so fine with a bit of stubble

who’s scruffy looking?

in which clarke has ~a thing~ for bellamy’s beard

happy late birthday to @prosciuttoe​; sorry this isn’t furry enough for you 🌚

wc: 4 951
rated m | read on ao3

As with most things, Raven is partially to blame.

(“I don’t understand why you’re also blaming me ,” mutters Miller mulishly, “ She’s the one who made the bet with him. I had nothing to do with their bullshit ideas.”

“You spurred them on,” says Clarke, and he rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deny it.)

It starts when Miller returns from vacationing with his dad up in the mountains sporting a full beard.

His beard isn’t really anything new to them- normally he just errs on the side of scruffy, but has been known to grow it out once in a while, especially back when they were in college- so there’s just the general ribbing and maybe one or two pointed comments dropped by Monty before they ignore it.

And then Bellamy gets drunk.

Bellamy doesn’t usually get drunk when they go out; in fact he’s usually the one still annoyingly sober while they do stupid shit like climbing up on the tables or trying to rewire the jukebox. But it is the start of summer break and all his AP students passed their exams so if there was an occasion for overdoing the celebratory drinking, this would be it.

Drunken Bellamy is even sort of cute, far more tactile and vocal about his affection. Which is why it’s no surprise that as the night wears on, they find him gently stroking Miller’s cheek murmuring all sorts of nonsense while Miller looks three seconds away from throttling him. Clarke sneaks a picture. She’s totally going to use this in a mood board when his birthday comes around.

“I’m so jealous of your beard,” he slurs, just a little, and Miller slaps his fingers away. “I’ve always wanted a beard.”

“I don’t know if you’ve realised this,” says Raven, dropping in from seemingly out of nowhere, “But you’ve got all the components you need to grow a beard, Blake.”

Miller snorts at the exact same moment Bellamy’s face falls. “Yeah, no. Theoretically he might have them but trust me on this. Blake is as bare faced as they come.”

Raven’s eyes practically light up at that and her head snaps back to look at him. “You can’t grow a beard?” she asks delightedly.

“Of course I can grow a beard,” he grumbles.

“Then how come we’ve never seen you with one?”

“Because it’s uncomfortable .”

“Uh huh, sure. That’s why.” She lifts an eyebrow. “I bet you can’t grow a full beard like Miller’s before the month’s up.”

“Easiest fucking bet you’ve ever made, Reyes,” says Miller, and Bellamy elbows him in the ribs.

“I can totally grow a beard in the next three weeks,” he protests. “I don’t need to prove that to you.”

“Methinks the man doth protests too much,” she says in a sing-song voice, and his scowl deepens.

“I’m not protesting. And that’s not the quote.”

“Come on,” she wheedles, “Fifty bucks says you can’t.”

He glowers at her for one last moment before finally caving. “Fine,” he sighs, sticking his hand out for her to shake. She does so rather enthusiastically and Clarke already knows that this is going to be a disaster. “I’ll take your stupid bet.”

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anonymous asked:

do you have a favourite homesteading passage from the books? one of my favourite aspects of the outlander novels is their depiction of early american settlement and subsistence farming, like the scenes from the first winter on the ridge in DoA. more than anything in book 9 i'm looking forward to more little snippets of that simple 18th c isolated farm life... which i realise is pretty weird!

What a fascinating ask! Not weird at all, anon - after all the pain and heartbreak that Jamie and Claire have been through, it’s so rewarding to see them leading a quiet, peaceful, domestic life. The life they always wanted to have together.

I’ve always loved this passage from The Fiery Cross - where Jamie is slowly kissing every inch of Claire, and tasting her. And in so doing, tells a story about how Claire spends her days - busy with domestic affairs - and we learn a lot about the simple pleasures that Jamie takes from their life together. And how much he appreciates just how hard she works to maintain that life.

He took my hand and lifted it to his nose, sniffing delicately. “Onions,” he said, “and garlic. Something hot … peppercorns. Aye, and clove. Squirrel-blood and meat-juice.” His tongue flicked out like a snake’s, touching my knuckles. “Starch—potatoes—and something woody. Toadstools.”  

  “Not fair at all,” I said, trying to get my hand back. “You know perfectly well what we had for dinner. And they weren’t toadstools, they were woodears.”  

  “Mm?” He turned my hand over and sniffed at my palm, then my wrist and up my forearm. “Vinegar and dill; ye’ve been making cucumber pickles, aye? Good, I like those. Mm, oh, and soured milk here in the fine hairs on your arm—were ye splashed churning butter, or skimming cream?”  

  “You guess, since you’re so good at it.”  

  “Butter.”  

  “Damn.” I was still trying to pull away, but only because the stubble on his face tickled the sensitive skin of my upper arm. He smelled his way up my arm into the hollow of my shoulder, making me squeak as the strands of his hair drifted across my skin.  

   He lifted my arm a bit, touched the damp silky hair there, and ran his fingers under his nose. “Eau de femme,” he murmured, and I heard the laughter in his voice. “Ma petite fleur.”

– The Fiery Cross

First Dance (Olicity, post 4x10)

Something fortuitous happened today. @captainsamell sent me a prompt regarding this scene, and I flailed about because I’d just had this thought when I woke up this morning after seeing a post… This was the result.

“Hey,” Oliver said softly. Felicity heard the rustle of pages as he set his notebook down. “What is it?”

Her hand was frozen in midair, the ring catching the light from the lamp on his nightstand perfectly, making the diamond sparkle. 

A fine tremor danced along the edge of her fingers and she made a light fist, turning towards him just enough so he could see the smile on her lips.

“Nothing. I was just admiring,” Felicity said, her voice clear. She wiggled her fingers for emphasis. The ring caught more of the dull light, and it made her heart clench. It was flawless, absolutely beautiful. “It’s so shiny.” Oliver made a little sound in response and she leaned back just enough to give him a smile. “I’m still very ‘oh shiny!’ from all those drugs they had me hopped up on.”

She didn’t give him a chance to respond before she turned away again, curling into her pillow, fighting the grimace at the still-strange sensation of her legs

“Oh,” Oliver said and then she heard the distinct sound of his pen sliding into his notebook. He shut it and set it on his nightstand.

She expected him to turn the light off and curl around her, just as he had for the last several nights since she’d gotten home, holding her as tightly as he dared until he fell asleep, until the weight of his arm around her waist grew heavy enough for her to take a deep breath and let out the single tear she allowed herself…

She could really use that tear right now, and Felicity bit her lip, pushing it back down along with the question that’d been pressing at the edges of her mind since she watched that movie earlier. She could wait.

But he didn’t follow his routine.

Instead, the light stayed on as Oliver pushed himself closer, wrapping his arm around her waist and tugging her back into him. It used to be her favorite thing, how easily he could move her, how fond he was of pressing every inch of his body against hers, the little stretch and moan she gave him when she felt him

But now she felt a lot less and it was the only thing she could think about before she pushed that down as well.

Oliver used his other hand to brush the hair off her neck, dropping a light kiss along her hairline. Her eyes fluttered shut, her chest tightening with affection and something else she didn’t know how to name as he pulled her closer, laying his head on hers.

His stubble bit into her cheek and ear.

“Talk to me, Felicity,” Oliver whispered.

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Running Into You (1/2)

Summary: Professor Steve Rogers AU. Steve Rogers is your Biology Professor, you have a huge crush on him. 

Word Count: 1,671

Warnings: None yet. 

A/N: Split it in two parts. Smut is coming in part 2! Hope you all enjoy! @dacianamusik23 



The semester was only two weeks from ending. Three more lectures to attend, a review of the stuff that would be included in the final exam, and then the final exam itself. Then, that’ll be the end of Biology. You’d have the credits under your belt and you’d be able to move on to classes that actually mattered to your major.

The problem was that you didn’t want the semester to end. Not when such a handsome man taught it. Professor Steve Rogers was dreamy, passionate, funny, and everything you could dream of. He had often caught you staring off into space and snapped his fingers to get you back into listening to his lecture, not knowing that you were having fantasies about him.

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anonymous asked:

RFA+V and Saeran finding out MC is a cosmotology student and coming into the salon because MC needs a model to get work done on. What services do you think they would get? (Cosmo students usually learn Hair Cutting/Coloring, Perming, Waxing, Facials, Make Up, Manicures, Pedicures, and Acrylic nails)

(I know very little about this topic so I’m using only the services you listed off! thank you for listing them off you’re a lifesaver honey)

Yoosung

  • he’s so amazed omg
  • MC’s is so skilled??
  • a proud boyfriend
  • he’d probs get:
    • Hair coloring 
      • because we all know he’s bleaching his hair with cheap bleaching packets from the convenience store and that’s not good for his hair smh
    • Manicure
      • he has no real excuse he just wants his hands to look pretty. prepare to have him take a picture of his hand and send it to the chatroom acting as if he had gotten a tattoo or something but nope he just had his hands dolled up and his nails painted with a glittery nail polish
  • he wouldn’t do a lot mostly because he doesn’t know what half of the stuff is and he doesn’t want to make MC do too much things

Jaehee

  • she hardly has any time to go to a salon
  • so this is just PERFECT
  • she feels so happy and giddy
  • she gets:
    • A haircut
      • just the tips and such to give it shape
    • A facial
      • because deep down she’s all up for that sorta stuff and she adores it
    • Manicures and Pedicures
      • MC convinces her to do this because Jaehee really needs to treat herself from time to time
    • Makeup
      • Also MC’s idea. And a good one; Jaehee looks like an absolute goddess
  • she feels like she’s been born again and she’s so happy?? MC thanks her and she’s like “no thank YOU”

Zen

  • he’s also super amazed
  • he smiles and agrees immediately when MC asks him if he’d like to get something done
  • honestly MC tells him to “choose whatever he wants” and he does
    • Waxing
      • because even though he hardly has any facial hair he likes waxing over shaving that itty bit of stubble that he gets 
    • Facials
      • he tries to take a selfie while doing this but fails so he has MC take the photo
    • Manicure and Pedicure
      • he doesn’t paint his nails but oh boy his nails look so pretty? Even MC is shook by how pretty they turn out
  • he’s frankly super pleased with how he looks
  • also really proud of MC? bc damn he looks fine thanks to them

Jumin

  • at first he’s like
  • “but are you sure you want me to go?”
  • he just feels like MC won’t find a lot to do with him since he’s never done that kinda thing before
  • so MC ends up suggesting what services he could get
  • he ends up with:
    • a haircut
      • nothing too dramatic, just trimming a bit and maybe shaping 
    • a facial
      • he actually really enjoys it and this is coming from a man who has been to some high-end expensive spas
    • a pedicure
      • he was actually curious to how a pedicure was? and since his feet are always covered he agrees to paint his toe nails.

707

  • DID YOU SAY SALON
  • he’s HYPED
  • doll him up. make him beautiful
  • he’s so hyper? he chooses:
    • hair perming
      • he ends up looking better than either him or MC expected and he’s super happy with it
    • makeup
      • he’s smiling so much it’s hard to put on the lipstick. also MC wonders how the hell he can look so good in makeup
    • pedicure
      • he chose this mostly because “why not?” and also painted his toe nails with flowers because, once again, “why not?”
    • acrylic nails
      • he knew typing was harder with long nails but does he even care?? he looks absolutely amazing and also asks MC to paint flowers on these because there’s nothing to stop him
  • bonus points: once he’s all dolled up he dresses in his maid dress and shows Vanderwood, who is Confused and Amazed at the same time

Saeran

  • he doesn’t…. know what to do at a salon
  • he is Confused
  • he’s pretty happy that MC is so skilled but he wishes he understood in what??
  • so MC sits him down and explains
  • so he ends up choosing:
    • Hair Coloring
      • time to fix your half-made bleaching Saeran but he takes this chance to test out some new colors? now that he can? he probably tries a shade of red that isn’t his natural hair color
    • Manicure
      • look you can argue for hours but nothing is stopping him from painting his nails black and looking absolutely amazing
    • Makeup
      • it’s nothing too drastic. honestly? he was curious and in the end he looks super nice so it’s a win for him
  • also if anyone makes fun of his nails, hair or makeup he won’t be pleased
  • and instead of taking such things off, he’ll teach that person a little lesson on tolerance

V

  • he’s super happy!
  • MC has a salon? that’s great!
  • he’s so pure and nice gosh
  • he’s super happy MC offers to do stuff for him
  • he ends up choosing very few services as not to annoy MC
    • Haircut
      • since he can’t really… see, he hadn’t gone to trim his hair in a while- mostly because he didn’t really feel like a stranger would know how to cut his hair well without his instructions- but with MC he knows whatever they do will look good
    • Facial
      • he really likes the feeling. since his skin is pretty sensitive, it’s very calming for him to do this
    • Pedicure and Manicure
      • he doesn’t paint his nails, but the whole process of having his nails clipped and shaped, pushing back/removing the cuticles and such is pretty nice
  • He’s 100% sure he has never looked prettier
2

Sterek Baseball AU-

Derek Hale was a free agent at the end of the season, and moved from the cold streets of Boston, Massachusetts to the warm sunny city of Los Angeles, California. Not only did he find himself with a team who didn’t tease him for his pre-pitch dance, but he found himself falling hard for a mouthy first baseman by the name of Stilinski.

“Out for two fucking games.” Derek scowled when Stiles sat down, “For catching a goddamn ball and getting my face hit.” He sighed, “And look at the form on that idiot. Does he not know how to pitch?” He paused for a moment, rubbing his face for a moment, “That was douchey. Sorry.”

Stiles laughed then patted his leg sympathetically. “Don’t worry, we all know he sucks. And it’s only for two games, dude. We’ll be fine since they have me on first base.” He smirked to himself and wiggled proudly in hopes of making Derek cheer up a little.

Derek laughed a little, giving Stiles’s knee a nudge with his own. “Lucky we’ve got you or we’d be fucked.” He laughed again, a bit of a flush rising to his cheeks. Luckily his face was still sort of red from where he’d been hit, so the flush wasn’t that noticeable.

“I’m glad you agree,” he laughed, glancing at him. “Damn, he got you good. You can see the redness through your manly lumberjack stubble." 

written with the lovely prettyashale

Valentines Day Special- Thranduil Fanfiction

“You’ve disobeyed me,” The King of Mirkwood says quietly, trailing the seam of your cloak with his bleached aspen staff. His eyes shine with displeasure behind his silver domino mask. He is Winter tonight, draped in an ivory brocade bespeckled with tiny white diamonds. His bone-white headdress of interlocked antlers make him seem even more imposing and intimidating than usual.

“…I haven’t…disobeyed you,” you manage, bumping up against the wall. You’re trembling like a cornered rabbit. “Not exactly-”

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Masquerade (ThranduilxReader)

Have a most WONDERFUL Valentines Day <3

Title: Masquerade 

By LemonConfessions  

“You’ve disobeyed me,” The King of Mirkwood says quietly, trailing the seam of your cloak with his bleached aspen staff. His eyes shine with displeasure behind his silver domino mask. He is Winter tonight, draped in an ivory brocade bespeckled with tiny white diamonds. His bone-white headdress of interlocked antlers make him seem even more imposing and intimidating than usual.

“…I haven’t…disobeyed you,” you manage, bumping up against the wall. You’re trembling like a cornered rabbit. “Not exactly-”

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True Intentions

Originally posted by ordem227

Pairing: Eventually Pietro x Reader

Warnings: None yet.

Summary: The reader moves to the city to get out of the limelight brought on by her abilities. Hoping for a fresh start, she settles into a job at the local library, unintentionally opening doors to a life she never imagined.

A/N: This is my new series True Intentions. I hope you enjoy it! Feedback is very welcome and appreciated. Thank you.


Early mornings had have never been your thing. You would label yourself a night owl. But ever since moving into the City, sleep evaded you. You came from a small town with four stop lights, so you were used to sleeping in silence. New York, on the other hand, was anything but. You loved the city life, of course; it was so much easier to blend in, to hide your abilities, but sometimes you found yourself dreaming of home.

But that place is behind you. You came here to become a whole new person and a couple sleepless nights aren’t going to stop you. Finding work was easier than you thought it’d be. Your apartment was right outside the city, near a few coffee shops and dive bars. It didn’t take much wandering before you found a “help wanted” sign in the window of a library. You walked in the huge wooden doors, the ‘ting’ of the bell above alerting the man at the front desk.

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ciamarathathu  asked:

Hey, just had a thought about the difference between who Claire is with Frank and who she is with Jamie and how that manifests in other things, like the sense of smell. With Frank she is a perfect Don's wife/she uses perfume that she knows Frank loves. With Jamie she is truly herself/he loves her body smell and is allergic to perfumes (because he is not a bumblebee). I'm sure there are other examples of that. Do you remember any?

Hi ciamarathathu - thanks for your ask!

This ties back to my earlier post about Frank - namely, that I believe he never fundamentally understood Claire. Therefore - unlike Jamie - he has an unbending view of what a “proper” wife should be. *LOVE* your observation re Claire’s perfume - yet another example of how Claire is a very different wife to her husbands. She makes herself smell differently for Frank. Jamie, on the other hand, just loves everything about her - including how she smells.

A beautiful example is in the “Zugunruhe” chapter in The Fiery Cross. To summarize: Claire wakes in the middle of the night, and after a while Jamie finds her standing at a window. He then proceeds to smell her from head to toe - and makes it sensual, as only Jamie can.

“I do not stink!” I said indignantly.
“Mmphm.” He took my hand and lifted it to his nose, sniffing delicately. “Onions,” he said, “and garlic. Something hot … peppercorns. Aye, and clove. Squirrel-blood and meat-juice.”
His tongue flicked out like a snake’s, touching my knuckles. “Starch—potatoes—and something woody. Toadstools.”
“Not fair at all,” I said, trying to get my hand back. “You know perfectly well what we had for dinner. And they weren’t toadstools, they were woodears.”
“Mm?” He turned my hand over and sniffed at my palm, then my wrist and up my forearm. “Vinegar and dill; ye’ve been making cucumber pickles, aye? Good, I like those. Mm, oh, and soured milk here in the fine hairs on your arm—were ye splashed churning butter, or skimming cream?”
“You guess, since you’re so good at it.”
“Butter.”
“Damn.” I was still trying to pull away, but only because the stubble on his face tickled the sensitive skin of my upper arm. He smelled his way up my arm into the hollow of my shoulder, making me squeak as the strands of his hair drifted across my skin.
He lifted my arm a bit, touched the damp silky hair there, and ran his fingers under his nose. “Eau de femme,” he murmured, and I heard the laughter in his voice. “Ma petite fleur.”

Later in this encounter, Jamie realizes that Claire has dabbed herself with fragrant oil - which she says she only does for “special” occasions. She knows that her natural scent - and the scents that cling to her, through her work to create a home - are pleasing to him. So the fact that she went out of her way to do something special catches his attention. He doesn’t take it for granted - he doesn’t even expect it. So he lets her know just how much he appreciates her - just how much he loves her.

“Ye wanted me,” he said ruefully. “And I fell asleep without even touching you. I’m sorry, Sassenach. Ye should have said.”
“You were tired.” His hand had left my mouth; I stroked his hair, smoothing the long dark strands behind his ear. He laughed, and I felt the warmth of his breath on my bare stomach.
“Ye could raise me from the dead for that, Sassenach, and I wouldna mind it.”
He stood up then, facing me, and even in the dim light I could see that no such desperate measures on my part would be required.
“It’s hot,” I said. “I’m sweating.”
“Ye think I’m not?”
His hands closed on my waist and he lifted me suddenly, setting me down on the broad windowsill. I gasped at contact with the cool wood, reflexively grasping the window frame on either side.
“What on earth are you doing?”
He didn’t bother answering; it was an entirely rhetorical question, in any case.
“Eau de femme,” he murmured, his soft hair brushing across my thighs as he knelt. The floorboards creaked under his weight. “Parfum d’amor, mm?”

Accidents Don't Just Happen Accidentally (Part 5)

Imagine: You’re an actress on set of Supernatural and your character has a love interest with one f the Winchesters. (Alternate endings).

A/N: Hey guys! I know I’ve been terrible at updating regularly and I wanted to let you all know that I’m sorry. As you know, coming up with more ideas for the Jared part of ADJHA is starting to get a little hard and his series might be ending soon. If you want, you can send in some ideas through my ask!! Love each one of you amazing people! Thank you all for reading!!!

Accidents Don’t Just Happen Accidentally Series

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Bathtime (Luke Fluff)

Request: The Ashton bathtime made me die, holy shit, please do one with Luke agh. 

Your eyes fluttered open as sun came in through the large bedroom window, illuminating the entire room. You stretched your limbs, and sat up in the bed, feeling relaxed from the amazing night sleep you had just had. Your hand went to your tangled locks, secured by a messy bun on the top of your head. You let out a yawn, before finally leaned over to get out of the bed, and start your day. 

Before you could remove yourself from the warmth of the duvet, Luke’s arm snaked around your waist, pulling you into his chest and wrapping both of his arms around you. “Luke” you laughed, charmed at how adorable he could be without even trying. “No. Cuddles.” he pouted, jutting out his bottom lip. 

You rolled over, still in his embrace and kissed him lightly on the tip of the nose. “Baby, you have to get up, you have a show tonight.” you whispered sweetly. He answered you with a groan, and shook his head before burying it in his pillow. 

“Get up.” you laughed, nudging him lightly. 

No response. 

“Luke, if you get up, we can take a bath before you have to go meet the other boys.” you cooed. 

“Fine.” he grumbled, not begin able to resist bath time with the love of his life. 

You climbed out of the bed, and grabbed his wrist, slowly guiding him to the en suite bathroom you shared. He reluctantly followed your lead, unamused to be out of the comfort of his blanket fort. You reached over and turned the chrome faucet, allowing water to fill the large, luxurious bath tub. 

Luke stripped off his t-shirt and boxers, his back facing you. You marveled in his beautiful form. He always complained that he felt lanky, however you loved how long his torso was. He cheekily looked over his shoulder and caught your eyes on him. 

“Hey! Stop looking at my butt!” he teased, while stepping into the tub and sinking into the water. You turned off the water as the bathtub was nearly full, smiled at Luke who was sitting indian style, gesturing for you to join him. 

“You’re such a kid.” you teased, shaking your head. 


“No I’m not! I’m a man. Now get naked!” he mocked in a overly manly voice. 

As you took off your tank top and his underwear he continued the banter in the silly voice, “Oh yeah, thats what Im talking about. Turn around for me baby.” 

“Lucas!” you giggled, laughing at his antics before joining him in the warm water. You faced him, grabbing the shampoo off the ledge and squirting it into your palm. You lathered it up, and massaged it into his hair, dragging your fingernails lightly over his scalp. He let out a sigh at the sensation, leaning forward, encouraging you to continue. 

You formed his hair into a soapy mo hawk and laughed as he played air guitar, pretending to be the most punk rockstar that ever lived. Your heart melted at how adorable he was. 

You slowly poured water from a glass over his hair, allowing the shampoo to run down his back. Your ran your fingers over the top of his soft blonde locks. You covered his gorgeous blue eyes with your hand, careful not to get soap in them. 

One you finished you looked at him, admiring how beautiful he was, he broke the silence by kissing you sweetly. “Okay, time to shave.” you said handing him his razor. He had let his stubble grow out a bit, and in all honesty, you loved it. However he was informed my management it was probably best to shave, since he would look younger and more clean cut. 

He handed the razor back to you along with his shaving cream. “Can you?” he asked, giving you puppy dog eyes. “Fine.” you sighed. You coated his face in shaving foam, purposely putting too much on so he had a large white beard. “You’re santa.” you giggled. He narrowed his eyes, faking annoyance, but you knew deep down he loved your silliness. 

You carefully drug the silver razor down his course facial hair. Feeling the course stubble under the blade. A trail of clean skin appeared behind the razor as it moved across his jaw line. 

You made sure not to miss any spots, sitting on your knees and leaning forward, inspecting his face as you diligently shaved each inch of scruff. 

“You’re so cute when you’re focused.” Luke mumbled. 

“Hm?” 

“When you are focused like this. You look adorable. Your eyebrow’s knitted together in concentration, your eyes glued to my skin. You always look so immersed in the job. I love watching  you like this.” he explained. 

You smiled and planted a chaste kiss on his lips before you finished, leaving him clean shaven. He rinsed his face, patting after shave on. You always found the smell intoxicating. You leaned over, pressing your lips against his, engaging in a passionate kiss. Your fingers trailed down his chest, but before you could continue a knock at the door sounded. 

“Luke? You in there? Hurry up!” Calum whined from the other side of the door. 

“Yea, he’s in here Cal.” you answered. 

“Are you both in their? Together? Christ its not even 7:30 yet…” he groaned. 

“He’s just getting ready, calm down.” you laughed. 

“Fine, well, help him get ready a little bit faster, because we need to be at the studio by 10.” 

You turned to Luke, who let out a sigh, not wanting anything to interrupt the time you two had together. “Look’s like duty calls.” you whispered, placing a final kiss on his lips. 

He slowly got out of the tub, wrapping a towel around his waist. 

He turned to you, taking your face in his hands and kissed your forehead. 

“I love you, I’ll see you tonight.” he said softly. 

No Facial Hair

“Hey,” Calum said as he turned to look at me, his hand landing on my thigh, “what time is it?”

I swallowed the last bite of my meal from my favorite restaurant, Calum and I often visited this place. The food was awesome, I liked the ambiance and the people who worked there were always nice.

For some reason the restaurant was almost empty, it was a bit late on a Monday night.

“Mmm,” I made this sound as I reached for my phone. I opened it, read the hour and before I could open my mouth to reply, Calum was already speaking.

“You changed your lockscreen,” he noticed, but his voice didn’t show much enthusiasm. “I thought you liked the picture of us at our anniversary dinner,” he pouted.

I shrugged, “Yeah, I like it… I just got bored of it.”

Our waitress grabbed our plates and exited, not forgetting to tell us she’d bring the deserts menu.

“So instead you put a picture of some man,” he said as he opened my phone once again since the screen had gone pitch black.

“He’s hot,” I giggled.

He handed me my phone, as if he didn’t want to have it anymore because of the guy. Cal leaned on his chair, crossed his arms over his chest and stared at me. He looked very cute tonight with his black sweater, his black skinny jeans, his beanie. But the pout on his lips was even more adorable.

“Is it because of his stubble?” He broke the silence.

“I wouldn’t mind if you tell me you want the old picture back,” I said, biting my lip.

Calum stayed silent and decided to go on his phone. A laugh escaped my mouth when he unlocked his screen ; he had settled a picture of me as his home screen.

“Shut up,” he groaned as he clicked on the Twitter app. I watched him read some tweets, he kept his serious expression on. This lasted a few minutes until the waitress asked our desert order. Out of habit, he ordered for me because he always knew what I wanted.

I waited for the lady to leave so that I could sit closer to my boyfriend. I grabbed his phone, closed it and placed it on the table.

“Yes, I like stubbles,” I admitted as his gaze lifted. His soft brown eyes met mine, he looked a bit sleepy. “But you don’t have one and that’s fine too.”

My fingers danced on his cheek and jaw before I placed my hand on his.

“I’m not very manly,” he mumbled and I shook my head no. This was new to me though, Calum was now telling me about his insecurities every now and then. But I knew this wasn’t his biggest insecurity and he was just really tired, he had been lacking sleep during the last few weeks.

“I don’t think so,” I argued. “If you think facial hair defines your manhood then you are wrong.”

His arms dropped on the table and he let his forehead collide with his arms, so that he was hiding his face.

“I know,” I heard him say, “I want to sleep Y/N.”

I smiled and could not resist from the temptation of playing with his hair at the nape of his neck, the hair that his beanie wasn’t covering.

“I’ll drive on the way to your place,” I replied.

“Thank you,” he said, but kept his head on the table. “Can you sleep at my place tonight?”

“I don’t know,” I smiled. I liked to annoy him.

“If I let you keep that picture of that ugly man?”

“Okay then,” I agreed.

“Wake me up when my cake comes,” he whispered.

Masterlist

Diana Gabaldon

Process, again…I wrote a small book about how to write sex-scenes. I haven’t decided exactly how (or when) to publish this, but thought I’d give you a brief extract from it, in demonstration of how one uses language to evoke sensuality.

What I’m doing here is showing you one of the scenes from THE FIERY CROSS, and then running through it again in slow-mo, with commentary, so you can see _what_ I did. If you haven’t yet read THE FIERY CROSS, this scene really has no spoilers <g>, but if you want to experience the book as a whole, you might want to skip this.

[Excerpt from [Untitled Sex-Scene Book] Copyright 2016 Diana Gabaldon

Chapter 7. ATMOSPHERE - evocation, sensuality, underpainting

Without being explicit at all, it’s possible to give a story a strong feeling of sensuality. This is done principally–and paradoxically–by practicing restraint, just as you do when depicting strong emotion.

You don’t lard on adjectives, or even verbs. You pick precise details and use beautiful imagery–which is a lot of work, but worth it. Now, how do you pick those details?

I mentioned one application of the Rule of Three in the Five-Minute Guide at the beginning of this book, right? Remember that? A little trick I learned from Gustave Flaubert, who was certainly not the first writer to use it, but might have been the first to explicate it. It’s simple: if you use any three of the five senses (six, maybe, if you’re writing paranormal stories), it creates a sense of dimensionality and reality in the scene.

A lot of writers use only hearing and touch when writing about sex, because those seem the most important to them in such a context. All well and good, but look:

EXAMPLE 9: Use of Senses

He made no noise, but I felt him at once; a warmth, a thickening, in the cool air of the room.

“Are ye well, Sassenach?” he asked softly from the doorway.

“Yes, fine.” I spoke in a whisper, not to wake Lizzie and her father, who slept in the two back bedrooms. “Just needed a breath of air; I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He came closer, a tall ghost in the whiteness of his nightshirt, smelling of sleep.

“I always wake when you do, Sassenach; I sleep ill without ye by my side.” He touched my forehead briefly. “I thought ye were maybe fevered; the bed was damp where ye’d lain. You’re sure you’re all right?”

“I was hot; I couldn’t sleep. But yes, I’m all right. And you?” I touched his face; his skin was warm with sleep.

He came to stand beside me at the window, looking out into the late summer night. The moon was full, and the birds were restless; from near at hand, I heard the faint chirp of a late-nesting warbler, and farther off, the squeak of a hunting saw-whet owl.

“You recall Laurence Stern?” Jamie asked, evidently reminded of the naturalist by the sounds.

“I doubt anyone who’s met him would forget him,” I said dryly. “The bag of dried spiders makes rather an impression. To say nothing of the smell.” Stern carried with him a distinctive aroma, composed in equal parts of natural body odor, an expensive cologne that he favored–which was sufficiently strong to compete with–though not to conquer–the pungencies of various preservatives such as camphor and alcohol–and a faint reek of decay from the specimens he collected.

He chuckled softly.

“That’s true. He stinks worse than you do.”

“I do not stink!” I said indignantly.

“Mmphm.” He took my hand and lifted it to his nose, sniffing delicately. “Onions,” he said, “and garlic. Something hot…peppercorns. Aye, and clove. Squirrel-blood and meat-juice.” His tongue flicked out like a snake’s, touching my knuckles. “Starch–potatoes–and something woody. Toadstools.”

“Not fair at all,” I said, trying to get my hand back. “You know perfectly well what we had for dinner. And they weren’t toadstools, they were woodears.”

“Mm?” He turned my hand over and sniffed at my palm, then my wrist and up my forearm. “Vinegar and dill; ye’ve been making cucumber pickles, aye? Good, I like those. Mm, oh, and soured milk here in the fine hairs on your arm–were ye splashed churning butter, or skimming cream?”

“You guess, since you’re so good at it.”

“Butter.”

“Damn.” I was still trying to pull away, but only because the stubble on his face tickled the sensitive skin of my upper arm. He flicked the ribbon-strap of my chemise off my shoulder and smelt his way up my arm into the hollow of my shoulder, making me squeak as the strands of his hair drifted across my skin.

“Jemmy. Puke and bairn-shit,” he said, sniffing like a hound dog. He lifted my arm a bit, touched the damp silky hair there and ran his fingers under his nose. “Eau de femme,” he murmured, and I heard the laughter in his voice. “Ma petite fleur.”

“And I bathed, too,” I said ruefully.

“Aye, with the lily soap,” he said, a slight tone of surprise in his voice as he sniffed at the hollow of my collarbone. I gave a small, high-pitched yelp, and he reached up to lay a large, warm hand across my mouth. He smelt of gunpowder, hay, and manure, but I couldn’t say so, what with him muffling me.

He straightened a little, and leaned close, so the roughness of his whiskers brushed my cheek. His hand fell away, and I felt the softness of his lips against my temple, the butterfly touch of his tongue on my skin.

“And salt,” he said, very softly, his breath warm on my face. “There is salt on your face, and your lashes are wet. D'ye weep, Sassenach?”

“No,” I said, though I had a sudden, irrational urge to do just that. “No, I sweat. I was…hot.”

I wasn’t any longer; my skin was cool; cold where the night-draft from the window chilled my backside.

“Ah, but here…mm.” He was on his knees now, one arm about my waist to hold me still, his nose buried in the hollow between my breasts. “Oh,” he said, and his voice had changed again.

I didn’t normally wear perfume, but I had a special oil, sent from the Indies, made with orange flowers, jasmine, vanilla beans and cinnamon. I had only a tiny vial, and wore a small dab infrequently–for occasions that I thought might perhaps be special.

“Ye wanted me,” he said ruefully. “And I fell asleep without even touching you. I’m sorry, Sassenach. Ye should have said.”

“You were tired.” His hand had left my mouth; I stroked his hair, smoothing the long dark strands behind his ear. He laughed, and I felt the warmth of his breath on my bare stomach.

“Ye could raise me from the dead for that, Sassenach, and I wouldna mind it.”

He stood up then, facing me, and even in the dim light I could see that no such desperate measures on my part would be required.

“It’s hot,” I said. “I’m sweating.”

“Ye think I’m not?”

His hands closed on my waist and he lifted me suddenly, setting me down on the broad windowsill. I gasped at contact with the cool wood, reflexively grasping the window-frame on either side.

“What on earth are you doing?”

He didn’t bother answering; it was an entirely rhetorical question, in any case.

“Eau de femme,” he murmured, his soft hair brushing across my thighs as he knelt. The floorboards creaked under his weight. “Parfum d'amor, mm?”

The cool breeze lifted my hair, drew it tickling across my back like the lightest of lover’s touches. Jamie’s hands were firm on the curve of my hips; I was in no danger of falling, and yet I felt the dizzy drop behind me, the clear and endless night, with its star-strewn empty sky into which I might fall and go on falling, a tiny speck, blazing hotter and hotter with the friction of my passage, bursting finally into the incandescence of a shooting…star.

“Ssh,” Jamie murmured, far off. He was standing now, his hands on my waist, and the moaning noise might have been the wind, or me. His fingers brushed my lips. They might have been matches, striking flames against my skin. Heat danced over me, belly and breast, neck and face, burning in front, cool behind, like St. Lawrence on his gridiron.

I wrapped my legs around him, one heel settled in the cleft of his buttocks, the solid strength of his hips between my legs my only anchor.

“Let go,” he said in my ear. “I’ll hold you.” I did let go, and leaned back on the air.

COMMENTARY: Sensuality (THE FIERY CROSS, window scene)

OK, now that you’ve read the scene as a scene, let’s step back for a moment and look at what’s going on there, in the technical sense:

He made no noise, but I felt him at once; a warmth, a thickening, in the cool air of the room. [Here we’re invoking the sense of touch, even though no one is actually touching. Contrasting “warmth” and “cool” enhances the impression of touch, and metaphorically equating Jamie’s presence to “warmth” and “thickening” establishes his presence as immediately attractive.]

“Are ye well, Sassenach?” he asked softly from the doorway.

“Yes, fine.” I spoke in a whisper, not to wake Lizzie and her father, who slept in the two back bedrooms. “Just needed a breath of air; I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He came closer, a tall ghost in the whiteness of his nightshirt, smelling of sleep. [Here’s sight entering the picture; “tall” and “whiteness” and we have an immediate mental picture of him. No need of blathering on about his hair or the shape of his body; we just want to establish his presence. Note the “smelling of sleep”—besides being a nice alliterative phrase, it establishes for us that he’s just waked up (without needing to say something tiresome like, “he must have waked when he heard me get up and leave the room”) and it strikes the first note in a symphony of olfaction. Note how much the sense of smell features throughout the scene as we go on…]

“I always wake when you do, Sassenach; I sleep ill without ye by my side.” He touched my forehead briefly. “I thought ye were maybe fevered; the bed was damp where ye’d lain. You’re sure you’re all right?” [Touch. He’s concerned about her, and we know she’s hot and damp.]

“I was hot; I couldn’t sleep. But yes, I’m all right. And you?” I touched his face; his skin was warm with sleep. [Touch again, reciprocating his concern, and continuing with the feeling of pervasive heat. Notice just how brief these descriptions are, though: one or two words per paragraph, and quite plain words, too: “fevered,” “damp,” “warm.” This is what I mean by restraint. The words that evoke sensuality are important, but they ought for the most part to stay in the background; what’s being said and done is in the forefront of the reader’s mind—they’ll pick up the underlying sensuality with no trouble.]

He came to stand beside me at the window, looking out into the late summer night. The moon was full, and the birds were restless; from near at hand, I heard the faint chirp of a late-nesting warbler, and farther off, the squeak of a hunting saw-whet owl. [This is another of the few invocations of sight in this scene, and the first bit of explicit sound. This paragraph is doing two things: establishing their physical position by a window—because the window is going to be important later on—and changing the focus briefly. Most of the scene takes place in very close-up focus, just between the two participants. We want it to feel hot and sweaty and intimate. For a moment here, though, the focus changes to a view of the outer world. This keeps the scene from feeling too claustrophobic, lends it a sense of movement from the change in focus (even though no one has really done anything), and reminds us of the physical setting—the backwoods of North Carolina (note the specificity of the detail. It isn’t just some chirping bird or a generic owl. This gives us a greater sense of vivid immediacy, as well as pulling us further into Claire’s mind—she lives here, she knows exactly what she’s hearing). This is a fair amount for a two-sentence paragraph to accomplish.]

“You recall Laurence Stern?” Jamie asked, evidently reminded of the naturalist by the sounds.

“I doubt anyone who’s met him would forget him,” I said dryly. “The bag of dried spiders makes rather an impression. To say nothing of the smell.” Stern carried with him a distinctive aroma, composed in equal parts of natural body odor, an expensive cologne that he favored–which was sufficiently strong to compete with–though not to conquer–the pungencies of various preservatives such as camphor and alcohol–and a faint reek of decay from the specimens he collected. [Now here is a much more emphatic and explicit evocation of smell. In part, this is to contrast with and to enhance our noticing of the more pleasant olfactory cues later. But what it’s mostly doing is providing the dialogue transition to those more intimate smells.]

He chuckled softly.

“That’s true. He stinks worse than you do.”

“I do not stink!” I said indignantly.

“Mmphm.” He took my hand and lifted it to his nose, sniffing delicately. “Onions,” he said, “and garlic. Something hot…peppercorns. Aye, and clove. Squirrel-blood and meat-juice.” His tongue flicked out like a snake’s, touching my knuckles. “Starch–potatoes–and something woody. Toadstools.” [Touch and taste and smell, all together. Note the explicit mention of substance, but only two adjectives, “hot” and “woody.” Notice that he isn’t saying anything at all sexual or flirtatious; it’s a brief paragraph—and yet the inclusion of all three senses in a condensed space makes a vivid impact. If I’d written, “He licked my hand,” it wouldn’t have had at all the same sensual evocation.]

“Not fair at all,” I said, trying to get my hand back. “You know perfectly well what we had for dinner. And they weren’t toadstools, they were woodears.”

“Mm?” He turned my hand over and sniffed at my palm, then my wrist and up my forearm. “Vinegar and dill; ye’ve been making cucumber pickles, aye? Good, I like those. Mm, oh, and soured milk here in the fine hairs on your arm–were ye splashed churning butter, or skimming cream?”
[Again—specificity of detail gives you a sense of immersion. You know what vinegar and dill and sour milk smell like, so your own mind supplies the memory of those particular scents. “He sniffed my skin and told me exactly what I’d been making that day,” wouldn’t accomplish that, because there are no sensory cues.]

“You guess, since you’re so good at it.”

“Butter.”

“Damn.” I was still trying to pull away, but only because the stubble on his face tickled the sensitive skin of my upper arm. He flicked the ribbon-strap of my chemise off my shoulder and smelt his way up my arm into the hollow of my shoulder, making me squeak as the strands of his hair drifted across my skin. [Invocation of touch. We don’t need to struggle to give an account of her sensations—“Exquisite tendrils of longing spiraled down my arm and made my little man in the boat stand up and salute….”—Not Necessary. “Sensitive” and “squeaked” will do fine.]

“Jemmy. Puke and bairn-shit,” he said, sniffing like a hound dog. He lifted my arm a bit, touched the damp silky hair there and ran his fingers under his nose. “Eau de femme,” he murmured, and I heard the laughter in his voice. “Ma petite fleur.”

“And I bathed, too,” I said ruefully.

“Aye, with the lily soap,” he said, a slight tone of surprise in his voice as he sniffed at the hollow of my collarbone. I gave a small, high-pitched yelp, and he reached up to lay a large, warm hand across my mouth. He smelt of gunpowder, hay, and manure, but I couldn’t say so, what with him muffling me. [Smell and touch are mingled through this one. And naturally, we have hearing going throughout, from the dialogue, so needn’t mention anything explicit.]

He straightened a little, and leaned close, so the roughness of his whiskers brushed my cheek. His hand fell away, and I felt the softness of his lips against my temple, the butterfly touch of his tongue on my skin.
[Roughness/softness – contrasting touch, then “butterfly touch”—and that’s all. Only one adjective, and that one’s metaphorical.]

“And salt,” he said, very softly, his breath warm on my face. “There is salt on your face, and your lashes are wet. D'ye weep, Sassenach?” [Touch and taste, very simple. What’s important through here is the dialogue; he’s concerned for her, and intimately aware of her, without us having to say so.]

“No,” I said, though I had a sudden, irrational urge to do just that. “No, I sweat. I was…hot.”

I wasn’t any longer; my skin was cool; cold where the night-draft from the window chilled my backside. [Touch again, but this is also a brief change of focus—moving from the closeness between them to an awareness of their surroundings.]

“Ah, but here…mm.” He was on his knees now, one arm about my waist to hold me still, his nose buried in the hollow between my breasts. “Oh,” he said, and his voice had changed again.

I didn’t normally wear perfume, but I had a special oil, sent from the Indies, made with orange flowers, jasmine, vanilla beans and cinnamon. I had only a tiny vial, and wore a small dab infrequently–for occasions that I thought might perhaps be special. [Smell, and specific details that invite you to imagine the scent itself—but what’s important here is her thought about “might be special.”]

“Ye wanted me,” he said ruefully. “And I fell asleep without even touching you. I’m sorry, Sassenach. Ye should have said.”

“You were tired.” His hand had left my mouth; I stroked his hair, smoothing the long dark strands behind his ear. He laughed, and I felt the warmth of his breath on my bare stomach. [Touch, and a physical cue that provides necessary logistical information regarding their relative positions, and the fact that she’s naked.]

“Ye could raise me from the dead for that, Sassenach, and I wouldna mind it.”

He stood up then, facing me, and even in the dim light I could see that no such desperate measures on my part would be required. [A rare instance of sight. Since it’s couched in terms of her response, we needn’t be literal about what she sees—we can rely on the reader’s own experience to fill in the details.]

“It’s hot,” I said. “I’m sweating.”

“Ye think I’m not?”

His hands closed on my waist and he lifted me suddenly, setting me down on the broad windowsill. I gasped at contact with the cool wood, reflexively grasping the window-frame on either side. [Further logistics, emphasized by the “touch” details.]

“What on earth are you doing?”

He didn’t bother answering; it was an entirely rhetorical question, in any case.

“Eau de femme,” he murmured, his soft hair brushing across my thighs as he knelt. The floorboards creaked under his weight. “Parfum d'amor, mm?” [Logistics/physical cue. Note that while this is not graphic at all, we have a perfectly clear vision of what he’s doing, owing to the combination of his remark—which makes it clear that he can smell her, and in a way he considers sexual—the touch of his hair on her thighs, and the sound of the floorboards.]

The cool breeze lifted my hair, drew it tickling across my back like the lightest of lover’s touches. Jamie’s hands were firm on the curve of my hips; I was in no danger of falling, and yet I felt the dizzy drop behind me, the clear and endless night, with its star-strewn empty sky into which I might fall and go on falling, a tiny speck, blazing hotter and hotter with the friction of my passage, bursting finally into the incandescence of a shooting…star.

[Change of focus, moving from the close-up personal details of touch to the visual impression of the sky outside—which gives us a nice metaphor to use simultaneously for the emotional content and the physicality of orgasm.]

“Ssh,” Jamie murmured, far off. He was standing now, his hands on my waist, and the moaning noise might have been the wind, or me. His fingers brushed my lips. They might have been matches, striking flames against my skin. Heat danced over me, belly and breast, neck and face, burning in front, cool behind, like St. Lawrence on his gridiron.

[Continuing the metaphor, and now changing the focus from “far off” (outside our viewpoint character) to a concentration on the immediate physical situation.]

I wrapped my legs around him, one heel settled in the cleft of his buttocks, the solid strength of his hips between my legs my only anchor.

[One of the few explicit lines in the whole scene, which we need to make the position of the lovers clear—it being a rather unusual position.]

“Let go,“ he said in my ear. "I’ll hold you.” I did let go, and leaned back on the air.

OK, you see how that works? The language throughout is simple, but clear and graceful. The physical cues here are important, but also stated simply, with slight excursions into lyrical metaphor during the parts that would otherwise be gross. That restraint gives the scene a lot of power, and allows the dialogue to show [not tell] us the emotional content.

Pure Saturday morning Outlaw Queen smut.

The time before needing to be awake and still half sleeping was her favorite. It was still semi-dark outside with only hints of light at the window around the curtains. No work was pressing because it was Saturday, and there were no children to force out of bed and into school clothes. There was nowhere to go except to press closer to Robin. On these mornings, when they knew Henry and Roland had stayed up past bed time watching movies and would sleep in, she woke Robin with a line of lazy kisses down the slope of his neck. Her eyes were closed as she moved, nuzzling in between having her lips on his skin. He was warm with sleep, not awake yet, but as her hands caressed and fingers grazed across his stomach and down his pelvis, he let out an exhale. She could feel him, half hard against her belly and she smiled, lips curving against his shoulder.

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gets into a cab only to find someone else already inside AU
(part I of the AU ideas project)

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Leonard cursed as he exited the hospital and lifted his arm over his head. He hadn’t even noticed it had started pouring until he stepped out of the clinic.

Leonard glanced around the parking lot for his truck. Then he remembered that he came here with public transport this morning because his car was at the mechanic. Getting on a bus packed with rain-wet people in his current mood wasn’t very appealing, so he headed for the taxi stand around the corner instead.

He jogged over to the place, just to see that there were only two cabs left, one of them just leaving.

“Hey,” he shouted at the second cab, signaling it to wait for him.

He opened the door, shook out his wet suitcase as best as he could and then relaxed into the seat. He was just about to tell the driver where to go when he realized there was another man already sitting beside him.

“Oh God, man. I’m sorry. Thought ‘twas free.” Leonard already reached for the door handle. Brilliant.

“Hey no, it’s fine. Where are you going? We can share if you like. Wouldn’t want you getting all soaked out there.” Leonard finally really looked at the man. He was very handsome. Actually, that was an understatement. He was fucking beautiful. A sharp tailored suit indicated that he probably worked for one of the banks around the block. His dirty blond hair was a bit roughed up, most likely from the rain and wind, and gave him kind of a rakish look. He had three days worth of stubble and Leonard was pretty sure he’d never seen a man wearing it so well. But the stranger’s most striking feature were his incredible blue eyes.

“I uh-,” Leonard cleared his throat “that’s very nice of you.” He told him where he was going and coincidentally their destinations weren’t that far from one another.

“I’m Jim, by the way.” Jim held out his hand. Leonard shook it. “Leonard,” he introduced himself quickly.
“So you’re a doctor.” It wasn’t a question. Leonard looked down at himself, he was still wearing his scrubs.

“Trauma surgeon, yes.”

“Oh, a real sawbones. So you might save my life one day.” Jim grinned at him and Leonard really had to restrain himself from staring too much.

“Ah, I really hope I don’t have to. But at least now I already know you’re allergic,” Leonard pointed to the simple medical bracelet just visible under Jim’s sleeve, “job that exciting?”

Jim laughed, eyes crinkling. “Oh no, really not. But I like hiking and biking in my free time and because I’m kind of prone to accidents I’ve taken to wearing it all the time. And yes,” Jim shook his wrist, “penicillin.” The doctor hmmd and they fell silent for a bit.
Leonard desperately wanted to say something interesting, but he just couldn’t think of anything even remotely entertaining. He glanced at the blond man and found he was already looking at him intently. Leonard opened his mouth, ready to say the first thing that came to his mind just for the sake of talking, but then the taxi stopped.

“Oh, that’s me,” Jim said and fished a few notes out of his pocket. Leonard was still at a loss for words. He needed to do something. But Jim had already opened the door.

“Bones!” he said and it took Leonard a second to register that he was meant, Jim held out his hand. “It was great meeting you.” And wow, he genuinely looked like he meant it. Leonard took Jim’s hand and gave it a quick shake. And with that Jim was gone.

Leonard stared at the small folded piece of paper in his hand. He opened it with uncharacteristically shaky fingers.

Now that you already know where I live, coffee?
Call me!

Jim

Below that was a string of numbers.

Leonard spent the rest of the drive smiling out of the window, suddenly very thankful for the rain.

Need You

There was a taste of rich, bitter alcohol on your tongue. Just a taste. Liam wouldn’t like it if his baby girl got drunk at a public event like this. Your eyes scanned the crowds for him, wondering where he went off to as he left you with Niall. Niall was fun, but he was no Liam and you were hungry for his hands, his mouth, his everything.

South America brought back up your anxiety over missing Liam while he was touring. He made no comment about taking you with him on tour and after a five month break, you were spoiled by having his presence with you, holding you, treating you special.

He was gone for a couple weeks in South America and you missed him badly. You had no qualms with admitting that he spoiled you and the fact that he wasn’t there left an ache in your chest while he was gone.

He came back, kissing your lips and promising that the two of you wouldn’t be apart, that he couldn’t handle being away from you. He also promised that tonight, he’d do something special for you and you were waiting in nervous anticipation over what he was planning.

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Ten/Rose AU: Triboelectric {5/10}

Pairing: Ten/Rose
Genre: Alternate Universe
Rating: Teen.
Summary: “The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.”
― C.G. Jung

One / Two / Three / Four / Five / Six / Seven / Eight / Nine / Ten / AO3.



Chapter Five: Friction

“GOOD MORNING,” said a voice.

Rose cringed away from it, trying to crawl back into the blissful state of unconsciousness she’d been existing in before the voice. Something nudged her shoulder, a highly objectionable occurrence. Her response was to keep her eyes screwed shut against the resulting throbbing of her head and to pull the covers more tightly over it.

“Rose?”

“Shhh.”

“Sorry.” There was shuffling. The bed dipped slightly. “Rose.”

“Shhh!”

Momentary peace reigned, but it didn’t last.

“Sorry,” the voice said again, choosing to be irritatingly persistent. At least it had the decency to whisper this time. “But, Rose-” it sounded decidedly perplexed, “You don’t happen to know where my shirt went, do you?”

Several solid minutes went by before the question fully sank into Rose’s incapacitated brain. She recognized that voice. Her eyes snapped open. “What?”

“My shirt. It appears to have mysteriously vanished and I can’t find it anywhere.”

With a feeling of dread, Rose lowered the quilt just far enough to peek over it. The Doctor was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees, staring back at her. She blinked.

He was in his boxers. Just his boxers.

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Teddy Bear Tenderness

Petition to stop the lovely kirono and her gorgeous anons from flooding my dash with awesome ideas that I can’t resist but to write despite my massive list that needs to be written. I couldn’t help it. I really couldn’t. I’m sorry. So something quick and fluffy and loving based off of this anon’s ask to her. I do hope you enjoy it!! The fic is under the ‘Read More’! Smooch smooch!!

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anonymous asked:

I can't get this idea out of my head so how about Eren tickling Mikasa with his stubble

This brought the absolute cutest images to my head oh my goodness. I also really like the image of Eren getting a little scuff ;3

The days Mikasa got to stay in bed in the morning were her favorite. They didn’t come very often with her having to be up at the crack of dawn most every day to make sure she was up before the recruits she was training for the day. She did love training the new ones, but she loved her days off even more.

Two arms wrapped around her waist from behind pulling her until her back was flush up against a warm body. Mikasa especially loved it when her and Eren had the same day off. She rolled her head back against him, his warm breath in her ear.

“Good morning,” he murmured in a sleepy voice. Eren could always sleep at least double the time Mikasa did.

“Morning,” she said, her fingers tracing circles on his hands around her stomach. He was always so warm to the touch; even though he never used his shifting ability anymore his body temperature still stayed warmer than anyone else she knew. Not that she minded. She was always cold so it worked out just fine for her, especially mornings like these.

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