squeez in between

I’ve been thinking a lot about how old I am in technology years lately so here’s a bit of reminiscing for you kids in the form of stuff you’ll thankfully never know the pain of

  • having to rewind cassette tapes. you want to hear your favourite song again? no just clicking <<. nope, you gotta manually rewind that shit and keep hitting play to see if you’re at the beginning again.
  • like listening to your own music in the car? back in my day we had to bring a bag full of CDs and swap them out in our portable CD players. if the car went over a bump, the CD would jump in the player and the music would skip. eventually the CDs would get wrecked. I killed so many CDs thanks to all the moving around I did as a kid.
  • stifling the dialup tone when your parents were in bed. want to sneak online? good luck. I had the modem squeezed between my legs, with two pillows pressed on top of it, and still. crrrrrRRRSSSHHHHHHHHHHH
  • fucking. homepage wars. hacking was a lot easier back in the day thanks to no one knowing shit about security and nerds like my generation quickly learning more than the web developers did. this resulted in carnage if you owned your own webpage. it was commonplace for different groups to have wars and constantly hack each other’s pages and deface them. you could trust no one. you leave for five seconds and suddenly your state of the art homepage and all its lit wordart graphics has been replaced with a plain text message insinuating something about your mother.
  • an entire room in your house was dedicated to the computer. it was called the computer room. it was filled with wires you were constantly tripping over, and thanks to the fact you were on a desktop, there was no battery life. you better get used to tripping over your power cord or rolling back in your chair and ripping it out of the wall, therefore instantly shutting off your computer, because it’s going to happen multiple times a week my guy.
  • “get off the internet, I need to use the phone” “how long will you be?” “only a couple of minutes” *two hours later*
  • I’m pretty sure it was messenger that had this, but basically if someone ignored your message for too long you could send them graphics that would hijack their entire browser and pop up on the screen. they were huge and would sometimes make the screen shake and I heard rumours that some of them could even make noise.
  • this is one that’s near and dear to me because I spent like 60% of my childhood in a car but handheld game consoles didn’t have built in lights. I remember playing Pokemon on my big purple GameBoy as it got dark, holding the screen closer and closer to my face, and eventually having to resort to quickly jamming the buttons when we passed under a streetlight. I remember when the GameBoy Advance SP came out with a built in back light and I lost my fucking mind.
  • *is two seconds away from finally downloading a picture online that’s been downloading for 15 minutes* *someone picks up the phone downstairs* *internet disconnects* *download fails* *why must you hurt me in this way*
  • writing everything you wanted to say online in the raw html code because it didn’t do it automatically. fine if you just wanted to make things bold or underlined, a lot more annoying when you wanted to add an image or bullet points or something. no such thing as a quick rant.

this is really long already so I’ll stop here but long story short it was a dark time and you all should grab every technological advancement you can with both hands and never let them go. for the sake of my childhood self, nose-to-screen with a GameBoy. do not let them go.

Beard Burn

Characters: Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: Steve likes to grow his beard out between missions, and you think its sexy.  He wants to know why you think so, then he gets turned on. (it’s just smut)

A/N: inspired by the goddamn soft!bearded!steve board.  y’all….just let me live. also i need to learn how to title things.  i called it fucking “beard burn.” @ myself come on…

Warnings: oral sex (fr), language

Words: 2148

Tags: @daybreak96 @feelmyroarrrr @jimtkirkisabitch 

Part Two

(this gif made me wet tbh)


Steve glances up over his book at the sound of you entering the room.  He smiles.  “Hey, doll.”

You stop dead.  “You have got to be kidding me,” you mutter, taking him in.  He’s lounging back on the bed in nothing but a pair of low riding sweats. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, he was still growing out his beard.  And—God help you—he was wearing glasses.

“Goddamn it, Steve.”

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2

She scooped up a handful of snow and squeezed it between her fingers. Heavy and wet, the snow packed easily. Sansa began to make snowballs, shaping and smoothing them until they were round and white and perfect. She remembered a summer’s snow in Winterfell when Arya and Bran had ambushed her as she emerged from the keep one morning. They’d each had a dozen snowballs to hand, and she’d had none. Bran had been perched on the roof of the covered bridge, out of reach, but Sansa had chased Arya through the stables and around the kitchen until both of them were breathless. She might even have caught her, but she’d slipped on some ice. Her sister came back to see if she was hurt. When she said she wasn’t, Arya hit her in the face with another snowball, but Sansa grabbed her leg and pulled her down and was rubbing snow in her hair when Jory came along and pulled them apart, laughing.

                                    What do I want with snowballs?

3

She scooped up a handful of snow and squeezed it between her fingers. Heavy and wet, the snow packed easily. Sansa began to make snowballs, shaping and smoothing them until they were round and white and perfect. She remembered a summer’s snow in Winterfell when Arya and Bran had ambushed her as she emerged from the keep one morning. They’d each had a dozen snowballs to hand, and she’d had none. Bran had been perched on the roof of the covered bridge, out of reach, but Sansa had chased Arya through the stables and around the kitchen until both of them were breathless. She might even have caught her, but she’d slipped on some ice. Her sister came back to see if she was hurt. When she said she wasn’t, Arya hit her in the face with another snowball, but Sansa grabbed her leg and pulled her down and was rubbing snow in her hair when Jory came along and pulled them apart, laughing.

anonymous asked:

Can i request for a bad boy serpent jughead jones and the sweet girl next door betty cooper fiction and maybe with a steamy make out session scene? Thank you!

So the story is slightly AU. Jughead never attended school in Riverdale, never was friends with Betty and Archie, as a matter of fact they didn’t even know each other. No murder ever happened, Betty was never pinning over Archie. I also made some other small changes that you’ll notice upon reading. Plus, I made Reggie a Serpent too, for no reason really, I just wanted him to be Jughead’s childhood best friend in this universe. :p Last but not least, Betty turned out to be extremely feisty while I was writing this; she is still a sweetheart in pastel colors but her character is a tad more Betty Cooper in episodes 12 &13. I hope that’s ok! Thank you for requesting, dear anon! Enjoy, lovelies! ❤️
(Okay, this is 34 pages long. I don’t even know why, I don’t even know what I have written in so many pages. I apologize in advance for that mammoth length. Warning: turns mildly smutty but definately hot and heavy at the end.)

P.S. Because this is too long, I have put it under a “read more” so if you are on mobile the story gets cut halfway through. Here’s an AO3 link if the tumblr app doesn’t work for you. :)


Fruit Punch Lips & Leather Jacket Dreams

  • Chapter 1: But Mama, I Want a Bad Boy

Southside Elementary School was a rare example of fine architecture in the small town of Riverdale. Rebuilt at the outskirts of town, after a disastrous fire caused by a minor during a prank gone wrong a couple of years ago, and squeezed between Southside Kindergarten and Southside High, it looked nothing like the two crumbling, cement colored buildings on its sides that lacked any learning motivation. It was modern, pure white with splashes of green and purple and it brought a fresh air of change, a promise that maybe the next generation of Southside kids would not have the ominous fate of their ancestors.

The Serpents had outdone themselves with the construction of the of the building, hiring Fred Andrews and his crew – one of the few people that wasn’t driven by discrimination and always agreed in doing business at the south side of town – and wasting a large amount of money from their infamous Serpent vault to create a place appropriate for shaping young minds. Maybe that’s why sweet and always optimistic Betty Cooper smiled every day at three o’clock sharp when her sneakers would hop up the marble stairs of the buzzing with life building. Because it was proving her right; Serpents would do anything for their children, just like any other parent on a prestigious office job. Serpents weren’t the monsters everyone thought they were.

Her excuse for walking all the way from their quaint north paradise to the disreputable south district five days per week was something that Betty always found fascinating; volunteering. Nurturing and caring by nature, she was constantly filling her free time with activities that offered assistance to those needed; taking care of stray cats and dogs down at the animal center, gathering food supplies and clothing for the homeless at their local church, being an annual blood donor, being proud cofounder along with her best friend, Veronica Lodge, of the two years now successful female empowerment club, Girls Speak Louder, at Riverdale High. And when senior year came and she needed a bigger challenge, something to bring her out of her good girl comfort zone, a tiny announcement had caught her eye, stuck on the bulletin board at the center of her high school corridor; Volunteers needed at Southside Elementary School.

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James Sirius Potter

*James Sirius is born, Harry names the kid. So far so good.*

Sirius: Poor Minnie is going to faint when she hears that name.

Lily: I have no idea what he was thinking naming him after the two of you.

Remus: He doesn’t think generally, goes with his instincts.

Lily: Oh, let’s think where he got that from.

Sirius: *smirking* Could be anyone of us really.

Lily: James is uncharacteristically quiet.

*they all turn around James is watching his grandson very intently*

Remus: *puts a hand on James’ shoulder* Prongs? You alright mate?

James: *his voice breaks a little* I’m alright.

Lily: Oh baby *gives James a kiss*

Sirius: Oh, is ickle Jamie emotional?

James: Fuck off Padfoot, you’re just mad because he will use James.

Sirius: What? Of course he will use Sirius. Mummy dearest didn’t name me after the brightest star so it can be used as a fucking middle name.

Remus: No, she named you Sirius because she somehow knew you would be an attention seeking little prat.

Lily: Merlin’s beard! LANGUAGE!

James: Like you never curse Evans. 

Lily: Do you mean when you annoy the shit out of me, Potter? *Remus and Sirius are both stifling their laughters* Now if you’ll excuse me I’ll be watching my son and my grandson.

*Lily walks away from them*

Remus: It’s been almost 50 years, how can you still get on her nerves?

James: It’s a talent, Moony.

Remus: I know, I thought only Sirius possessed this particular talent.

Sirius: Do I get on your nerves Moony? *raising an eyebrow* Would you like me to get on something else?

Remus: *face palm* He’s bloody relentless.

James: I did not have to hear that, I think I will go get Tonks. 

Sirius: *grinning* She enjoys it when I do jokes like that, what she doesn’t get is that I’m serious.

James: I’m pretty sure she gets that you’re Sirius.

*Sirius rolls his eyes*

Remus: When will you stop doing that?

James: When hell freezes over. 


You can read Albus Severus Potter here.

Make a Move

Muse: Min Yoongi x Reader
Genre: Fluffy cringey fluff and a pinch of angst.
Word: 3.5k
Type: A friends with benefits AU ─In which one of you falls in love with the other and confesses without saying the three little words. + College AU
Note: A companion piece to Why People Fall in Love because I’m a sucker for FWB!AU’s
Warning: Implied smut.

Part: III & III (completed)

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+ You’re closest to Hoseok in terms of friendship and flirtationship as per everyone’s painfully blatant knowledge ─ very much like the ‘he likes her she likes him and everybody knows but them trope’ with the exception you’re aware of your feelings for that boy. But what they don’t know is the existential violet bruises you keep fairly hidden underneath your complementary jackets and skinny jeans ─always all covered up head to toe, you might give the Sisters a run for their money. 

The bruises made by Hoseok’s best friend, Min Yoongi.

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It was with a warm hand on Castiel’s shoulder that Chuck watched his son die for the first time. Watched as the archangel shredded Cas under the weight and pull of angelic power. It was messy. It was callous.

Chuck wiped his blood-covered hands on his jeans, feeling the way the slick met rough—what was left of his son smeared on the denim.

Dean had come and gone and Chuck was left, sitting in the red-painted house, knowing that somewhere, his firstborn son was breaking free. Going to end the world.

Chuck sighed, grabbing a bottle of liquor from the counter and taking a deep swig. He could still see the glow in Castiel’s eyes. Not from grace, but from something perhaps more pure. Like a memory of the light once used to create the earth and all the creatures that inhabited it. The light that Chuck had given his creations straight from his own fingertips.

Cas, you beautiful idiot, he had thought as the room shook and he watched his son hold his ground, his last breaths rooted in a pearl of hope for the Earth. Hope placed in the small hands of two forgettable hunters fighting against the rising powers of hell.

The brave sacrifice of the brown-haired, blue eyed angel who died to save the world would likely never be told, but still, Chuck couldn’t help but think that it was the stuff that stories were made of.

It was quiet now, in the kitchen with the reminder of Cas, the man who’d ripped up the pages of destiny and spat in the face of fate. The man who’d scoured the earth in search for God with nothing but a second-hand pendant and a desire to protect.

Chuck closed his eyes, tightly. A desire to protect, he thought, his mind drifting back to the sense of wonder he’d felt when he’d first created his angels.

He sat down and poured a little drink on the floor in tribute before squeezing the bottle between his knees. And he tried not to remember that he had the power to protect, too. To protect the world from the impending apocalypse. To protect Castiel.

He didn’t. He wouldn’t. It was a promise he’d made a long time ago when, in an effort to “save,” he’d purged the earth with water. What surprised him, however, was how men continued to preach in his name, building philosophies and stamping them with heaven’s seal without care to God’s sanctions.

“Maybe my children make better Gods than me,” Chuck considered, finding himself again drawn to the two young brothers that, even now, were facing Michael and Lucifer when even their own God couldn’t.Dean and Sam were better men than their father, Chuck thought, and Cas was a better man than me.

Chuck stared at the way the room wore bits of Cas and wondered at the feelings of sentiment he felt. True, Chuck knew all of his angels, but he couldn’t find it in himself to understand why he felt the world was smaller now in the space since he’d watched Castiel die. After all, it was simply the natural order of things. He created angels like shooting stars: fiery, fierce and beautiful. And, like the meteoroids plowing through the sky, Cas had come too close to the earth, burning up inside the atmosphere.

Once, Chuck had commanded the angels to love the humans. The angels had become volatile, hardened creatures, made for duty with no one to serve. Statues of rigid perfection.

Chuck looked down at his own hands, letting his mind wander through the intricate designs of the human vessel he’d created for himself. Human flesh was so different than the fierce ether of an angel. He’d created them with the heads of beasts and great spanning wings. They were formidable, truly, they were. And yet, Chuck knew, even then, when he’d first birthed them, that humans were his most beautiful creation. They were breakable, small, and beautifully flawed. And, he’d known then, too, that he’d created mankind to save them all. To save the angels. To save himself.

It was his own last beacon of hope, that perhaps they could all become something more than the patterns of war and violence that had emanated from him and poured into his creations.

Chuck smiled as he looked at the Supernatural books, knowing he had found it. His broken children who had become more than their God, willing to die for the sake of the planet.

They had transcended him. He always knew they would. But, what had surprised him was the angel in the dirty trench coat and blue eyes, falling away from heaven’s glory for one man. One human. An angel that had such faith in and love for humanity that he’d given up everything.

Chuck bowed his head to his chest. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t get involved. And yet, he could still hear Castiel’s prayers in the back of his head—months of the angel’s voice crying for an absent God to step in and save his children.

And Chuck knew what he had to do. Though it wasn’t much in the grand scheme of things—a small gesture, really. But significant nonetheless.

Slowly, he leaned down to the floor, touching a spot of red with his finger. He watched as the bits of Cas responded, finding their way back to the whole. It was a fascinating process, to see the parts of Cas’s vessel come together, gathering, binding, creating arms, legs, a face. Until, suddenly, he was staring at the calm features of Cas’s body, laying down with his eyes closed, as if he could be asleep.

Then, with a breath, Chuck pulled light from the skies, infusing grace and soul and power to recreate Castiel’s true form, creating a sacred space inside the simple kitchen of Chuck’s home. It felt wrong, in a way, to bring so much of his God self back to the place where he had gone to leave it all behind. And yet, it also felt right. To put something back together again after such a long time of watching things fall apart.

And, finally, it was done as he gingerly placed Castiel back inside the man laying on the ground. He watched as the vessel’s chest hitched with the first breath of life, and smiled when he looked at the body he’d created just for Cas. For the angel who wanted so badly to love humans. In a way, now he could be one. He thought Cas would like that he’d made him look like Jimmy. That maybe he’d find it easier if he could look in the mirror and see the man whose face had first chosen to be so autonomous and free from heaven.

Cas’s eyes were still closed, and Chuck knew he couldn’t let him wake up here. He couldn’t face his son. Not now. Still, he was surprised to find himself kneeling on the floor of the kitchen, running his hands through the soft parts of Castiel’s hair, his thoughts, surprisingly far away from the ending of the rest of the world. Instead, he placed a kiss on top of Cas’s head, sending him to a beautiful forest, by a stream to wake up.

And then the kitchen was empty again, the clock on the wall ticking loudly, and the stain from the spilled alcohol shining on the floor.

Chuck contemplated what he’d done. Wondered at his own need to break every rule that had bound him for centuries and heal one lowly angel when he’d let hundreds of others die.

But, he thought he already knew the answer. Where Chuck had made humans in a deliberate effort at salvation, one lowly angel had been a surprise. A miracle. And, as Chuck sat back in his chair, he smiled as he admitted it to himself: it turned out that maybe it wasn’t just the humans that were there to save. It turned out that maybe, just maybe, a forgettable, self-sacrificing angel with blue eyes and too much heart could be the one to redeem them all.

Imagine you've found work in the country

You never thought that desperation would lead you to such a situation.

With a new era of peace welcoming the kingdom, there was no longer high demand for a blacksmith in the city. Your father, who had been employed by even the royal family, had lost his job. Your family had lived a comfortable life in one of the richer districts. Now, you had been forced to sell nearly everything in an effort to make ends meet. Your father took whatever odd jobs he could find. Your mother became a servant at the castle. Your siblings, older and more talented, found jobs easily. You couldn’t bring yourself to enjoy the merits of their hard work. You were young, but you were sure that you could be hired somewhere. You couldn’t lift much, given your easy life, but there was bound to be an opportunity lurking just around the corner.

That opportunity, you quickly learned, was in a brothel. After moving to the slums, there was one at the end of your street. You passed by it every day and night as you searched for jobs. The workers, both men and women, were clad in revealing clothes. Through the windows, you could see that those layers were quickly shed. You knew that they made good money, especially since you had seen some of the richest men coming and going, sometimes even bringing gifts. If a wealthy individual liked someone well enough, they could simply buy them for indefinite use. They would be showered in jewels and gold, but they would never be truly free. The consequences were too great. You worried what your family would think.

You eventually came across an advertisement for a position on a farm. The owner was looking for more help. The contract would last one year, give or take circumstances. The pay was better than any other job you could have taken, given your small list of skills. You would finally be able to help your family. The owner would give you a room in the homestead, so your family wouldn’t have to spend money to feed you. You would send them money every moon or so to help them cover rent.

“Hey,” A voice rumbled behind you, “When’s breakfast? I’m starving.”

You pulled yourself from your thoughts, glancing to the window. The sun hadn’t risen yet. Meals were always at dawn, noon, and dusk. The night was dangerous outside of city walls, so field work was only done during the daylight hours. When you first arrived at the homestead five days prior, you had been assigned as the cook. You did your job well enough, save for a few small mishaps. The work wasn’t very challenging. The hard part was dealing with the field workers. They were all more beasts than men. Even the smallest towered above you, strong enough to lift you with one hand. In the mornings, they smelled of booze. At night, of sweat and dirt. But that wasn’t the issue.

You didn’t turn to look at him, instead focusing on the eggs you were making. If you burnt them, you wouldn’t hear the end of it, “It won’t be for another hour, at the very least. You should get some more sleep. There’s still ale left in the-“

The floorboards creaked, the man moving closer. Your grip tightened on the frying pan as you watched his right hand reach around and grab your breast. He squeezed, then slipped his hand between your apron and your dress. His fingertips found your nipple, pinching. Your breath hitched. You swallowed the desire the hit him in the face with the hot pan, instead moving the scrambled eggs away from the stove. His other hand found purchase beneath your skirt, tugging your smallclothes to the side so he could thrust a finger inside of you.

You tried to push him away, but his grip was too tight. He was used to chopping firewood and steering cattle. Manhandling you was easy for him.

Besides, even if you did manage to land a hit on him, you would be the one punished. You had learned that lesson on your first day. After signing your contract, preparing dinner, then heading to bed, one of the men had gone into your room. You fought back, hitting him across the face with a broom. When you went to the owner to report the worker, he berated you for harming one of his workers. He was only in it for the money. If one of the field workers was injured, they wouldn’t be able to work as well. He told you that, also you were primarily the cook, you were also considered a morale booster. Apparently, the homestead made more money when the men had something to sink their cocks into. From what you heard in your few days there, you were beginning to suspect that the owner also partook in a morale boost from time to time.

The man pulled you away from the stove. You wrenched away from him, glaring. For a brief moment, you saw the scar that the broom had left beneath his eye. He had told you afterwards, a hand in your hair as he pushed you into the mattress, that he liked your fire. He kept talking, even as he gripped your waist and fucked you harder. He had been working at the homestead for years, but they had only recently started employing women.

The first, Jenn, quickly became a favourite of the owner and got pregnant. Still, you had seen her with the workers. She had been serving drinks as you cleaned dishes when one of them pulled her into his lap. Her dress was tight over her swollen belly as he tugged her back to meet each of his thrusts. She made no effort in being quiet, though she asked him to be gentler for the baby’s sake. Her contract was technically up a month before her pregnancy was discovered, but the owner kept her on the grounds that she couldn’t work as well in her current condition. The very thought made you shudder. With the way things were going, you wouldn’t be surprised if she ended up pregnant again shortly after giving birth.

The second and third, Trish and Corina, were a bit younger than you and rather mousy. They were intimidated by the men, which made them easy targets. Trish, who was slender, was being to show. Her dress rounded out just a bit when she stood up straight. The men had laughed about it, one of them saying that it was obvious when her dress was off. Corina, who was curvier and had a bit of pudge on her stomach, hadn’t shown any signs. Still, you figured that it was only a matter of time.

You, on the other hand, had only been working there for five days. You had bled just before leaving for the homestead, so you had a little while to think of a way to escape. At the very least, you could devise a plan that would keep you from becoming a permanent employee. You had quickly discovered that most of the workers preferred a certain girl, though they would often take advantage of any opportunity if in the mood. The one currently trying to undress you, however, only had eyes for you. After you fought back against him, it seemed that he reveled in the idea of forcing you to submit.

He bent you over the counter, his stiff cock pressing against you. Only his trousers and your skirt were in the way, but he would remedy that easily. A large hand pinned you onto the countertop. Even as you squirmed and tried to kick him, he merely laughed as he pulled your smallclothes to your knees. He lifted your skirt, the cold air causing you to hiss. Fingers stroked and prodded, rubbing your walls. You reached back, trying to claw at him. The sound of rustling clothes made you tense, only for him to brush against your entrance. You didn’t have the chance to retaliate. He buried himself to the hilt. You couldn’t help but cry out, unbearably full. When he shifted, you could feel the tip move over your cervix. It made you shudder, blinking back hot tears. It was painful, but exactly what he wanted.

He withdrew, setting up a lazy pace. There was still time before the others would wake and come downstairs. He could take as long as he wanted. Even if they found you both in the kitchen, no one would do anything about it. If anything, one of the workers would probably insist that he was next in line.

The hand on your back lifted, instead tangling in your hair. A swift pull made your back arch. You straightened, ready to slap him, but his other arm kept your elbows at your sides. You had no way to fight against him. Your jaw tightened. You swore that you could feel your stomach distended by his cock, a small bump moving upwards and outwards each time he filled you.

“Come here,” He grabbed your face, his fingers prying your jaw open. He forced you to look at him, his smirk only widening as you glared. His cock twitched, your breath caught in your chest, “Give me a kiss,” His mouth covered yours, leaving no room for refusal. His grip kept you from biting him, your teeth digging into your own skin as his tongue entered your mouth. He still tasted of booze.

He withdrew slowly, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his. You pulled your head away in disgust, wanting to clean your mouth out with soap as soon as he let you go. His pace had quickened, each thrust deep and rough. You winced, hoping that he was close. The sooner he was done, the sooner you would be able to clean up and forget it ever happened.

His arm left your sides, only to hook around your neck. Your nails dug into his skin, trying to pry him off. He wasn’t choking you, but just a little more pressure would close your airway. His other hand slipped up your dress, toying with your breasts. You choked back every whimper. Hearing you cry out only spurred him on. He would only taunt you, wondering aloud if your body wanted this, wanted to be taken and filled and bearing his child.

His touch wandered lower, settling just below your navel. With every movement of his hips, a small portion of your stomach shifted against his hand. You forced yourself to stay quiet as the end of his thrusts became rough. He was doing it on purpose, trying to get a reaction out of you.

His mouth moved to your ear, “I can’t wait to see you stuffed full with my brat in your belly. You’ll be trying to do your job like a good little cook but they’ll be kicking up a storm. A big, strong troublemaker, just like their daddy. I’ll fuck you through your labor pains and get to see the look on your pretty face when you realize that you can’t fight what’s happening, you can’t stop yourself from having my kid. The boss will be livid. You’ll owe him another year of work for giving him another mouth to feed. I just have to keep you full until my last two years are up. Then I can take you with me and make you my darling little housewife. It sounds like the perfect retirement, doesn’t it?”

“I’d rather die,” You growled. He pulled you in for another sloppy kiss, his grip and pace unforgiving. You’d undoubtedly have bruises within the day and a bit of a stumble in your gait. You pulled away from him, breathing ragged. His fingers slipped between your legs, rubbing in quick, harsh circles. Your knees quivered, then buckled. A yelp of pain escaped you as he hit your cervix, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. You turned just enough to put a hand to his chest, trying to push him away. You couldn’t let him finish inside of you. You weren’t going to have his children.

But a sudden pinch to the sweet spot between your legs sent sparks up your spine. Your entire body tensed, more out of pain than forced pleasure. You tightened around him like a vice. He twitched inside of you, barely able to withdraw an inch before filling you again. He grinded against you, each movement causing you to shudder. It was overstimulation on your part. You were dizzy, even as he returned to tracing small circles.

He stilled, panting and sheathed within you. A familiar warmth pooled. Your grip loosened on his arm, exhausted. You could feel some of his seed dripping down your thighs. You would have to bathe when you had the chance. He let you go. You leaned against the counter, trying not to fall. He removed himself, adjusting his trousers. You refused to look at him, silently hoping that he would leave.

He smacked your rear, “I’m going back to bed. See you at breakfast.”

You looked to the pan of eggs you had been making before he had intervened, seeing that they were cold. You would have to start from scratch.


Author’s Note: Hello! Keira Metz here! It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything, so I decided to start a new tale. Depending on the response from all of you lovely readers, I’ll continue this. Otherwise, I can whip up something new. Also, there may or may not have been some foreshadowing in this one, ehehe~

You Deserve Punishment pt.2 (M)

Description: You never wanted to see them again, you couldn’t bare facing them in the eyes. Not after what you witnessed. It would forever haunt you. Why? Because you discovered their dirty little secret; Park Jimin was the lover of Min Yoonji, who was actually a man.

Pairing: Jimin x Reader x Yoongi

Genre: Smut (M), angst, university!au

Word Count: 8,046

A/N: This is the direct continuation to the first part of “You Deserve Punishment”. Please read the first part, if you haven’t already, or else you’ll be confused. Extreme vulgar language use. Graphic descriptions of sex. (blowjobs, penetration, food play, anal, etc). Threesome, bondage, and overstimulation (rough) is in this story. Heavy dom/sub undertones. Some yaoi (boyxboy). This is a mature read! You have been warned!

Originally posted by bellahasjams

“The reason I wanted you to leave is because I couldn’t control myself from you. Every time I see you, all i want is to bend you over and fuck you till you beg for me to stop………But you’ve disappointed me Y/n. You disrespected your oppa. You’re so bad….… and bad girls deserve punishment.”

 

You freeze when he tells you this. Control himself from you? He wants to do what with me? What the hell is going on? He…. has to be lying…….he hates me. “You’re lying…” you say shaking your head. How could he even be attracted to you?

Keep reading

Meet me in Montauk.
Sometimes we try so hard to forget people that they unintentionally etch into our minds forever.
When you spend a lot of time scrubbing out a stain, you’re bound to remember it’s shape.
It’s where the sea meets the sand, even though the sand has been there the whole time and it always will be and it never goes away.
Nestled under the lapping waves for an eternity, not unlike that of the smiles shared on that beach in late July when you thought you’d feel this way forever.
But by August first it was over.
And you began scrubbing the stains.
And so it goes.
It’s far enough from the gentle anarchy of piss soaked streets squeezed between the ebb and flow of skyscrapers.
And the ant people they told you you’d never fit in with.
But colonize me and call it home.
‘I don’t want you to fall in love with me.’
Even these words were music to your fifteen year old ears because you hadn’t the faintest clue what love was but you knew you loved them.
The worst part of it all is that we try so hard to forget people who never cleared space on their memory cards because they weren’t ready for us.
Sometimes we are not ready for ourselves.
Meet me in Montauk.
—  a poem inspired in part by eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, ‘montauk’ by sarah kay, and my own never ending desire to understand
Full Esquire Interview - CHRIS EVANS IS READY TO FIGHT

“HIS SUCCESS AS CAPTAIN AMERICA HAS MADE CHRIS EVANS ONE OF HOLLYWOOD’S SURE THINGS, WHICH MEANS HE CAN DO WHATEVER HE WANTS WITH HIS FREE TIME. SO WHY JUMP OUT OF AIRPLANES AND GET INTO IT WITH DAVID DUKE?

BY MAXIMILLIAN POTTERMAR 15, 2017


The Canadian commandos are the first to jump. Our plane reaches an altitude of about eight thousand feet; the back door opens. Although it’s a warm winter day below in rural southern California, up here, not so much. In whooshes freezing air and the cold reality that this is actually happening. Out drop the eight commandos, all in black-and-red camouflage, one after the other. For them it’s a training exercise, and Jesus, these crazy bastards are stoked. The last Canuck to exit into the nothingness is a freakishly tall stud with a crew cut and a handlebar mustache; just before he leaps, he flashes a smile our way. Yeah, yeah, we get it: You’re a badass.

Moments later, the plane’s at ten thousand feet, and the next to go are a Middle Eastern couple in their late thirties. These two can’t wait. They are ecstatic. Skydiving is clearly a thing for them. Why? I can’t help thinking. Is it like foreplay? Do they rush off to the car after landing and get it on in the parking lot? They give us the thumbs-up and they’re gone.

Just like that, we’re at 12,500 feet and it’s our turn. Me and Chris Evans, recognized throughout the universe as the star of the Marvel-comic-book-inspired Captain America and Avengers movies. The five films in the series, which began in 2011 with Captain America: The First Avenger, have grossed more than $4 billion.

The two of us, plus four crew members, are the only ones left in the back of the plane. Over the loud drone of the twin propellers, one of the crew members shouts, "Okay, who’s going first?”

Evans and I are seated on benches opposite each other. Neither of us answers. I look at him; he looks at me. I feel like I’ve swallowed a live rat. Evans is over there, all Captain America cool, smiling away.

While we were waiting to board the plane, Evans told me that as he lay in bed the night before, “I started exploring the sensation of ‘What if the chute doesn’t open?’. . .”

Oh, did you now?

“. . .Those last minutes where you know.” As in you know you’re going to fatally splat. “You’re not gonna pass out; you’re gonna be wide awake. So what? Do I close my eyes? Hopefully, it would be quick. Lights out. I fucking hope it would be quick. And then I was like, if you’re gonna do it, let’s just pretend there is no way this is going to go wrong. Just really embrace it and jump out of that plane with gusto.” Evans also shared that he’d looked up the rate of skydiving fatalities. “It’s, like, 0.006 fatalities per one thousand jumps. So I figure our odds are pretty good.”

Again the crew member shouts, “Who’s going first?”

Again I look at Evans; again he looks at me. The rat is running circles in my belly.

I look at Evans; he looks at me.

Another crew member asks, “So whose idea was this, anyway?”


That’s an excellent question.

I ask Evans the same thing when we first meet, the evening before our jump, at his house. He lives atop the Hollywood Hills, in a modern-contemporary ranch in the center of a Japanese-style garden. The place has the vibe of an L.A. meditation retreat—there’s even a little Buddha statue on the front step.

The dude who opens the front door is in jeans, a T-shirt, and Nikes; he has on a black ball cap with the NASA logo, and his beard is substantial enough that for a second it’s hard to be sure this is the same guy who plays the baby-faced superhero. Our handshake in the doorway is interrupted when his dog rockets toward my crotch. Evans is sorry about that.

We do the small-talk thing. Evans is from a suburb of Boston, one of four kids raised by Dad, a dentist, and Mom, who ran a community theater. The point is, he’s a Patriots fan, and with Super Bowl LI, between the Pats and the Falcons, just a few days away at the time, it’s about the only thing on his mind. You bet your Sam Adams–guzzling ass he’s going to the game in Houston. “Oh my God,” he says, doing a little dance. “I can’t believe it’s this weekend.”

Like any self-respecting Pats fan, Evans is super-wicked pissed at NFL commissioner Roger Goodell.

Evans won’t be rolling to SB LI with a posse of Beantown-to-Hollywood A-listers like Mark Wahlberg, Matt Damon, and Ben Affleck. For the record, he’s never met Damon, and his only interaction with Wahlberg was a couple years ago at a Patriots event. Evans has, however, humiliated himself in front of Affleck.

Around 2006, Evans met with Affleck to talk about Gone Baby Gone, which Affleck was directing. Evans was walking down a hallway, looking for the room where they were supposed to meet. Walking by an open office, he heard Affleck, in that thick Boston accent of his, shout, “There he is!” (Evans does a perfect Affleck impersonation.)

By then, Evans had hit the big time for his turn as the Human Torch, Johnny Storm, in 2005’s Fantastic Four, but he still got starstruck. As he tells it, “First thing I say to him: 'Am I going to be okay where I parked?’ He was like, 'Where did you park?’ I said, 'At a meter.’ And he was like, 'Did you put money in the meter?’ And I said, 'Yep.’ And he says, 'Well, I think you’ll be okay.’ I was like, this is off to a great fucking start.” Stating the obvious here: Evans did not get the part.

No, Evans will be heading to the Super Bowl with his brother and three of his closest buddies. Like any self-respecting Pats fan, Evans is super-wicked pissed at NFL commissioner Roger Goodell for imposing that suspension on Tom Brady for Deflategate. Grabbing two beers from a fridge that’s otherwise basically empty, Evans says, “I just want to see Goodell hand the trophy to Brady. Goodell. Piece of shit.”

In Evans’s living room, there’s not a single hint of his Captain Americaness. Earth tones, tables that appear to be made of reclaimed wood. Open. Uncluttered. Glass doors open onto a backyard with a stunning view of the Hills. Evans stretches out on one of two couches. I take the other and ask, “Just whose idea was it to jump?” Since we both know whose idea it wasn’t, we both know that what I’m really asking is Why? Why, dude, do you want to jump (with me) from a goddamn airplane? “Yeah,” he says, popping open his beer, “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Settling in on the couch, he groans. Evans explains that he’s hurting all over because he just started his workout routine the day before to get in shape for the next two Captain America films. The movies will be shot back to back beginning in April. After that, no more red- white-and-blue costume for the thirty-five-year-old. He will have fulfilled his contract.

“Yeah,” he says, popping open his beer, “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Back in 2010, Marvel presented Evans with a nine-picture deal. He insisted he’d sign on for no more than six. Some family members thought he was nuts to dial back such a secure and lucrative gig. Evans saw it differently.

It takes five months to shoot a Marvel movie, and when you tack on the promotional obligations for each one, well, shit, man. Evans knew that for as long as he was bound to Captain America, he would have little time to take on other projects. He wanted to direct, he wanted to play other characters—roles that were more human—like the lead in Gifted, which will hit theaters this month. The script had brought him to tears. Evans managed to squeeze the movie in between Captain America and Avengers films.

FOX Searchlight

In Gifted, Evans stars as Frank Adler. You don’t get much more human than Adler, a grease-under-his-nails boat-engine mechanic living the bachelor life in Florida. After a series of tragic circumstances, Adler becomes a surrogate father to his niece, Mary, a first-grader with the IQ of Einstein. He recognizes that Mary is a little genius, and he does his best to prevent anyone else from noticing. Given the aforementioned circumstances, Adler has witnessed what can happen when a kid with a brilliant mind is pushed too hard too quickly. Then along comes Mary’s teacher. She discovers the child’s gift, and a Kramer vs. Kramer–esque drama ensues.

During a moment in the film when things aren’t going Adler’s way, he sarcastically refers to himself as a “fucking hero.” Evans says the line didn’t lead him to make comparisons between superhero Steve Rogers (aka Captain America) and Everyman hero Frank Adler. But now that you mention it . . . 

“With Steve Rogers,” Evans says, “even though you’re on a giant movie with a huge budget and strange costumes, you’re still on a hunt for the truth of the character.” That said, “with Adler, it’s nice to play someone relatable. I think Julianne Moore said, 'The audience doesn’t come to see you; they come to see themselves.’ Adler is someone you can hold up as a mirror for someone in the audience. They’ll be able to far more easily identify with Frank Adler than Steve Rogers.”

Dodger. That’s the name of Evans’s dog, the one who headbutted my nuts and has since done a marvelous job of making amends by nuzzling against me on the couch. Evans got him while he was filming Gifted; one of the last scenes was shot in an animal shelter in Georgia. Evans had wanted a dog ever since his last pooch died in 2012. Then he found himself walking the aisles of this pound, and there was this mixed-breed boxer, wagging his tail and looking like he belonged with Evans.

Dodger is not exactly a name you’d think a die-hard Boston sports fan would pick. His boys from back home have given him a ton of shit over it. But he has not abandoned his Red Sox for the L.A. team. As a kid, he loved the Disney animated movie Oliver & Company, and his favorite character was Dodger. Anticipating the grief he was going to get from his pals, Evans considered other names. “You could name your dog Doorknob,” he says, “and in a month he’s fucking Doorknob.” Evans’s mom convinced him to go with his gut.

Right around when Evans was wrapping Gifted and heading back to L.A. with Dodger, the 2016 presidential campaign was still in that phase when no one, including the actor—a Hillary Clinton supporter—thought Trump had a shot. He still can’t believe Trump won.

“I feel rage,” he says. “I feel fury. It’s unbelievable. People were just so desperate to hear someone say that someone is to blame. They were just so happy to hear that someone was angry. Hear someone say that Washington sucks. They just want something new without actually understanding. I mean, guys like Steve Bannon—Steve Bannon!—this man has no place in politics.”

Evans has made, and continues to make, his political views known on Twitter. He tweeted that Trump ought to “stop energizing lies,” and he recently ended up in a heated Twitter debate with former KKK leader David Duke over Trump’s pick of Jeff Sessions for attorney general. Duke baselessly accused Evans of being anti-Semitic; Evans encouraged Duke to try love: “It’s stronger than hate. It unites us. I promise it’s in you under the anger and fear.” Making political statements and engaging in such public exchanges is a rather risky thing for the star of Captain America to do. Yes, advisors have said as much to him. “Look, I’m in a business where you’ve got to sell tickets,” he says. “But, my God, I would not be able to look at myself in the mirror if I felt strongly about something and didn’t speak up. I think it’s about how you speak up. We’re allowed to disagree. If I state my case and people don’t want to go see my movies as a result, I’m okay with that.”

Trump. Bannon. Politics. Now Evans is animated. He gets off the couch, walks out onto his porch, and lights a cigarette. “Some people say, 'Don’t you see what’s happening? It’s time to yell,' ” Evans says. “Yeah, I see it, and it’s time for calm. Because not everyone who voted for Trump is going to be some horrible bigot. There are a lot of people in that middle; those are the people you can’t lose your credibility with. If you’re trying to change minds, by spewing too much rhetoric you can easily become white noise.”


Evans has a pretty remarkable “How I got to Hollywood” story.

During his junior year of high school, he knew he wanted to act. He was doing it a lot. In school. At his mom’s theater. He loved it. “When you’re doing a play at thirteen years old and have opening night? None of my friends had opening nights. 'I can’t have a sleepover, guys; I have an opening night tonight.' ”

That same year, he did a two-man play. For all of the twenty-plus plays Evans had done up to that point, preparation meant going home, memorizing lines, and doing a few run-throughs with the cast. However, for this play, Fallen Star, he and his costar would rehearse by running dialogue with each other. Hour upon hour, night after night.

Fallen Star is about two friends, one of whom has just died. As the play opens, one of the characters comes home after the funeral to find his dead friend’s ghost. Evans was the ghost. Waiting backstage on opening night, he knew he didn’t have every line memorized, but he had the essence and emotion of the play down. Onstage, he remembers, “I was saying the lines not because they were memorized but because the play was in me. I was believing what I was saying.”

He was hooked. He wanted to do more of this kind of acting—real acting. He wanted to do films, in which the camera was right on him and he could just be the character, rather than theater, in which an actor must perform to the back of the room.

A family friend who was a television actor advised Evans that if he wanted to go to Hollywood, he needed an agent. Toward the end of his junior year, he had a ballsy request for his parents: If he found an internship with a casting agent in New York City, would they allow him to live there and cover the rent? They agreed. Evans landed a gig with Bonnie Finnegan, who was then working on the television show Spin City.

“I just fucked off. I lost my virginity that year. 1999 was one of the best years of my life.” Until it wasn’t.

Evans chose to intern with a casting agent because he figured he had more of a chance to interact with other agents trying to get auditions for their clients.

The kid was sixteen years old.

Finnegan put Evans on the phone; his responsibilities included setting up appointments for auditions. By the end of the summer, he picked the three agents he had the best rapport with and asked each of them to give him a five-minute audition. All three said yes. After seeing his audition, all three were interested.

Evans went with the one Finnegan recommended, Bret Adams, who told Evans to return to New York for auditions in January, television pilot season. Back home, Evans doubled up on a few classes the first semester of his senior year, graduated early, and went back to New York in January. He got the same shithole apartment in Brooklyn and the same internship with Finnegan. He landed a part on the pilot Opposite Sex. Even better, the show got picked up and would start shooting in L.A. that fall.

“I know I’m going to L.A. in August,” Evans says, recalling that period. “So I go home and that spring I would wake up around noon, saunter into high school just to see my buddies, and we’d go get high in the parking lot. I just fucked off. I lost my virginity that year. 1999 was one of the best years of my life.” Until it wasn’t.

He wasn’t in L.A. for even a month when he got a call from home. His parents were divorcing. Evans never saw it coming.

Family and love and the struggles therein are part of what attracted Evans to Gifted.

“In my own life, I have a deep connection with my family and the value of those bonds,” he says. “I’ve always loved stories about people who put their families before themselves. It’s such a noble endeavor. You can’t choose your family, as opposed to friends. Especially in L.A. You really get to see how friendships are put to the test; it stirs everyone’s egos. But if something goes south with a friend, you have the option to say we’re not friends anymore. Your family—that’s your family. Trying to make that system work and trying to make it not just functional but actually enjoyable is a really challenging endeavor, and that’s certainly how it is with my family.”


the plane, a decision is made.

“I want to see you jump first,” Evans shouts my way.

Of course he does.

Like any respectable and legal skydiving center, Skydive Perris, which is providing us with this “experience,” doesn’t just strap a chute on your back. First, you go to a room for a period of instruction. Then you go to another room, where you sign away your rights.

You may be wondering how the star of a billion-dollar franchise with two pictures to shoot gets clearance to jump from an airplane—never mind the low rate of fatalities, as Evans has presented it. So am I.

“Well, they give you all these crazy insurance policies, but even if I die, what are they going to do? Sue my family? They’d probably cast some new guy at a cheaper price and save some money.”

Thinking the answer is almost certainly going to be no, I ask Evans if he’s ever gone skydiving before. Turns out he has, with an ex-girlfriend. Turns out that ex-girlfriend is now married to Justin Timberlake. Evans and Jessica Biel dated off and on from 2001 to 2006. They took the leap together when Biel hatched the idea for one Valentine’s Day. According to media accounts, Evans was recently dating his Gifted costar Jenny Slate, who plays the teacher. “Yeah,” he says, “but I’m steering clear of those questions.” You can almost feel his heart pinch.

“There’s a certain shared life experience that is tough for someone else who’s not in this industry to kind of wrap their head around.”

We end up broadly discussing the unique challenges an international star like Evans faces when it comes to dating, specifically the trust factor. Evans supposes that’s why so many actors date other actors: “There’s a certain shared life experience that is tough for someone else who’s not in this industry to kind of wrap their head around,” he says. “Letting someone go to work with someone for three months and they won’t see them. It really, it certainly puts the relationship to the test.”

In Gifted, there’s a moment when Slate’s character asks Adler what his greatest fear is. Frank Adler’s greatest fear is that he’ll ruin his niece’s life. Evans’s greatest fear is having regrets.

“Like always kind of wanting to be there as opposed to here. I think I’m worried all of a sudden I’ll get old and have regrets, realize that I’ve not cultivated enough of an appreciation for the now and surrendering to the present moment.”

Evans’s musings have something to do with the fact that he has been reading The Surrender Experiment. “It’s about the basic notion that we are only in a good mood when things are going our way,” he says. “The truth is, life is going to unfold as it’s going to unfold regardless of your input. If you are an active participant in that awareness, life kind of washes over you, good or bad. You kind of become Teflon a little bit to the struggles that we self-inflict.”

He continues: “Our conscious minds are very spread out. We worry about the past. We worry about the future. We label. And all of that stuff just makes us very separate. What I’m trying to do is just quiet it down. Put that brain down from time to time and hope those periods of quiet and stillness get longer. When you do that, what rises from the mist is a kind of surrendering. You’re more connected as opposed to being separate. A lot of the questions about destiny or fate or purpose or any of that stuff—it’s not like you get answers. You just realize you didn’t need the questions.”

This here—this stuff about surrendering, letting life unfold, taking the leap—this is why he wanted to go skydiving. It’s why that sixteen-year-old took the leap and did the summer in New York; it’s why he took the leap and turned down the nine-picture deal; it’s why he got Dodger. Surrender. Take the leap.

And so I go first.

Oh, one important detail: Novice jumpers like Evans and me, we don’t jump solo. Thank God. Each of us is doing a tandem jump. Each of us is strapped with our back to a professional jumper’s front. I’m strapped to a forty-four-year-old dude named Paul. Considering what’s about to happen, I figure I should know a little something about Paul. He tells me he used to own a bar in Chicago. Evans is strapped to a young woman named Sam, who looks to be twenty-something. She’s got a purplish-pink streak in her black hair and says things like “badass.” In fact, Sam introduced herself  by saying, “I’m Sam, but you can call me Badass.”

At the plane’s open door, my mind goes to my wife and two teenage sons, to those I love, and to the texts I just sent in case my chute fails. Then Paul and I—well, really mostly Paul—rock gently back and forth to build momentum to push away from the plane, to push away from all that seems sane.

Three.

Two.

One.

Holy fuck.

HOLY FUCK. This is what I scream as we free-fall from 12,500 feet, at more than a hundred miles an hour, toward the earth. Which I cannot take my eyes off of. I think about nothing. Not living. Not dying. Nothing. I simply feel . . . I have let go.

Suddenly, it all stops. I’m jerked up. Paul has pulled the chute, and it does indeed open. This is fantastic, because it means we have a much better chance of not dying. But it’s also kind of a bummer. I had let go. Of everything. I had chosen to play those odds Evans had talked about. I had embraced jumping and letting life unfold.

Now I had been jerked back. I would land. Back on the earth I had been so high above and from which I had been so far removed. Back in all of it.

Once I’m on the ground, safe and in one piece, a staffer runs over and asks how I feel. I say, “I feel like Captain America.”

The staffer runs over and asks Evans the same question. He says he feels great. Then he’s asked another question: What was your favorite part?

“Jumping out,” he says. “Jumping out is always a real thrill.”


This article appears in the April '17 issue of Esquire.

Kanej – Hades and Persephone

- she weaves flowers in her braid, she draws the light amidst the darkness he created

- he walks past her in her silks, peacock feathers in her hair, as she turns around, her eyes searching for his, but all he can watch is the pomegranate in her hand and its juice dripping to the floor like blood

- she sees the world from above and below, from the depths of the Barrel and the spires of Ghezen’s Hand; half of each year spent on either side of life

- she is the daughter of life, of sweeping fields of yellow wheat, the sweetest fruits, the coast of Ravka, etched into her memory alongside her mother’s scent and father’s voice

- he lives in fog and smoke, in alleys buried between houses that rise so high they squeeze out the sky between them; he sees a world painted in black and red, thrives on other people’s agony and despair

- he makes her a queen – his Wraith queen and he the king who built their court 

- there was never a more fearsome thing: the girl who chose to stay in his underworld, all the more threatening because of how kind she was, how hardened she had become, how capable she was of cruelty, yet of love at the same time

- she took him for what he was, she understood the need for the Lord of Death – their world might be worse for him, but he had made Ketterdam a city in which she could fight her way out of her humiliation and hate and that was all she cared about

- he was their king, but nobody was as feared as she, nobody drew everybody’s eye like the little Suli acrobat, ruthless captain of her death-ship, fearless in lofty heights, every other Barrel boss’ envy

- she took death from him, he life from her; they complemented each other, they had to be together, join together to defy the rest of the world

- he didn’t want to be bare, to let everyone see what his life in the underworld had made of him, what death had supposedly done to him. She saw him and cradled his hands in hers, as she realised he was still human, still had a heart beating in his chest.

- her lips spoke of the summer, dripping with honey, drew him towards her, but repulsed him at the same time. Her words spoke of darkness, her eyes of revenge. They drew him towards her, too. 

- she was a cracked mirror like him. Her surface gleamed silver with the moon enchanting him, but she didn’t make a secret of her past. Not to him. 

- they lived in the shadows, they lived in the secret alleys of a city which was home to ghosts floating along the streets, hiding what they were, forgetting it. But they were as happy as anyone can be under those conditions. They were fighting day to day, but fighting the battles they lived for. 

The sun is just about to begin its descent into the sky by the time Even settles enough to not feel like he was going to run for the hills at every noise. The air, heating every day but proving warm enough even in early June, is still and calm.

Unlike Even. But then again, when is Even ever truly still and calm?

He’s trying though. Right now, he’s trying so hard to unlock his muscles; to keep them loose and relaxed as he sits on the edge of the bridge just paces away from Bakka. 

It was their bridge. The boys’ bridge that they had spent years running and climbing along.

“Even.” 

The voice is wary but clear and Even looks up, once again resisting the urge to flee; to stalk off and comfort himself in Isak’s arms in their apartment that they made for just the two of them. Away from the outside world. 

But he can’t do that because everyone has to stop running at some point.

So he hunkers down and pushes off the bridge until he’s facing full on one of the people he’s let fall victim to his head. “Elias. Hi.”

Elias nods in response, throwing a hand over his shaved head and down his neck, “Hey. I- uh. I didn’t expect to hear from you.”

“Yeah.” Even takes a breath, “Yeah. Sana mentioned that she talked to you a bit and that you said hi and I just… I wanted to see how you were doing.”

Elias shrugs, “I mean, not bad. Growing up- looking for jobs and places to live that aren’t my parents’. All of that adult bullshit we swore would never happen.” Elias stops and chuckles, “Though I hear you’ve managed to do that already.”

Even blinks before he lets out a laugh and gets it, “Oh yeah. The apartment. We were really lucky to get it for so cheap. It’s super small and has the weirdest little quirks- but it’s great.”

“And you’re living with,” Elias scratches behind his ear, “Isak?” And at Even’s nod, he winces, “Sorry about that… the whole punching thing. I didn’t- it just happened.”

It just happened, Even has to grin at that. That had been Isak’s first response as well. I’m sorry, Even, it just fucking happened.

“Don’t worry about it.” He waves it off easily enough, thinking about the churlish, but guilty expression on Isak’s face when they got home from the hospital that night and Isak held a pack of frozen peas to his face. “Honestly Isak’s more embarrassed about it than anything. He asked me if he should like make an apology card or something for Mikael so you could give it to him.”

“So Isak knows you were coming to meet me today?”

“Of course.”

They are both silent for several seconds. It’s enough time for the easiness that had reappeared as they talked to fade out again, leaving two uncomfortable boys who hadn’t spoken in over a year. But it was also enough time for Even to re-situate himself on the bridge and for Elias to join him. 

When a group of birds abandoned the tree just to the right of the boys in a noisy swoop, Elias spoke again, “What happened, man?”

And wasn’t that just the question of the century. He thinks back to those blurry last weeks at Bakka and tries to answer as honestly as he could because Elias deserved that.

Even shakes his head slowly, “I messed up. I got sick and I didn’t know it and everything just started happening so fast…. and then with Mikael and the other stuff and I knew it was only going to be a matter of time.”

“What was?”

“That you guys were going to leave. You were going to see me and you were going to leave me alone. So I guess I left first.”

There was silence again. Thick, thick silence held together by the weight of what was left unsaid. There is a bit of rock next to Even; a group of rough pebbles that he picks up and squeezes between his fingers. When the pain reminds him that he’s still here, he tosses the over the edge of the bridge and into the shallow water below. 

When Elias breaks the silence again his words are quiet, but brimming with something that Even can’t quite place, “Do you remember first year of Bakka? You dared me to climb a tree and I did.”

He did- he remembered. “Yeah and then you fell out and broke your arm.”

“And you stayed with me for the hour and a half it took for my parents to find out and come get me.” Elias lets out a huff of air through his nose, “You stayed with me. So why would you think that I would leave you? That any of us would leave you? You were my best friend, Even. Yousef’s too. And then you were gone.”

He can’t answer. He can’t, he can’t. He should go. But he can’t do that either. 

So he sits there and stares out along the path that the bridge leads to. He stares out of it and imagines what would have happened if he had stayed at Bakka. But there is no Isak in that scenario, so he immediately dismisses the thought.

He feels Elias’s hand on his shoulder when it becomes clear that Even isn’t going to answer. And for a few moments it’s enough.

Miss Yeh

Harry X Reader: Smut

In which Harry has been deprived for too long.

Request? No


“’M losing my fuckin’ mind.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Harry.”

“’M not, am I?” He glares at you, lips turned down deeply at the corners, voice rising in offense. “’S been nearly three weeks since I got to touch yeh.”

“You know why.” Your voice has softened some. You know what he means. The weeks of limited interaction have been equally torturous for you. But there’s a reasonable cause, and you really don’t want to get him into trouble.

“Yeah, I know,” he huffs, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms. “Doesn’ mean I like it.”

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