that hand was obviously an afterthought

anonymous asked:

Can you write a fic where the gang goes camping and jughead and betty share a tent and things get heated (smut?)

Thanks for the prompts, loves! The ‘last story’ that this anon is referring to is this one (yeah that’s how long this prompt has been sitting in my ask I’m sorry), I hope you enjoy!
Warning: pure Bughead smut, like no plot to be found here.

“Dude, you’re great and all but maybe you should leave the story telling to someone else,” Jughead quipped, throwing a smirk in Archie’s direction over the flames as he chewed the last of his marshmallow. His attempt at a chilling, middle-of-the-woods, late night horror story had fallen flat among the group, Archie’s excited expression dropping as his three best friends stared at him with equally amusing looks of befuddlement. Veronica rubbed a soothing hand over his drooped shoulders.

“There, there, Archiekins. We all have our talents,” she consoled, not trying very hard to keep the smile out of her voice. Archie shot her a look, frown instantly melting beneath her dark brown gaze. They held each other’s eyes for a moment, irises sparkling in the bright glow of the firelight, Veronica biting her lower lip slightly.

“Well, it’s getting kind of late. We should probably call it a night,” Archie sighed, his attempt at a casual wrapping up of the conversation completely missing the mark. Jughead glanced at Betty from the corner of his eye, checking to see if she got the implication too, finding her regarding the couple through narrowed eyes. She got it, alright.

“Great idea. Goodnight!” Veronica sang, standing abruptly and heading into one of the two tents, Archie scrambling to follow behind her, flashing a brief wave to Betty and Jughead before the zipper was being sealed and a shudder inducing giggle erupted from behind the plastic.

“Eurgh,” Jughead grimaced, trying to focus on the periodic crackling and snapping of firewood instead of the shuffling of fabric on fabric. Betty didn’t answer, Jughead turning to look at her in concern. “Betts?”

She was staring straight ahead, fingers twisting nervously in her lap. A bright pink hue coloured her cheeks, teeth worrying her bottom lip distractedly.

“Betty, are you okay?” he asked, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. She jumped at the contact, his warm palm pulling her out of whatever daze she’d slipped into. She blinked, eyes finally meeting his, ponytail swinging behind her with the movement.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure, I just… didn’t realise that would be happening here,” she muttered, eyes flicking back to the suspiciously quiet tent. Jughead swallowed. He wasn’t sure what to say, it wasn’t really his area of expertise. A short silent occurred before Betty spoke again. “I just… assumed I’d be sharing with Veronica,” Betty shrugged, voice small.

Jughead’s eyes bulged. Oh, that’s what she was worried about! How could he be so stupid, of course she wouldn’t want to sleep in such close quarters next to him, especially when they both knew all too well what was probably happening a few mere feet away. They’d been very slow in their exploration of the relationship blossoming between them, both happy to enjoy the scenic route rather than rushing full force towards an end goal.

“I can sleep out here,” he hurried to reassure her. Her green eyes widened. “I’m used to roughing it,” he added self-deprecatingly. Betty shook her head in short, sharp movements, hand reaching out to grab his thigh.

“No! No, I didn’t mean that at all. I just… It surprised me, is all,” she smiled, trying to bring them back together. “I don’t mind sharing… that’s only if you don’t, obviously,” she added as an afterthought, nerves colouring her tone. Jughead shook his head, voice failing him all of a sudden. Betty smiled her delicate, calming smile and grabbed his hand, leading him to the other tent.

He waited outside while she changed, hands thrust deep in his pocket, feet tapping absentmindedly on the ground. He pulled off his jeans and flannel when she was done, leaving him in his boxers and grey ‘S’ t-shirt, Betty tastefully averting her eyes. He grinned in amusement as he ducked into the tent.

“What’s this?” he asked with a chuckle, looking down at the two sleeping bags, zipped together to fashion a makeshift double bed. Betty just shrugged, looking up at him from beneath thick lashes.

“For warmth,” she replied casually, rolling her lower lip between her teeth. Jughead shook his head, blowing out a hopefully discreet exhale, trying to steady his quickening heart rate. The soft scent of vanilla and strawberries reached him as he slid into his side of the ‘bed’, settling himself against the hard ground, fingers laced tightly where they rest on top of his stomach.

Neither one of them moved, stoically lying side by side on their backs as the woods moved around them, faint rustlings and echoed scurrying ringing out in a chorus of wildlife. Seconds dragged by like hours before Betty heaved a dramatic sigh, rolling over a little clumsily in the tight space and pulled one of Jughead’s arms free, settling herself on his chest beneath it. Jughead froze briefly before relaxing against her touch, securing her body against his own. This time her sigh was lighter, more content, as she began tracing patterns across his chest with the pad of her index finger.

“I like this,” Betty mumbled some time later, voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. Jughead smiled into the darkness, eyes fixed on a spot on the tent above them.


“This. Lying next to you, nothing else to worry about…” Jughead jumped slightly as he felt one of her smooth legs sliding up to find home between his bony ones. “I can’t wait for it to always been like this,” she hummed, shifting minutely against him to get comfortable. Jughead swallowed, hoping she couldn’t feel how hard his heart was pounding from her words, but ultimately knowing there was no way she couldn’t.

“Me neither, Betts,” he whispered, afraid to disturb the peace that was settling over them. Betty lifted her head, wide, green eyes still ever-bright in the darkness.

“It will be, won’t it?” she asked, voice small but tone hopeful. Jughead’s eyes flicked over her features, taking in everything that was simply Betty Cooper, everything that was somehow his. He nodded, bringing a hand up to rest lightly at the nape of her neck.

“Of course.” He lifted himself up slightly, pulling her lips to his for a sweet, lingering kiss. What he didn’t expect was the quiet moan that left Betty’s throat as his mouth pressed against hers, Betty shifting once again until her body was resting against his hip. Her hands came up to cup his cheeks, low groan vibrating through his chest as she ran her tongue against the seam of his lips. His other hand came to grip the small of her waist, pulling her more securely against him.

They’d gotten this far before, the wet sounds of their tongues dancing against one another, mixed with their heavy, gasping breaths, a familiar tune. Jughead knew what it felt like to have her every inch pressed against him, what it felt like to let his hand wander up beneath her shirt, cupping the soft mound of her breast. He swore he would never tire of the high-pitched whines that running his thumb over the dark pink peak of her nipple elicited; he could feed off the sound for the rest of his days and never go hungry again.

Betty’s hips were rolling in an intoxicating rhythm against his thigh, shuddery exhales leaving her mouth and fanning over his face, sending his head spinning. His hand swept down her side, running down the soft skin of her thigh before creeping back up to rest his fingertip beneath the hem of her shorts on the curve of her ass, squeezing slightly in reflex.

A sudden throaty laugh followed by a hushed but giggled “Archie, shh!” tore them apart. Betty jumped back, hand coming up to cover her swollen, enticingly red lips as Jughead raised himself to his elbows, chest heaving. He cleared his throat, not sure if he’d be able to talk without any blood left in his brain.

“Err, yeah… th-this isn’t really the place for…” he trailed off, not meeting her eyes as he shuffled back into the sleeping bag, hands patting the fabric mindlessly, brushing invisible dirt away. Betty’s cheeks turned scarlet as she sat, thighs shifting against one another, in the stifling silence of the tense air, thick with tension.

“Jug?” Her voice was shy and barely audible. Jughead’s eyes snapped open instantaneously, finding hers in the darkness. His arms were full of her once more as she draped herself back in her previous spot.

“Yes?” he whispered.

“I… I want you to touch me,” she crooned, nervousness still creeping in around the edges. His head bounced back in surprise.

“You want…?” She pressed a bruising kiss to his lips.

“Please?” she pleaded, the needy whine tightening a coil in the pit of Jughead’s stomach. “Only if you want,” she suddenly backtracked, biting on that damn full lower lip again. His eyes followed the movement before searching hers for a moment, seeing no hesitation in her request. He lurched forward, his lips were once again kissing her, rolling them until she was half beneath his body instead.

His hand wound itself in her hair, almost silver in the dim lighting, using it as leverage to tug her head to the side, giving his mouth better access to ravish hers. She was whimpering and mewling beneath him, hips never stilling as she waited in anticipation for his hands to begin wandering lower.

He trailed his fingertips down the side of her neck, following the burning trail with his mouth. He left butterfly kisses against the veins under translucent skin, finding her fluttering pulse point before gently sucking, waiting for the purple bruise to blossom. Jughead secretly loved leaving these marks on Betty’s skin - something primal inside him awakened at the sight of the aftermath of his loving actions adorning her body, mouth quirking into a smug smirk as he caught her hand going to them every so often, fingertips prodding them, brushing over them absentmindedly throughout the day.

His hand danced down her side, sliding once more down the smooth skin of her outer thigh before sweeping back up, repeating the motion again, and again.

“Juggie, please,” Betty moaned, the action sending her spiralling, and he couldn’t help but smile into the crook of her neck, amazed that he was able to make this beautiful girl feel this way. Her skin felt alight, too sensitive but craving more all at once. When his hand started to drift away from the place she wanted to feel his touch the most again, she grabbed his wrist, other hand winding in his dark waves to pull his eyes back to hers. His mouth was glossy and swollen, lips parted slightly.

Her eyes never left his as she guided his hand to the waistband of her shorts, slipping his fingers slightly below the elastic before letting go, leaving him to control the rest. Jughead pulled in a shaky breath, steeling his nerves. This was Betty, they were just them. They were exploring this together, it was okay.

His trembling hand dipped lower, Betty’s head falling back with a thud, eyes sliding closed, as his fingers made contact with her heated flesh. Her chest was heaving, breasts moving enticingly before Jughead’s face, as he ran his fingers through her wetness, watching her face closely for her reactions. He wasn’t completely clueless, he knew the basic anatomy. But this was something he hadn’t even pictured himself doing until his feelings for Betty Cooper burst behind his eyes, thumping his square in the chest, sending him reeling down a path that he was never coming back from.

Betty’s hips bucked, back bowing gracefully, as the pad of his middle finger swept over her sensitive bundle of nerves. He concentrated his ministrations there for a while, spreading her wetness with the small circling motions he noticed made her breath hitch the most, revelling in the way her brows drew together in what seemed like agonising pleasure.

She whimpered at the lost of contact when he moved lower, fingers finding her entrance. He paused, waiting for her eyes to open before continuing. The green of her irises was near invisible, pupils blown wide with lust. She nodded, thighs tensing minutely as he began to push forwards slowly. The tight, warm sensation sent sparks throughout his body, igniting foreign sensations within him that were the farthest thing from unpleasant. He pushed them down, though, wanting to pour every ounce of concentration into making Betty feel good.

“Are you okay?” he checked, stilling all movement. She nodded quickly, jolting her hips up in an attempt to get him to do something.

“Yeah, yeah, just… please,” she begged, unsure what she wanted just knowing that she needed it now. He pulled his hand back slowly before pushing back in all at once. Betty’s hand flew up to grip his bicep, teeth sinking into her lip to hold back a loud moan.

He kept going, experimenting with pace and intensity, trying to coaxed out as many different reactions as possible from the girl writhing beneath him. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her so beautiful. She was so carefree, so full of abandon, hair splayed wildly about her, cheeks and chest flushed a delicious pink, sinful sounds slipping from her mouth with every twist of his fingers.

He brought his thumb up to rub her clit in time with his thrusts, laughing as Betty’s shoulders left the floor, loud whine leaving her throat before she could stop it.

“Shh!” he hushed through a chuckle, pressing his lips to hers to swallow any further outbursts. He could feel her getting closer to the edge, legs hitching, thighs quivering, walls contracting round his fingers. “Let go, Betty,” he whispered against her mouth. It only took a few more seconds before her whole body tensed, stars exploding behind her closed eyelids as she rode out the waves of pleasure coursing through her body.

Jughead continued his gentle motions until she reached for his hand, pulling it out of her shorts before she couldn’t take it anymore. He watched her with glowing eyes as she breathed through pursed lips, utterly dishevelled, coming down from her high. Her eyes slid open some time later, her whole body relaxed in utter contentment.

“I think I like camping,” she muttered, cheeky smile gracing her face. He laughed, muffling the sound in the crook of her neck as she carded her fingers lazily through his hair. Yeah, so did he.

Lavender Lambs and Pacifiers

A/N: yo I uploaded last weekend and this weekend? its a miracle. im never this consistent

Summary: Dan has a secret, and it’s more of a someone, rather than a something. Maybe he should learn to be more careful with the evidence when his mother babysits Noah.

Words: 3633

Warnings: nothing really, just swearing as usual. fluffy fluff

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Anonymous asked: “wtf you’re not my roommate, how did you get in here? oh SHIT you’re really drunk AND NOW YOU’RE CRYING okay okay it’s okay shhhh, you can stay here i guess??” au

Author’s note: The story got a bit more serious than the prompt sounded, but nonetheless it has fluff, dorks falling in love, a happy ending, and I loved writing this. 

“Dammit!” Castiel cursed as he tried to unlock the door of his dorm, which was a true challenge because he was carrying his laptop, two books, and his coffee-to-go.

When he succeeded at putting his key in the lock after no less than four tries, he came to the conclusion that the door hadn’t been locked to begin with. Castiel muttered another string of curses; his roommate Balthazar had forgotten to lock the door. Again.

With an exasperated sigh Castiel slipped inside, the room completely dark. He was about to let his stuff fall to his bed so that he would have his hands free to turn on some lights, only to find that he couldn’t, because something was already on that bed. Or rather; someone, because that was clearly the silhouette of a person.

Castiel’s ears picked up on a soft sniffling sound. Squinting in the dark, Castiel put his stuff on his desk instead.

“Balth? Weren’t you supposed to spend the weekend with your family? And why are you on my bed?” Castiel interrogated, switching on the small lamp on the nightstand, eyes flickering to the empty bed on the other side of the room.

There was a muffled “leave me alone”, and Castiel gasped when he realized that it was definitely not the voice laced with the British accent that belonged to his roommate. His eyes fell on the person lying on his bed, face buried in Castiel’s pillow as if he was trying to shut out the world.  

No, definitely not Castiel’s roommate. Another quiet sob came from the pillow.

“Look, I think there’s been a major misunderstanding…” Castiel tried to reason. “You’re in my room, and this is my bed.”

The stranger now turned his head to the side, only just enough for Castiel to see two watery green eyes glower at him.

He froze as he recognized the familiar face of his handsome neighbor. Castiel thought his name was Dean, but couldn’t be entirely certain because he’d never had the nerve to actually have a conversation with the guy with the charming smile and the adorable freckles.

“I… I believe you live in the room to our left.” Castiel supplied when the guy didn’t say a word. “It’s Dean, isn’t it?” He added as an afterthought.

A curt nod from Dean, and then the guy’s eyes went wide as he glanced around the room, at last putting two and two together. He groaned, rolling over so that he was lying on his back, pressing both his hands over his eyes.

“Awesome! Just awesome… Perfect ending of a perfect day.” He slurred bitterly, obviously intoxicated. “Everything is just awesome…”

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Reachable Things: An Akatsuki no Yona Fanfiction

Happy Valentine’s Day everyone! I would feel bad for a holiday dedicated to love to go by without any lovey dovey fic, so I figured it would be good to celebrate it with a little something. Enjoy a little Hak/Yona fic from me to you on this day of love. 

Trigger warning: submissive play (technically it’s in a dream but it counts lol)

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Necessary Luxuries

This is my response for the Perc’ahlia Festival of Happiness - this is for @pyrohydriscence, for the prompt “shameless indulgence”.  Fandom: Critical Role, Pairing: Percy/Vex, Rating: Gen.  About 1800 words.  On AO3.

Florian’s False Field is a practice range six miles outside of Emon: five miles northeast, and one mile more or less directly down.  Admittance to the range grants a patron access to four open ranges of various terrain and difficulty, two maintained practice lanes, the services of a practiced wizard capable of creating illusory targets and challenges, and six hours of utter discretion.

As such, admittance comes at the steep price of 1000 gold per person, limiting attendance at Florian’s False Field to those of means.  

Percy and Vex spend a day at Florian’s together every four weeks, like clockwork.  

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Drifting Stars Headcanons Pt. 3

These headcanons are inspired by @the-subpar-ghost​‘s Drifting Stars AU , wherein during the events of Not What He Seems, Mabel is accidentally sucked through the portal to the dimension Ford is currently in, and the two meet.

Part 1

Part 2

- While Ford hasn’t lost his sense of wonder about the marvels of the universe by a long shot, 30 years seeing everything under hundreds of suns have led to him becoming just a bit jaded. However, seeing Mabel delightedly chasing after scuttling, sparkling jewel beetles, gazing open-mouthed at a plain full of iridescent moon blossoms in complete awe, or exclaiming with wonder and curiosity over the commonplace hologram projector he shows her makes him look at the beauty the universe has to offer with fresh eyes.

- After learning that Mabel knitted the key sweater she was wearing when he found her and that she misses knitting in general, Ford carves her some makeshift knitting needles and procures some yarn substitute at the next settlement they come across that carries something suitable. She’s delighted with her gift, and spends all of the next day knitting her first sweater in the portal, hardly even pausing to eat. She nearly bursts into tears when she puts it on, and then immediately starts on a scarf for her uncle with the remaining yarn.

- Because Mabel is very good at working with her hands in general, she’s often a big help with mending their clothes and gear, making cord, rope, and baskets from available materials once Ford teaches her the basics, and taking in knitting and sewing jobs as well as the occasional art commission to help make ends meet in the different universes she and Ford find themselves in if there are other sentient life forms about while her grunkle is busy scouting the lay of the land and either finding work or making his own.

- Stanford finds to his surprise that when people realize he’s looking after a child/youngling of his species, common civilians are more inclined to be less suspicious of him or to treat them more kindly for her sake.  Not to mention that her personable, charming, and open-minded personality leads to her making friends and getting along with others easily, thus opening more doors that Ford would have previously found very hard to get through, given his more reclusive and socially-awkward nature.  The flip side of this is that some more disreputable beings will think they’re easy prey because he has a kid to look after, and will be more likely to target Mabel to distract him so that they can eat/rob/beat up/etc. both of them instead of going after someone else who doesn’t look as dangerous.

- If he had bothered to really sit down and contemplate it before, Ford would have readily admitted to himself that he liked Mabel very much; that he was very fond of her, even. But when the two of them are ambushed by bandits and Mabel is held hostage by one of them, his clawed brass knuckles at her throat, he suddenly realizes that this cheerful, energetic, weird little girl has somehow in a very short amount of time become more precious to him than anything else in the multiverse. The bandit’s claws bite into her shoulder as a warning for him to drop his weapons and she cries out plaintively in pain, blood welling up and staining her faded, threadbare sweater. Raw, icy fury courses through his veins at the sight, crystallizes into hard resolve, and the three bandits attacking them are suddenly dead in 5 seconds flat. As he comforts a sobbing Mabel and carries her back off to their camp to treat her wounds, he wonders just when he got so used to this child’s company that the very thought of losing her terrifies him more than any monster or eldritch horror he’s faced in a long, long time.

- Mabel has a similar revelation in another dimension when she elbows her way through a gawking metropolitan crowd while trying to locate Ford, arms full of a bouquet of alien wildflowers, only to see her great uncle on his hands and knees on the ground, bleeding, about to be killed by a local warrior in a berserker rage for the heinous crime of accidentally bumping into him and causing him to spill his drink. She doesn’t even think; as the warrior brings his bladed club down, she drops her armful of flowers, whips out her spear, and throws herself in front of her uncle’s body, spear upraised. The man impales himself on the blade, his eyes meeting Mabel’s for a brief moment before he becomes deadweight and slumps over, wrenching the spear out of her bloodstained hands. Ford eventually struggles to his feet, grabs the stricken, unresponsive Mabel around the middle, yanks her spear out of the man’s chest as an afterthought, and takes off through the dumbfounded crowd as fast as his injuries will allow before the authorities can be called. Back at their camp, Mabel silently goes over to the nearby stream to wash her spear and hands off while Ford bandages himself up and starts packing their bags, since they obviously won’t be welcome around those parts much longer. He notices that Mabel is taking much longer than usual to come back and goes to look for her, only to find her frantically rubbing her hands raw in the stream, tears streaming down her face. Ford’s heart sinks and he gently but firmly pulls his great-niece out and away from the water, instead wrapping her in a tight hug and quietly thanking her for saving his life. Mabel clings to him desperately, shuddering at the thought of just how close she came to losing him, to being completely and utterly lost and alone, and she realizes with a sick certainty that as much as she hated killing that man and hates herself for doing it… she would do it again. If it meant saving her uncle, she would do it again.

anonymous asked:

If you're still taking prompts, Alex/Astra: 32) things you said I wouldn’t understand

“Just drop it!” Alex yells. “God, you have no concept of what we’re even talking about here.”

“Don’t I?” Astra fires back, and fuck, there is danger in that tone. Alex raises one finger to cut her off, to tell her that this is one rant Alex is entitled to, but Astra has yet to back down from a single fight. “You think you’re the only one in the galaxy to have a difficult mother?”

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Can anyone recommend any blogs dedicated to posting descriptions of happy-drunk Fenris curled up in an oversized armchair and reading a book about kitten-care while petting Hawke’s dog and snuggling under a patchwork quilt made for him as a Satinalia gift by Orana and Varania?  I realize that’s a fairly specific ask but I could really use this in my life right now.

Armchair Diplomacy (f!hawke/fenris)

It wasn’t ironic that Fenris was happy, or even that he was happily drunk.

What was ironic was that Fenris was happily drunk in the overstuffed armchair that he argued vehemently against hauling up the stairs into the library, his alliterative criticisms being heavy, hideous and wholly unsuitable for the space.

When Fenris had become so invested in the estate’s décor Hawke wasn’t entirely sure, but the longer they were together the more it became apparent that he was even better at spending her money than Isabela was - as long as he didn’t realize he was doing it. Their flatware had benefitted greatly from it, as had Hawke’s collection of Antivan rugs which, to be honest, she didn’t feel one way or another about until she was tired and whining and stretched out on the floor because the bedroom was too far.

But it made him happy, these little things.

She thought that maybe he would be just as happy, though, in a little country cottage, surrounded by plants as green as his eyes, and the kind of sun that shines uninterrupted from the heavens rather than ricocheting around in the dust kicked up in Kirkwall’s streets.  Hawke wasn’t quite sold on the idea of children - the patter of little feet usually signified that angry dwarves had once again broken into the place - but she wasn’t necessarily against it.  Toothless did, after all, love children.  And to be used as a footrest.

The large shape of her mabari was little more than a lump beneath the quilt draped over Fenris’ legs. If anything was hideous, Maker help them all, it was that quilt.  There were colors in it that had no right to be adjacent to one another - let alone in the same rainbow - but it was warm and soft and the labor of many hours. Varania, surprisingly enough, couldn’t sew, which was probably why Orana’s aid had been enlisted.  Varania must also be colorblind, but if one ignored the over-usage of the color pink the pattern made by the geometric patches was quite intricate and beautiful.

And Fenris, who was a secret softie, loved it.  He’d been endearingly awkward when they’d given it to him at Satinalia, tongue-tied and gruff because of it, but late in the evening when everyone had gone home she found him under the lopsided garlands Merrill had hung to be festive, quietly stroking his fingers over the stitching, the expression on his face both thoughtful and serene.

If she’d shed a tear, well, it wasn’t like she was going to confess. Especially since the novelty of the gift had somewhat worn off for her at this point, though if he was willing to compromise on her selection of furniture she was certainly not going to put too fine a point on his taste in linens.

“What have you got there?” she asked, leaning over the back of the chair to loop both arms around Fenris’ neck, a kiss pressed against his cheek.

“I think one would call these-” There was what was quite possibly a hiccup and a small giggle attempting to disguise themselves as a dramatic pause as he carefully turned the page.  "-kittens.“

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