tantalise

You may have noticed that the books you really love are bound together by a secret thread. You know very well what is the common quality that makes you love them, though you cannot put it into words: but most of your friends do not see it at all, and often wonder why, liking this, you should also like that. Again, you have stood before some landscape, which seems to embody what you have been looking for all your life; and then turned to the friend at your side who appears to be seeing what you saw - but at the first words a gulf yawns between you, and you realise that this landscape means something totally different to him, that he is pursuing an alien vision and cares nothing for the ineffable suggestion by which you are transported. Even in your hobbies, has there not always been some secret attraction which the others are curiously ignorant of - something, not to be identified with, but always on the verge of breaking through, the smell of cut wood in the workshop or the clapclap of water against the boat’s side? Are not all lifelong friendships born at the moment when at last you meet another human being who has some inkling (but faint and uncertain even in the best) of that something which you were born desiring, and which, beneath the flux of other desires and in all the momentary silences between the louder passions, night and day, year by year, from childhood to old age, you are looking for, watching for, listening for? You have never had it. All the things that have ever deeply possessed your soul have been but hints of it - tantalising glimpses, promises never quite fulfilled, echoes that died away just as they caught your ear. But if it should really become manifest - if there ever came an echo that did not die away but swelled into the sound itself you would know it. Beyond all possibility of doubt you would say “Here at last is the thing I was made for.” We cannot tell each other about it. It is the secret signature of each soul, the incommunicable and unappeasable want, the thing we desired before we met our wives or made our friends or chose our work, and which we shall still desire on our deathbeds, when the mind no longer knows wife or friend or work. While we are, this is. If we lose this, we lose all.
—  C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain

anonymous asked:

So like it's pretty cool how humans figured out how to bake. Like we made edible chemistry, we like mixed all of theese reactions together to make a delicious cake. Imagine an alien seeing this for the first time.

Oh my goodness!! My first prompt! Thank you!

Hruk’ib didn’t understand why everyone was so concerned about the humans. For the most part, they were polite and friendly, they followed the orders of their superiors, and they didn’t hesitate when it came to tossing protocol out the airlock in dire times. Hruk’ib respected them and had known from Day One that these members of their crew were not just allies but assets.

So it was that when Hruk’ib smelled strange smells coming from the food preparation bay, he wasn’t too upset; a couple of the humans - Konani and Frederik - loved to work with food and did so regularly. Still, curiosity drove him to enter the bay, and it was when he entered, the doors’ hydraulics hissing open and then closed, that he sensed the excess heat.

FIRE!

He froze where he stood, every instinct of his species urging him to flee yet conflicting with the ingrained training of the fleet to make sure his crewmates were safe and away and not near fire! He couldn’t see it, there was no smoke, but he felt it – hot enough to reduce flesh to nothing more than charred ashes.

“Oh, hey, Hruk’ib!”

Hruk’ib’s head snapped around to find the two humans hovering around one of the many stovetops. In his peripherals, however (and it was a miracle in the first place that he noticed at all), he spotted the most unholy mess: white dust coating a prep table, glob-like splatters of what looked like sticky excrement in bowls and dripping onto the tabletop, and at least four or five of what looked like some kind of metal mesh trays on various nearby counters. The trays bore small, round objects that appeared solid and gave off a most enticing scent.

Then his eyes drifted back to the humans who stood uncertainly. Konani had heavy, cloth gloves on her hands and held a long, thin tray. Her brown eyes flicked from him to Frederik beside her and back again. “Um, this batch has to cool but if you want a cookie, there are some fresh ones, uh, everywhere.” She gestured with her elbow to the counters.

The humans were calm. Why were they calm in the face of fire? They weren’t that stupid. They were determinedly foolhardy at times, especially when ethanol was involved, but even humans got worried when fire threatened.

Hruk’ib forced himself to take a deep breath. The heat rushed down his throat and into his lungs – no ash, no smoke, just heat. It was a different heat, similar to when they passed too close to a star and the very ship felt like an… an oven.

The oven was not designed to give off this much heat!

“What is it that you are doing?” he asked, trying to calm down.

Konani busied herself with the…cookies, leaving Frederik to explain. “Ve are baking,” he said. “Ve asked Yensen to tveak ze oven settings because zey vere too low for baking cookies.”

“We asked permission first,” Konani added. “Captain K’alo said we could but only if we did it to one. We made a notice and everything so other crew won’t accidentally set fire to their food.”

Frederik stepped out of the way and Hruk’ib spotted the massive note tacked to the wall above the stove in question. The bright red sign was impossible to miss and the white letters were clear in both Earth’s English, as well as Hruk’ib’s native language of Jubri.

Hruk’ib nodded his head in the humans’ agreement signal. “Very well. I was afraid you had set the room on fire. We usually do not encounter this kind of heat outside of the engine cores,” he explained.

“Ah,” said Konani. “That makes sense.”

“Ve apologise for startling you, Hruk’ib,” Frederik added, pressing his palms together.

Hruk’ib smiled at the human displaying the sign for formal apology among his species. He lifted his left hand, palm turning inward and then upward to accept it, and Frederik smiled in turn.

With her hands still full, Konani simply inclined her head to him, also apologising.

“What is baking?” Hruk’ib asked.

“In a word, chemistry.” Shedding the gloves, Konani faced him fully, leaning against the counter. “It’s different from cooking because the ingredients in baking react to the heat and, if you get the recipe right, work together to create something else. It’s not like we’re roasting meat where we have to cook it to eat it safely. You can eat an unbaked cookie without much threat.”

“Alzough, zere are many people who zink you can get salmonella - zat is food poisoning - from eating ze dough because of ze raw eggs,” Frederik put in.

“Oh,” said Hruk’ib. “Then, you are conducting a chemical experiment.”

“In essence, yes. Want one?” Konani held a mesh tray out to him.

Now Hruk’ib drifted forward, purposefully ignoring the mess, and bee-lined for the tantalising aroma wafting from these strange, dark-brown discs.

“They’re a friend’s recipe,” Konani explained. “She made sure I had enough cocoa powder to last me ten solar cycles, though I’m not sure I’ll use it all.”

Hruk’ib chuckled, sensing the humour, and picked up a cookie. It was still warm between his appendages. It was solid yet somehow soft, almost moist… He flicked his tongue out, sampling, and was rewarded with a burst of flavour. He took a bite. Barely hard on the outside, it was luxuriously soft on the inside. He had never eaten one of these things in his entire life and yet something about eating it and the smell of it reminded him of home, of blankets and coziness and something that was better than camaraderie: family.

Science. This rapturous product was one of science. May the humans and their ingenuity never die out.

Hruk’ib licked his fingers before turning to the two humans who watched him with mixed expressions of humour and curiosity. “May I have another, please?” he asked.

Konani grinned while Frederik laughed.

“Of course!” she answered while Frederik continued to chortle. “But it is a universally acknowledged truth that a glass of cold milk always accompanies the eating of cookies.”

Hruk’ib took the glass Frederik gave him, interchangeably eating and drinking. Milk and cookies, together: a universally acknowledged truth, indeed.

Venus aspects
  • Venus-Sun: Sonar love radiates through every auric field
  • Venus-Moon: Seeks motherly love in lovers
  • Venus-Mercury: Tantalised by the mind
  • Venus-Mars: Sensual and physical in displays of affection
  • Venus-Jupiter: Big heart, loves everybody
  • Venus-Saturn: Seeks father figures in lovers
  • Venus-Uranus: Enjoys long distance or frequent isolations
  • Venus-Neptune: Lovers are saviours or destroyers
  • Venus-Pluto: Mirrors the demons of lovers, can be on the receiving side of projective aggression
Audition

A NIGHT AT HOME | TAEHYUNG VERSION

WORD COUNT: 3,112

warnings: graphic smut, dirty talk, spanking, slight exhibitionism, squirting

Originally posted by jitonic

masterlist | ask | song 

Keep reading

“You may have noticed that the books you really love are bound together by a secret thread. You know very well what is the common quality that makes you love them, though you cannot put it into words: but most of your friends do not see it at all, and often wonder why, liking this, you should also like that. Again, you have stood before some landscape, which seems to embody what you have been looking for all your life; and then turned to the friend at your side who appears to be seeing what you saw–but at the first words a gulf yawns between you, and you realise that this landscape means something totally different to him, that he is pursuing an alien vision and cares nothing for the ineffable suggestion by which you are transported. Even in your hobbies, has there not always been some secret attraction which the others are curiously ignorant of–something, not to be identified with, but always on the verge of breaking through, the smell of cut wood in the workshop or the clapclap of water against the boat’s side? Are not all lifelong friendships born at the moment when at last you meet another human being who has some inkling (but faint and uncertain even in the best) of that something which you were born desiring, and which, beneath the flux of other desires and in all the momentary silences between the louder passions, night and day, year by year, from childhood to old age, you are looking for, watching for, listening for? You have never had it. All the things that have ever deeply possessed your soul have been but hints of it–tantalising glimpses, promises never quite fulfilled, echoes that died away just as they caught your ear. But if it should really become manifest–if there ever came an echo that did not die away but swelled into the sound itself you would know it. Beyond all possibility of doubt you would say ‘Here at last is the thing I was made for.’ We cannot tell each other about it. It is the secret signature of each soul, the incommunicable and unappeasable want, the thing we desired before we met our wives or made our friends or chose our work, and which we shall still desire on our deathbeds, when the mind no longer knows wife or friend or work. While we are, this is. If we lose this, we lose all.”

C.S. Lewis, from The Problem of Pain (The Cenentary Press, 1940)

Forgotten Movie

We were watching a favourite movie of his, but I couldn’t focus on the film. The only thing I had my mind was this man I currently cuddled up next to, and the feeling of his skin underneath my hand. I moved my hand slight lower to test if he was focusing more on the movie than me, no movement. I kept moving my hand lower until I got to his crouch.


I felt his fingers wrap around my wrist and pulled it back up to its original place on his chest. I watched the movie for a few minutes before I moved my hand to his crouch again, a smirk upon my lips. His hand grasped mine, tighter this time, he placed my hand back upon his chest and placed a light smack on my hand as he returned his hand behind his head.


I decided to be a little more deviant, I placed my leg between his legs and leaned my calf against his crouch, applying pressure. In a blink of an eye, I was pinned underneath him, my arms above my head.


“You’re asking for it, princess.” He growled in my ear.


“Then give it to me, daddy.” I smirked. He had never heard me say that before, and something in his eyes changed dramatically.


His hands grasped the top of my thin shirt, and ripped it down the centre, leaving me in nothing but my panties.


“That was my favourite shirt.” I warned.


“I’ll buy you a new one.” He shrugged, and then placed his lips on my neck. Leaving no skin untouched as he bit, sucked and licked.


His hands trailed back down my arms and over breasts, deliberately avoiding my nipples. His hands travelled further down over my stomach, his lips following. Getting off the end of the bed, he leaned over and placed a hand on each of my legs, and pushed them apart.


“Where you planning this all along, princess?” He said, as he eyed my crotchless panties. I bit my lip and nodded innocently.


He quickly wiped the look off of my face by running his slender fingers up my core. Rubbing small, firm circles slowly on my clit, he had me a moaning mess. My hands gripped the sheets firmly, my hips moving themselves until he placed his free arm across my hips to seize their movements.


He removed his hand from my mound, and his fingertips found my entrance. Circling agonisingly slow, then without warning he forced two long fingers inside me. Moving in and out relentlessly, forcing me closer to the edge. I was writhing, the pleasure all too much.


As I got closer to that forsaken edge, he removed all contact from me. I let out a groan of frustration, my eyes opening at the sound of his deep chuckle. A stupid smirk planted on his beautiful face. He leaned over me, grasped a hand in his and tied it to the head of the bed.


“I want you to come around my cock as I fuck you senseless.” His velvety voice, deep and slow, sending shivers down my spine as he tied up my other hand. “But you can’t touch. Since you were so eager too earlier.”


I wish I could slap the look off his face. That thought left as soon his jeans touched the floor, and his erection stood freely. I licked my lips and whimpered slightly. His demeanour changed, and in seconds he was on top of me, attacking my neck for a second time tonight.


Without warning he thrusted his full length inside me, drawing a silent gasp from the back of my throat. He set a fast pace, mercifully thrusting his hips, I moved mine to his rhythm and met him half way. My wrists twisted in their restraints.


“You feel so fucking good. Do you like daddy’s cock deep inside you?” His voice scratchy and breathless as he spoke.


“Yes, daddy” I managed to breath.


He attached his lips around one of my nipples, pushing the tiny balls of my piercing up and letting it flick into place, the motion sending small shocks through my body. He pulled on the small bar, enough to create a sensation and let it go, again sending a shock throughout, and did the same to the other one.


Our breathing got shallower, his thrusting got sloppier, and I knew we were close. He moved a hand to my clit and started rubbing fast circles in my clit, making me scream slightly.


“Come in, princess. Come for daddy.” His hot breath right on my ear, and the tone of his voice was enough to bring me undone. My orgasm fuelled his as he let go of everything inside me.


He came to a stop, we let our breathing return to normal. He untied my wrists and kissed each of them. He moved to lay down next to me, and kissed all over cheek before burying his face in my neck.


I ran my hand through his hair as his arm wrapped around my waist and pulled me closer.


“I didn’t hurt you did I?” He asked, his voice muffled by my neck.


“No, baby. It was perfect.” I said sincerely. He raised his head and looked me in the eyes.


“I love you.” My breath caught in my throat, he’d never spoken those words to me. A smile started to spread across my lips.


“I love you too.” He smiles back before his finally placed his lips on mine.


The kiss was full of new, undiscovered passion. He tongue poked at my lips, begging for access, to which I immediately accepted. He rolled onto his back, taking me with him, and never once broke the kiss. I sat on his hips, grounding down on him.


He broke off the kiss, and just looked at me, running his fingertips over the side my face, pushing a rouge hair behind my ear.


“God, you are beautiful.” He spoke softly. I turned my head into his palm, to hide my face. His fingers went underneath my chin and brought me back to gaze into his eyes. “You’re with me, there’s no need to hide such a beautiful face.”


I didn’t know what to say in return, so I leaned down and kissed him with every ounce of my being. His hands curled around my waist and pulled me tighter against him, before rolling me into my back.


He lined up his dick, before entering me painfully slow. Taking his time to feel every inch of me welcoming him. Once he was in fully he moved slowly setting a good pace that wasn’t too slow or too fast.


He used his elbows as support, never once did his eyes leave mine. My arms wrapped around his shoulders gripping tightly, my breath coming out in small puffs. He speed up the slightest, eliciting a moan from me.


He kissed me deeply once more, our tongues fighting for dominance messily, we didn’t care. One of his hands travelled down the side of my body, and found my clit once again, rubbing slow, tantalising circles. I started moaning into his mouth, he broke the kiss and rested his forehead on mine. I could feel my breaking point approaching.


“I’m close.” I whispered breathlessly.


“So am I Baby.” His voice the same.


He speed up more, my hands ran down his back, leaving red marks along his skin. I was being pushed higher and higher, and then I over the edge, he too. We rode out our highs, and he kissed me one more time.


“I love you so much.” He said as he laid on his back.


“And I, you” I replied, circling up next to him.


He kissed the top of my head, and wrapped his arms tighter around me. I listened to his heart beat steadying, and then sleep took over me.

Happy Free Comic Book Day, Whovians! This special edition also marks the first @titancomics appearance of new companion Bill Potts.

Take a spin through the past, present, and future of Doctor Who universe, in the company of the twelfth Doctor and his brand-new companion, Bill! Featuring Bill’s first Titan Comics appearance, this all-new story is an unmissable experience for fans new and old, with plenty of tantalising teases from Doctors past and present, including incredible clues to the year ahead for all of Titan’s Doctor Who series! Keep your Sonic Screwdriver at the ready and unlock a world of adrenaline-fuelled time traveling adventure!

You can find your local participating store here

the skulduggery pleasant books rated by mentions of dogs
  • scepter of the ancients: features dogs running freely in haggard with their tails wagging, a slobbery dog in a towtruck, and several other references to dogs. a solid dependable book. (8/10).
  • playing with fire: melissa mentions one of the edgley's owns owns three small dogs, says she prefers big dogs. valkyrie asks her if they're getting a dog. a tantalising conversation, but could be improved with more dogs. (6/10)
  • faceless ones: while there are two similes referencing dogs, this book contains no actual dogs. very disappointing. (2/10)
  • dark days: valkyrie asks her parents if they can get a dog. however, she also insults hannah foley's chinese crested dog. not cool. (4/10)
  • mortal coil: valkyrie see's a dog being taken for a walk at st anne's park. she also gives skulduggery a mug with a picture of her neighbour's one-eyed dog betty on it. this is pivotal to the ongoing development of both their character arcs. (9/10)
  • deathbringer: kenny goes to the park where he see's several small dogs playing in the sunshine. A few other references to dogs are made throughout the book. (7/10)
  • kingdom of the wicked: we learn of the existence of an alternate dimension where mevolent and his army kill dogs.this is awful, just awful (-10/10)
  • last stand of dead men: contains one real dog and one fake dog-like-alien, i would have prefered two dogs (5/10)
  • dying of the light: valkyrie finally gets the dog she's always wanted. xena is amazing, a very good dog. couldn't be happier for my girl. (11/10)
Metempsychosis, 1.

Pairing: Park Jimin / Reader

Genre: Immortal!AU, Reincarnation!AU + Slight Soulmate!AU / Fluff, Angst + Smut

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: None

Summary: Being everlasting certainly has its perks, but loving someone who does not have that privilege and reborn continually is not one of them.

Count: 2838 words.

Note: Thank you, @dimplecoups, for being in my inner circle and reading it over. This will be a three part series, and is told in Jimin’s POV.

Metempsychosis

And yet by death did life procure.

Various of theories are justificatory weaved in regards to our existence—that we either originated from a spiritual entity or created by a grand phenomenon. In the circumstance of a unique individual, he was produced by both; stars run in his veins for he is the embodiment of the galaxies, ethereal in every way. An enigma, some would say, yet was he truly a complex being? For the span of four hundred years, he had witnessed all that history could offer, but there was an uncomplicated reason for his melancholy: where was his moon? Where was his sun and stars, the one who was his celestial beloved? Surely, he was not meant to roam alone.

Or was he?

Keep reading

The best of times, the worst of times - a BH one-shot

Author’s Note: This is a piece inspired by, and expanding upon, the beautiful moment between Jughead and Betty in S2, Episode 4, when they woke up together after falling asleep in the Jones trailer, exhausted from a night of sleuthing. The gaps in the narrative and in the characterisation were frustrating, to be sure, but too tantalising for a fanfiction writer to resist. This story is my humble attempt to fill some of those gaps, to argue for and champion communicative Bughead, and to point towards the instances and possibilities of light in this epic relationship. I hope you love it as much as I loved writing it.

Thank you, as always, to @jandjsalmon for being my meta and beta in one - for helping me fact-check, tease out and speculate on this episode. May the Norse god smile upon you Thank you also to my lovely readers @theladylabyrinth and @oleekingcole for being my last lines of defense - for reading, supporting and cheering me on as I wrote this. 

Summary: The silence was growing between them, and the times were growing darker. But Jughead was determined to say one thing to Betty. And to keep her safe in his arms.

“Jughead wished he could give her all of himself. He wished he could be better for her. But so much of him was just trying to survive, and this was all he had - the small reassurances of his words, the sharpness of his mind, the kisses of his mouth.” 

Read on Ao3 or below, after the cut:

Keep reading

“I Didn’t Think We’d Live This Long.”

Title: “I Didn’t Think We’d Live This Long.”

Pairing: Stanley Uris x Reader

Type: Platonic | Romantic | Familial | Other

Warnings: gore, profanity, violence, pennywise

Prompts: 41: “holy shit, you’re bleeding!” | 46: “What now?” “I don’t know, I didn’t think we’d live this long.” | 82: “Stay close to me.


You did not want to be here.


Staring up at Neibolt House - walls black and cracked and blistering, a roof half-caved in, brittle weeds stretching up languidly to scratch against your thighs and the wooden boards sloppily nailed into the brick to black out the windows, it was easy to imagine being literally anywhere else than here.


For Bill, you reprimanded yourself firmly, glancing at your best friend, Richie, who was bouncing anxiously on the balls of his feet, to Stan behind him. Stan was your… well, something. Slightly more than friends but slightly less than lovers, you two had hovered in this warm but uncomfortable limbo for the four years you’d known each other.


“Y-you guys ready?” Bill affirmed quietly from atop the stairs leading to the black front door. Inhaling deeply and reigning in your fear, you nodded, starting up the steps. As you walked, you grabbed Richie’s wrist and pulled him back slightly.


Stay close to me,” you murmured, and the bespectacled kid nodded, sombre for once as you, he, Eddie and Bill headed into the house. You were entirely oblivious to the way Stan’s eyebrows twitched in annoyance and a frown tugged at his mouth as your hand closed over Richie’s arm.


As the four of you disappeared inside the dark mouth of the house, you cast a look back; your gaze snagged on Stan’s briefly, and he shook his head slightly. There wasn’t enough time for you to comprehend what he was trying to communicate with that slight jerk of his head before the door closed tight behind you.


Things began to go wrong very quickly from the second the four of you climbed the stairs to the second floor. Immediately came the smell of rot and decay, like an abandoned fish market, and huge clumps of dust floating like shreds of skin through the damp air. You swallowed back an instinctive gag and carried on.


The first one to realise Eddie was missing was Bill.


You whirled round at the sudden yell of “Eddie!” The hallway you’d come down was thick with shadows, and you couldn’t see a shifting of any sort of form, let alone your friend. You made forward to get a closer look, but then a door slamming made you start violently, and as you whipped round, you realised with a cold sort of horror that Richie was gone. You stared at the closed door previously open, now shut tight, and flung yourself at it, tugging at the handle with all your might.


“Richie? Richie! Open the door, asswipe!” You pummelled on the wood with a mounting terror, but there was no noise from within. In the gap between the door and the floor, the inside looked completely dark.


Despairing, and now with terror clawing at your stomach, you turned round to yell at Bill for help - only to find that door was shut too, and the lights in the room were flickering and burning down to almost darkness.


A pathetic hybrid of a whimper and a scream forced it’s way out your mouth. You hurled yourself against the door until your shoulder was a frenzy of aches and bruises, and then your hands raked furiously through your hair, an outlet for some of the white-hot terror building inside you.


Something in the air shifted, and you started, whirling round in a desperate circle. You felt a cold horror fill your stomach as you realised was so very wrong with your room.


It was getting smaller.


The walls were inching in - fractionally at first, but now they reared as if drawn by magnets, scraping along the floor. You screamed, shoving yourself against four of the walls, but each time you moved, the movement seemed to speed up.


With this realisation, a sob wracked your body. You weren’t ready to die, and yet it seemed that was where you were headed. You forced yourself to stop moving - as well as you could, what with every inch of you trembling like your nerves were on fire. Knees giving way, you allowed yourself to collapse, burying your head in your knees. Your breath hitched and your heart jumped as you felt a wall glide to press against all four of your sides - and then the floor beneath you cracked and splintered and caved, disappearing beneath you.


Your breath left your lungs as you fell - you couldn’t even scream, not even when you crashed into the ground with a jolt that send your bones jarring against each other and a splintering agony up your arm where a shard of wood sticking out of the floor that was now a ceiling had sliced straight through the skin and muscle and nerves.


For several seconds after you landed, you couldn’t even breathe. Winded and delirious, you coughed feebly through a throat that felt like sandpaper. Feeling nothing - your skin was thick rubber; hearing nothing - just the ringing of your own blood in your ears, and seeing nothing - nothing but the gaping hole in the ceiling like a wound in a maw, bleeding dust instead of gore.


The pain in your arm was too agonising to be real, and even as you shifted slightly, the effort made a sweat break out on your forehead, and sent shockwaves from the jagged wound to ricochet over your body, making you whimper. Nevertheless, you persisted, grinding your teeth as you forced yourself to your feet. As you stood, black stars crowded your vision, making you sway dangerously -


And then a hand closes over your arm, right over your wound, and it’s as if they are made of salt and vinegar as their touch ignites such an agony on your arm, it as though you are being set a alight.


The pain is such that you almost black out, but there some sort of terrible wall, almost a barrier, baring you from unconsciousness. You’re far too weak to even scream as the face of a clown leers down at you from the vignettes of your vision, white face split in a bright red smile.


He throws you so you skid along the floor to slam into a wall. As you hit the brick with a choked moan, you register, dimly, the feeling of another breathing beside you. You grope blindly, with a bloodstained hand, and your fingers slide over Eddie’s hand, invisible to you in your pain-induced blindness, but you’d never felt skin so warm as you clung like a lifeline.


Your shrieks started up again as IT barrelled over to you, grabbing Eddie’s face with one hand and your’s with the other. Eddie writhed and whined, one continuous cry wavering in an out of audibility as a thin ribbon of saliva dripped down from IT’s vermilion lips.


Tasty, tasty…” the clown drawled, left hand moving from Eddie’s face to his arm. “Beautiful flesh…” Eddie shrieked as the clown moved it’s mouth closer - then retreated - then closer - and then retreated, a tantalising game heavy with the scent of blood.


“Let go of him!” you shouted, but your words were slurred in grogginess and pain, and the sound that left your mouth was more like, “leggo’a him!”


IT jumped extravagantly, twirling round to leer at you with a face-splitting grin cracking his skin. “You’re right!” the clown said delightfully. “Ladies first, yes?”


Your eyes squeezed shut as IT reached for your arm, and Eddie screamed in protest, and IT’s hot breath was on you - and then the door banged open, and the grip on your wrist slacked, and Bill and Richie were calling your’s and Eddie’s names at the top of their lungs.


After IT let you go, everything was blurry. You remembered screams and crashes, the rest of your friends crashing in. The only thing you could clearly recall was Stan.


Every nanosecond of that memory was in sharpest detail.


He ran straight over to you, swayed not by IT’s screams or flailing attacks. He crouched beside you, eyes wide, mouth wider, hands reaching out to touch you then recoiling in horror as his gaze scraped over the state of you.


“Holy shit,” he breathed. “Holy shit, you’re - you’re bleeding.” Looking around desperately, he ripped off his outer button-down shirt and swathed the wound in it, despite your cry and jerk of protest. “Ssh, shh, hey - we gotta slow the bleeding, okay? Just - shit, just - just focus on me, yeah? Don’t look over there, just look at me.”


You tried as best you could, your eyes fixated on his earnest face even as tears of pain and terror slid hot down your cheeks. You jumped at Beverly’s scream, but all was not as you feared. You looked on in awe and horror at the pipe sticking straight through IT’s head.


As though it were some sort of trigger, you knew now was the time to move. You attempted to get up, and once Stan cottoned on, he hooked an arm under your arms and hauled you to your feet. “Come on!” you screamed, and your voice was hoarse like silk on sandpaper as it soared over the panicked din. You and your friends surged for the door, Stan’s arm locked around you the whole time, half-carrying you every step until you all were out, out of that room.


“What now?” Stan panted as the eight of you clustered in the hallway.


I don’t know,” you replied with a feeble, bitter laugh. “I didn’t think we’d live this long.”


“Here!” Ben’s voice sounded loudly, and the next second, you were blinking in the clear, warm light of the summer’s day as a door was shoved open.


Stan made sure you were out first, stumbling and blinking in the bright light. Weakened, you slumped against him, and he caught you in surprise, looking quite lost as his eyes strayed down to your makeshift tourniquet, which was already deep red with blood and of almost of no use at all.


“Shit. Guys!” Stan shouted. He gently lowered you to sit against the rotting, rusted fence, then whirled round to face the other six. “Eddie, I - do you have your fanny pack?”


“Here,” came the wheezy reply, and next moment, you crowed and flinched as Stan’s bloodied shirt was torn away, replaced with a coarse gauze thar tightly encircled your arm from fore- to upper-arm as you writhed pathetically under his fumbling hands.


“You okay?” Stan asked, an almost frantic note in his voice as he sought affirmation. “Y/n, hey, talk to me. Are you okay?”


You gathered your strength enough to form a feeble nod, and Stan seemed to slump in relief, head coming forward to knock against yours.


“Hey, virgins,” Richie called weakly. “We kind of almost all just died. Can we cool off the raging hormones for like, ten minutes?”


“Shut up, Richie,” Bev’s voice countered, and the bespectacled kid was subsequently silenced.


You smiled weakly as Stan pulled himself back, hand latching onto your’s. “Don’t - don’t you ever-” he broke off, shaking his head furiously. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again.”


You huffed a laugh. “Seeing as dying isn’t really on my bucket list, I don’t think you have to worry about that.”


“Yeah. Good.” Finally, a tiny smile broke out on the boy’s face, and as you leant forward to kiss him chastely on the corner of the mouth - much to the disgust to your friends - the smile bloomed into a shy grin, cheeks pink as mallow-flowers under the Derry sun.

The whole package

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Lane Tucker x plus size!reader

Warnings: There’s partial nudity but it’s not gonna hurt you. For a Lance Tucker fic, this is surprisingly safe.

Word count: 1.789

Summary: One more tournament and Lance is ready to settle down and quit professional gymnastics. He loves Y/N and has been thinking about their future for a while now. But Lance isn’t very good at planning and one lazy Saturday morning, when he’s chilling in bed with his girl, he makes an impromptu decision.

A/N: I’ve posted a masterlist with all upcoming plus size!reader fics. I keep getting new ideas, so this masterlist will be updated as the ideas come and go. There will always be an announcement post. If you want on the tag list, please comment on the announcement post of send me an ask!

This is the sequel to Good at worshipping (Lance Tucker x plus size!reader)

Inspired by this post by @thatawkwardtinyperson and by a conversation I had earlier with @winterboobaer. This one’s for you, @hollycornish!

All plus size fics can be found here

Keep reading

Good Girl

Requests: “could I request a credence’s smut that he’s confident and he and the reader are at a party and she provokes him and they have sex in somewhere at home? I love your fics

Pairing: Credence Barebone x Reader

Word Count: 2087

Warnings: Smut, alcohol, DIRTY TALK AH

Originally posted by wheretheyrefound


“This party blows.” You droned, leaning your head into Credence’s shoulder.

“Aw c’mon, it’s not that bad.” He smirked.

“It really is. Can we go home soon?”

“No, I told Newt that I’d stick around at least until the toast. You know how much this means to him.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” You groaned. “But you have to admit, he has no idea how to throw a fun party.”

“We can make it fun.” He shrugged. You narrowed your eyes at the young man, beginning to nod with him as you simultaneously thought of the same solution.

“Alcohol.”


The room twirled as you sat on a couch with Credence, watching people talk, dance, and enjoy themselves. You turned to him, finding his eyes to be just as glazed as yours with a stuporous look.

“You having fun yet?” Credence asked, poking at your sides. You flinched, giggling as you caught his hands in yours.

“There’s still more fun to be had.” You mumbled, your lopsided smirk growing as you placed a not so subtle hand on Credence’s thigh. He took in a sharp breath, simply watching your fingers slide up at a tantalising pace.

“(Y/n)! Credence!” A voice called. Credence whined as you withdrew your hand instantly. “I’m so glad you two came!” Queenie drunkenly wobbled over, Jacob on her tail.

Keep reading

Champ de Fleurs Jaunes.

Pairing: Kim Taehyung / Reader

Genre: Artist!AU + Fluff

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Slight sexual content.

Summary: Falling in love with an artist can certainly make one’s life more colourful.

Count: 736 words.

Note: This drabble was inspired by Taehyung’s recent museum trip because why not. The title translates to Field of Yellow Flowers which is one of Vincent Van Gogh’s pieces.

Champ de Fleurs Jaunes

i.

He had noticed her from afar. She strolled from painting to painting, each illustration regarded attentively with a warm gaze within the gallery until she ceased her pace and admired one in particular. It portrayed a meadow—vivid hues of yellow blossoms, streaks of grey as the contrasting overcast; yet, sun rays illuminated through fractures of the clouds, creating a natural spotlight.

“Solitude,” A voice had said behind her, velvety deep before it paused as the gentleman stood next to her, sipping on a glass of champagne. Proudly did he stand, an unused hand tucked into a pocket whilst he began to commend the piece of art. “Simplistic, brilliant. I think the artist is trying to display hope and enlightenment, wouldn’t you agree?” He turned towards the woman, who studied his presence as though he was, indeed, artwork and shrugged.

The flute of champagne twirled in her grasp, “What makes you believe that?” is inquired past tinted lips and from the corner of her eyes, she made note of the playful smirk in response. He clicked his tongue and took a few steps towards the painting prior to announcing: “I should know. I painted it.”

Keep reading

Shut Doors (Doctor Strange x Reader) [SMUT]

Title: Shut doors (Doctor Strange x Reader) [SMUT]

Pairing: Doctor Strange x Reader

Characters: Reader and Doctor Strange, the Avengers

Request: Doctor Strange x Reader with 10+17, annnnnnnnnnd smutty-ish, please? If you could write it, I would be appreciate so much. And thank you in advance. Hoping that you would have a nice day! By @septimaseverina (sorry the link didn’t work the first time around, silly me. 

10. “It’s not what it looks like…”

17. “Oh please! It’s not like you’ve never seen something like this before.”

Summary: When a one night stand leads to awkward silences, awkward glances and awkward conversations you feel you’re never going to get your best friend back. But, when a mission threatens your life will everything change?

Word count: 965

Warnings: Mentions of potential death. SMUT, yep, you heard Doctor Strange smut. 

Tags: @tmntwhat-you-get-is-what-you-see @trinswhimsys

Originally posted by cactuseverywhere

Keep reading

New interview with The Telegraph (I posted the entire article for those without access)

‘Edgar Wright could have fired me and got Michael Caine instead’: Kevin Spacey on loss, life and Baby Driver

By Robbie Collin, Film Critic

1 July 2017 • 7:00am

Kevin Spacey is a man who knows when to get on his bike. Take the morning of our interview, a balmy Wednesday in June on which central London is even more than usually snarled with traffic. In transit to our meeting place – a chic West End hotel – he abandons his taxi and leaps on a rental bicycle, or so I’m told by a neatly dressed man with a moustache and clipboard whose job entails keeping abreast of Spacey’s movements, for today at least.

Minutes later, Spacey glides in sweat-free and bang on time, despite having made an iced latte pit stop en route. Smiling hungrily, and dressed in a sharp navy blazer, striped tie and chinos, he looks like a crocodile disguised as a Rotarian. But as he slouches into an armchair and amiably lobs the screwed-up wrapper of his drinking straw towards a wastepaper basket in the corner – a near miss – I start to wonder if my wary first impression was entirely fair.

It was certainly swayed by the fact that Spacey’s career is currently in the sixth fruitful year of its death-dealing control freak phase, a character type at which the 57-year-old actor has proved remarkably adept. First came his three-month stint as Richard III at the Old Vic – a production of the Shakespeare play, directed by Sam Mendes, that was called the crowning glory of his 11-year creative directorship at the London theatre.

Next came six seasons of Netflix’s glossily rancorous political serial House of Cards, in which Spacey plays President Frank Underwood – a character whose original incarnation, in a series of novels by the British author and Conservative peer Michael Dobbs, was partly inspired by Richard III and Macbeth. And this week, we have the first film Spacey shot since leaving the Old Vic in 2015: Edgar Wright’s Baby Driver, a car-chase thriller in which he plays Doc, the dark mind and barbed tongue behind a madcap Atlanta bank-robbing crew. It’s a role, like those other two, that turns on the classic Spacey bark/bite conundrum: you think his character can’t possibly be as scary as he sounds, and then he actually gets to work.

There were hints of that in his performance in The Usual Suspects, too: the first in a quartet of towering film roles that made his reputation and won him two Academy Awards in five years flat. (The others were Se7en, L.A. Confidential and American Beauty.)

This kind of actor-audience tension reminds Spacey of Shakespeare – a lot does – and specifically, the way theatre-goers around the world reacted when, as a raging Richard III, he directly addressed members of the audience while pouring out his nefarious schemes. (The theatrical technique was adopted by House of Cards, to similarly chilling ends.)

“In 12 different theatres in 12 different cities around the world, I was looking into the audience’s eyes and seeing the same extraordinary reaction everywhere: ‘This is so awesome, I’m in on it, I’m a co-conspirator!’” he recalls. “And they kept totally supporting him, right up until the moment they find out he murdered the kids. Then when I looked at them it was like, ‘Oh, f—,’” he beams.

Spacey sets about his work with a steely resolve and says his sense of purpose has redoubled following the deaths of a number of close friends, not least the actor Tim Pigott-Smith, in April of this year, and the theatre director Howard Davies last October, both of whom worked with Spacey on the 1999 Broadway revival of The Iceman Cometh.

He says he’s spent the last year-and-a-half “working with a whole series of experts, doctors and others, because I have watched, over the last six years, colleagues and friends of mine drop dead at 52, or 56, or 65. It doesn’t mean that you’re not going to get one of the five things that men over 50 are getting, but maybe you can hold it off until your 80s or your 90s. So I’m working on extending my life and not shortening it.”

For one thing, he still has so much to do. He’s written letters asking directors he admires – Martin Scorsese, Woody Allen, Wong Kar-wai – to bear him in mind for future roles. (“I keep opening the paper and reading that Woody Allen’s doing a film with Alec Baldwin,” he mock-splutters.) He wants to find a new creative director-like role that will “advance [his] love and appreciation of theatre” – another Old Vic gig, essentially – albeit “with the caveat that I don’t want to run a building again.”

Then this tantalising prospect: “I have a gigantic project for television,” he says. “Once House of Cards is finished. This is a very specific project that will be the next big thing I do.” He declines to elaborate, so I ask if it will reunite him with David Fincher, the director who, along with the playwright Beau Willimon, helped bring House of Cards to Netflix. “It is not a Fincher production,” he replies. “It’s mine.”

There is also his ongoing mission to open up theatre to a younger, broader crowd. At the Old Vic he relentlessly raised funds to keep the theatre running without public subsidy, while simultaneously fighting to bring its productions to new audiences – specifically, youngsters who wouldn’t have otherwise wandered through its doors.

In fact, he’s just returned to England from New York, and a restaging of his penultimate Old Vic production – David W. Rintels’ intimate one-man show Clarence Darrow, about the American civil rights lawyer – in a 23,000-seater tennis stadium in Queens, designed to bring in a crowd for whom Broadway is alien turf. Critics didn’t exactly take to the idea, with the New York Times branding the exercise a “folly”. But for Spacey, the bragging rights are in the numbers: 200 student tickets sold every night, and a further 250 given away free to 18 to 25-year-olds. “And yes, my producers don’t like me, but in the end we still make a profit,” he says, lacing the word “like” with pure venom. “We just don’t make as big a profit.”

This nose-thumbing single-mindedness considered, it’s perhaps surprising that Spacey enjoyed working on Baby Driver as much as he did. The film is so tightly choreographed – most scenes unfold in snappy sync with a musical accompaniment – that Spacey had to act out entire scenes with an earpiece keeping time, to ensure his every line and gesture fell on the beat.

“Let me put it this way,” he says. “Every time you work with a director, you have something to lose and something to gain. Some directors, when you’re doing a play, like to get up on their feet on day one and block the first act, and you’re like, ‘I don’t f—ing know who I’m playing yet, let alone why they would walk from here to there.’ And others sit down at a table and you spend a week examining Shakespeare before anyone gets on their feet.”

What did he have to lose on Baby Driver? “I could have been fired and Edgar could have got in Michael Caine instead,” he deadpans. Spacey is an accurate and merciless mimic – see YouTube for details – and says he would sometimes drop into the British actor’s accent on set, “just to make Edgar smile.”

He does this throughout our conversation too: reminiscences of Ian McKellen’s Widow Twankey at the Old Vic’s Christmas pantomime, for example, come with a note-perfect impersonation attached. In fact, interviewing Spacey often feels as if you’re in the front row for a one-man show of his devising. He doesn’t converse so much as monologue, and adjusts his tone and posture with a slinky precision while moving from one point to the next. And when he talks about losing Pigott-Smith and Davies, his words are so tender, and his delivery so wrong-footingly serene, I find myself welling up.

It’s not that you feel that Spacey is being insincere so much as suspect that for him, this might be what sincerity is. Perhaps it’s an up-close-and-personal version of Diderot’s paradox of the actor: you can either convincingly express an emotion or feel it for real, but never both at once.

While hosting the Tony Awards a few weeks ago, Spacey joked about the long-running rumours around his sexuality – but again, at a cautious remove. During the opening skit he dragged up as Norma Desmond, from Sunset Boulevard, and trilled a line from the musical – “I’m coming out!” – before hurriedly backtracking, to laughter from the crowd.

Spacey doesn’t talk publicly about his personal life, perhaps after being burned by a 1997 magazine interview that heavily insinuated he was gay. Given his long-standing decision not to discuss any of this, did he feel odd joking about it on the stage of an awards show?

“I really don’t think that anything isn’t a subject for comedy,” he shrugs. “In many ways, political correctness has made comedy really difficult. We were just trying to have fun, and poking fun at oneself as much as anyone else. I said pretty early on that I was not interested in turning the evening into a political opportunity, and I wanted to do things that would be surprising and different.” He mentions another gag, about the Hillary Clinton email scandal, which many might have thought his long-standing friendship with her husband, might have precluded: again, not so.

If we can’t make fun of ourselves and others, and even people we might agree with versus people we don’t agree with, then I don’t think that’s good for comedy.”

One of his inspirations in life, he says, has been Jack Lemmon. The two met when Spacey was a timid 13-year-old – the youngest of three siblings – at an acting workshop in Los Angeles. Lemmon was “an idol” – someone he’d marveled at on countless cinema trips with his mother Kathleen Ann, who instilled her own love of classic films and theatre in her youngest son.

Spacey recalls the older man laying a hand on his shoulder after the class and telling him: “You’re a born actor, and you should go to New York and study this, because you were meant to do this with your life.” The advice took. At 19, Spacey was accepted by the Juilliard School, and in his mid-20s, he was cast opposite Lemmon in a Broadway production of Long Day’s Journey Into Night, as the elder actor’s son. During rehearsals, he told him the story of their first meeting when he was 13. Lemmon remembered every detail.

Spacey describes Lemmon, who died in 2001, as a “father figure” (his actual father Thomas, a technical writer and frustrated novelist, passed away in 1994). He lost his mother to a brain tumour in 2003.

The shy teen who got that vital dose of Lemmon aid more than four decades ago may be long gone, but Spacey remembers him well – along with the precise point, two years later, when he fully understood what acting was.

“Something shifted,” he explains, during a school production of All My Sons, the Arthur Miller play. Before then he’d primarily enjoyed acting because it put him at the centre of attention, but as he stood on stage, the 15-year-old realised the faces in front of him – parents, classmates, strangers – weren’t actually looking at him, Kevin Spacey, at all.

“I realised they were responding to the character I was playing,” he says. “That it wasn’t about me.”