a year and a half since i last posted an imagine on here, so I thought why not now. Hopefully you guys enjoy this. Feedback and requests are also highly encouraged.

Originally posted by flyersphiladelphia

Was this really about to happen? I was fully aware of what exactly was going on around me, yet my mind wasn’t fully processing who was in front of me at this very moment.

As he spoke to me about something that had happened to him earlier, I couldn’t help but stare into his eyes. They were enthralling, like sparkling kaleidoscopes of colour. His brown-mahogany orbs scintillated with a mischievous glint that could be noticed next to the umber that rimmed his iris. They glow with humor and playfulness that never seem to escape his eyes. And for some reason, they looked like they had seen a lifetime, when in reality they had only seen a fraction.

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drink in the night. let it slip past your unbridled lips and wait as it transforms your churning darkness into something of a cosmic delight. watch as it consumes you whole, taking every single piece of you, broken or not, until there’s nothing left but the scintillation of a thousand shining stars.
—  aoife k. | magic
Downfall [13]

Characters: Jungkook x Reader

Word Count: 6,510

Genre: Assassin AU

Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15

Before you can raise hell on your enemies, you first need to gain permission. As unbelievable as it may sound, there’s an order to the havoc you wreak.

Although Jin is your supervising officer, he still needs to take any and all developments and run them by the people who sit even higher up on the chain of command. Especially with the valuable information Taehyung was able to salvage on such a sensitive and active case like this one, it’s crucial to request an audience with the correct higher-ups in order to make the necessary moves more effectively.

In this case, the audience is Mr. Shin.

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Sempre e comunque un grandissimo fan di quelle donne che aspettano la tua dichiarazione ufficiale nel giorno delle donne (la mia in particolare, ogni anno, “Il modo giusto per celebrarla non è regalando mimose e facendo gli auguri”) e ti danno ragione e tutto quanto e ti dicono che fai bene. Poi arriva qualcuno coi fiori e loro si alzano due metri dal pavimento con fiamme e scintille emesse da arti superiori e inferiori ed emettono vari gridolini del tipo Finalmente un gentiluomo.

un coup de main, si'l te plait.

A/n: because I wonder if that would be part of Ladybug’s job description and because this is a very personal topic.

TW: mentions of suicide and depression.

Beyond all the magic that’s come into her life after becoming Ladybug…beyond all the Akuma and the dangers and joys…this is perhaps the oddest and most important of her self-inflicted responsibilities.

The Eiffel Tower is beautiful and scintillating, a spot of hope and pride that shimmers gilded and golden in the night.

And it’s so tall. It used to be one of her favorite spots to sit and watch the city. But that was a short lived time of enjoyment, because this responsibility of hers has leached away any joy.

Or rather, she’d feel guilty if she got any joy out of staying here. She doesn’t tell Chat Noir about these patrols.

He always seems tired and somehow, she feels a more personal drive. Something wedged in the sadness and anxiety she’d long since learned how to hide well.

She’s so high up…and so is the lovely girl with red hair done up in two braids. The girl doesn’t seem to see her and it’s after hours. She shouldn’t be here.

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