three hundred plus

No Other Men Like Me

Original imagine:  Imagine possessive!Dean when you’re flirting with the bartender to get info for a hunt written for @aprofoundbondwithdean. This is also #35 public sex/semi-public sex, (specifically semi-public) requested by an anonymous requester for my Follower Appreciation Day Drabbles from the 100 Kinks List.

Author: Dean’s Dirty Little Secret

Characters:  Dean Winchester x female reader

Word Count: 2586

Warnings: Explicit language, nsfw, explicit sexual content, smut, unprotected sex

Author’s Note: This has been sitting in my draft folder for a while. I wanted to write something for Kale, because she does so much for the authors in the fandom. This one is for you and all the things you do for us. xoxoxo

Tagging: @spnfanficpond  @jensennjared @mrswhozeewhatsis @the-mrs-deanwinchester @official-shipper @balthazars-muse @brooklyn-writes-flangst @climbthatmooselikeatree @mamapeterson @rizlow1 @eyes-of-a-disney-princess @winchesterenthusiast @salvachester @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @katnharper

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anonymous asked:

Winteriron collage au w/fake relationship; Tony asks Bucky to be his fake boyfriend, either to shake off some matchmaking friends or to piss off Howard. Turns out Bucky is all Tony ever wanted in a boyfriend. Too bad it's not real (extra angst if Tony paid for Bucky to act as his boyfriend, now Tony wonders if it was all for the money). Happy ending?


Not looking forward to Christmas this year? Parents nagging on you to settle down, get a man, get a life, get a job? I can make you look better, or at least make them look stupid. 

I am a 28 year old disabled military vet with a prosthetic arm – I think it’s cool, but it tends to freak people out. I have visible tattoos on my neck and arm and I have long, rough-cut hair. I generally rock the three-day stubble, but I can shave and look cleaned up, if you prefer. I work as a bouncer in a stripclub. If you’d like to have me as your strictly platonic date for Christmas, but have me pretend to be in a very long or serious relationship with you, to torment your family, I’m game. 

All I need is a free dinner and a six pack of microbrew. For a twenty-dollar gift card to starbucks, I will also talk about politics and religion (whichever side you want me to be on, I was on the debate team in high school). I can also openly hit on other guests (male or female, I swing both ways) pretend to get really drunk and start a fistfight with a member of your family on the front lawn in full view of the neighbors. 


Really, Tony wasn’t going to call the number, even though he’d torn the one of the strips off the flier when he’d seen it. He’d carried the number around in his jeans pocket for most of the day and then entered the digits into his phone. And forgotten about it. Until his mother had called and nagged him about what his plans were for Christmas. She’d talked pointedly about Janet Van Dyne, who was just lovely, and maybe Tony could consider – 

“Actually, Mom,” Tony interrupted, desperately. Not that he didn’t like Janet, she was a sweet girl, but they’d known each other since they were in diapers, and besides, he happened to know for a fact that she was nursing a crush on Hank Pym, and Pym had yet to get his head out of his ass long enough to notice. “I was wondering if I could bring a date home with me.” 

“A date, Tony?” His mother probed with all the delicacy of an Area 52 alien. “Are you actually seeing someone?”

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Switch it Up

A/N: Put Carmilla’s attitude and wisdom into a nineteen year old girl and Laura’s adorable awkwardness into a three hundred plus year old vampire, and you get a very different story than the web series we know and love. AU of a switching of the characters.

Rating: T for mild violence, mild romance, and one major curse (Carmilla would definitely have a foul mouth if she was a teenager)

Words: 8400+

Laura liked being a vampire, for the most part. She would swear that she did. Endless opportunity to learn about the world around her, to travel, to meet new people, it was a good deal. It was just – three hundred years of not being in control of your own life got old (pun not intended). Her ‘mother’ had allowed her to see the world once upon a time, if only she fulfilled her obligation every twenty years.

But what an obligation. Dozens of girls, all disappeared into the clutches of her mother over the decades and centuries. Laura assumed they were dead. She had tried, at first, to deny her mother, having learned quickly that whatever her mother desired would never be healthful for anyone else. But swift and severe punishment had pushed Laura into obedience. Nine times, Laura dutifully delivered the required girls to her mother. One hundred and eighty years of blindly doing what she was told, never looking for answers despite her better judgment.

Her job was ridiculously easy. Laura was tiny. Threatening, she would never be. It was simple to lure girls in with her natural exuberance and semi-awkward charm. The best compliment she could hope for most of the time was that she was cute. It made her a favorite of her mother’s for the whole bait and lure girls into the death trap … thing. But nine successful snares in, Laura made a mistake.

She fell in love.

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bangingpatchouli  asked:

Sometimes I can't help but think of all the motel rooms Sam and Dean spent the night in ... just the two of them. Imagine that. All those long hours...

♥ ♥ ♥ 

Yes, so much so.

All the tear-stained pillows when Dad didn’t make it back in time for Sammy’s birthday, sorry son, sorry, cardboard apologies piling up. But Dean, nicking packaged pastries from quick marts the world over, never let a May 2nd go by without sticking a candle in a muffin and maybe carrying Sam piggyback to the arcade for a couple rounds of Galaga.

All the outdated beige phones, and the TVs they had to bang on to get a channel, and the poor-reception radios that taught Sam a lot about why a crush was called a crush. Like when Dean said once, “Who’d’ya think all these songs are written about, huh? Madalaine? Beth? Their ball and chain? Nah. Their best lay.” Their best love, he’d meant. And Sam, fluent in Dean-speak, had gone to bed that night dreaming an idiot’s dream of being a hair metal song title.

All the puke pink walls in the southern siesta by-the-hours that had crumpled history assignments and secondhand boots and cans of Mountain Dew thrown at them on nights when Dean started staying out late and Sam, barely through puberty and tender where it counted most, knowing it wasn’t for a hunt – at least not for any sort of monster.

All the speckled mirrors that saw a ropey, mop-headed teenager peering into them, looking for answers, looking for himself, sighing when he came up empty, frowning when he’d say, ghost-like, “You’re not what he wants. He’s not dirty like you.”

All the 200 thread count blankets that learned about the heaviest hearts and the shakiest hands and the first time Sam Winchester ever gave a blowjob, ever went down on his brother, “No wait, Sam, Sam, oh god,” all question mark spines and scraped up knees; after-talk of spells and night-beasts and “you didn’t have to swallow, you didn’t have to—“

All the floral patterned wallpaper that rubbed near clean through with the press of three hundred plus pounds of sweaty desperation being thrown against it, sucking bruises under jaws and sobbing, moaning, whispering about Dad coming back, hurry, hurry, jesus, lift your leg.

All the yellowing tubs with mildew corners and grit-brown between the tiles that splashed with low pressure water and off-brand shampoo and wet, wet heat from between the legs of two boys that shouldn’t have fit inside, didn’t really fit anywhere, not in the world, but maybe just in their own. Dean rinsing the wound above Sam’s eyebrow; Sam drinking the water off Dean’s throat.

All the shag carpets that saw baby roaches and unopened condoms and bore witness to the fact that Sam had been wrong, so wonderfully wrong. Dean Winchester was filthy, three fingers down deep and then lick-em-later kind of filthy, and nobody complained about red-raw rugburn, not once.

All the wobbly chairs Sam sat on, packed up and waiting while Dean puttered around the rooms collecting blades and ammo and wadded up underwear balls that he’d leer at, then throw in Sam’s face. 

And all the chipped mosaic tables loaded with newspaper clippings and donut boxes, decade-old gum underneath; tables like the one Sam was slumped over, boredly checking his phone for missing persons, the first time he heard Dean clattering under the beds for stray weapons and crow-caw singing “Sa-a-a-mmy” to the tune of Europe’s Carrie…and Sam, smiling and smug, took it as a jest, but he’d known. He’d known.

And so had every motel they’d ever bled pieces of their 2-for-1 life into.

Genocide is not a name for violence in the way that “arson” is; genocide is a linguistic placeholder connoting that violence which outstrips the power of connotation. To represent it we have to dismantle it, pretend that we can identify its component parts, force a name into its hole— macrocytes, spur cells, kidneys at half-throttle, a thoroughly ulcerated stomach, Wounded Knee, Sand Creek—and make it what it is not, the way one fills the tucked sleeve of a one-armed boy. But these fillers, these phantom limbs of connotation, can only be imagined separately, and as such they take on the ruse of items that science, love, aesthetics, or justice—some form of symbolic intervention—can attend to and set right. They become treatable, much like the massacre at Wounded Knee were it not for the fact that to comprehend Wounded Knee, three hundred-plus men, women, and children in a snow-filled ravine, one must comprehend those three hundred synchronically over three thousand miles (the forty-eight contiguous States) and diachronically over five hundred years. Here, madness sets in and the promises of symbolic intervention turn to dust. We are returned to the time and space of no time and space, the “terminal.”
—  Frank B. Wilderson, III, Red, White, and Black: Cinema and the Structure of U.S. Antagonisms

anonymous asked:

Prompt (if you're still taking): Laura gets injured (like a broken arm or something) because she's Laura and she does Laura stuffs and Carmilla being concerned about her tiny human and basically hollstein fluff! Btw, your writing is amazingg

Thank you so much :)

My mind went straight to this when I thought of Laura getting hurt doing Laura stuff!

(Catmilla may also make an appearance…)

_

“This is all my fault.” Carmilla muttered as she kicked open the door. She stumbled into the dorm room and gave the door a quick, and probably unnecessarily hard, kick to close it behind them. She groaned as she felt Laura tighten her grasp around her neck but bit back her snarky response. It was after all her fault that the tiny girl had needed a piggyback home.

Carmilla had offered a more dignified bride-style carry option but Laura and her big, sad eyes had won in the end. Obviously.

“Carm-”

She shifted Laura’s weight on her back slightly as she came to a stop by Laura’s bed. “I honestly have no idea why I felt the need to indulge your pathological need to document every aspect of our lives. I mean frankly, a go-pro might be the worst gift idea I have ever had in my entire-”

“Carmilla!”

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Life on the Ark had been hard, after Cos had disappeared.

Scratch that. Life on the Ark had been almost impossible. It had almost ended, for Stiles.

With Cos’ disappearance, Stiles had known only two things could be true. Either he’d been arrested, or he’d been killed. Either way, Stiles no longer existed on the Ark, because he’d spent his days sharing a life and an identity with his twin brother. With one of them out of the picture, it was suddenly crucial that the one remaining never be caught, never be seen. The Council and their guards and all their goddamn rules couldn’t ever know the truth, or he’d be floated just like his father, as soon as he turned eighteen.

Unfortunately, keeping healthy on a dying ship and keeping fed without being seen wasn’t easy, especially in cramped quarters. Abigail Griffin had found him in medbay, shaking and delirious and trying to steal medicine, and she’d figured out the truth quickly enough. That one Stilinski baby hadn’t been one baby at all, he’d been two. Identical twins, one of whom had been sent planetside for the sin of trying to keep his brother alive.

They hadn’t floated him, much to Stiles’ surprise. They’d treated him. They’d fed him. They’d tried to make him better instead of letting him wither away and save oxygen for those they deemed more deserving. Stiles learned later that was in part because they’d murdered a good three hundred plus people on the Ark for no real reason.

It was also in part because they were all going to Earth, one way or another. Stiles ended up stuffed into Alpha Station as it descended, close to the doctor who’d chosen to spare his life. 

He’d chosen, once they’d recovered somewhat from the chaos of landing, not to stay too close to base.

After all, short of Dr. Griffin’s late-game compassion, Stiles didn’t owe them anything. He was pretty sure he owed them less than nothing, given their strict rules about medicine had killed his mother and their stricter rules about food and babies had killed his father and probably killed his brother too. There was nothing really left for him, but no longer any reason so hide–so he wandered. A lot.

Which is how he comes to find himself here, some ways outside of the camp, one hand holding a makeshift spear, looking more or less like death warmed over. He’s dirty and exhausted and still weaker than he’d like to be, too thin from too long without proper food or air. It makes him look a little cartoonish, exaggerates his shoulders’ width and his waist’s narrowness, causes dark smudges of grime and bruising under his whiskey eyes. His mouth won’t quite stop frowning.

anonymous asked:

To that anon who wanted to know if there was a fic with Laura as a vampire instead of Carmilla, there's one called Switch it Up on Ao3.

Switch it Up
Put Carmilla’s attitude and wisdom into a nineteen year old girl and Laura’s adorable awkwardness into a three hundred plus year old vampire, and you get a very different story than the web series we know and love. AU of a switching of the characters

Chapter 37

Andrea

“I just thought that we should all do something together, you know?”

“So, she’s not coming?” Chris asked, shrugging out of his work clothes.

I shook my head, trying to mask my disappointment.

My mother was bailing on me yet again.

In the weeks since my father passed, I spent a lot of time trying to keep myself busy. Whether it be with work, cleaning up, cooking, or watching movies I’d seen a thousand times, I was always trying to keep distracted. 

This weekend, I was especially eager to do a few things, so I devised a plan for Colin, Chris, Miss Joyce, and I to go out to the beach tonight, and for Chris and I to get much-needed alone time tomorrow. 

The only problem was that my mother, after agreeing to coming a few days ago, was now backing out because she ‘wasn’t feeling up to socializing.’

“Don’t fret over it, ‘Dre,” Chris advised. “Maybe she just doesn’t feel comfortable just yet with family outings. Y’all are still re-establishing your relationship.”

I shrugged, not feeling as optimistic as he did. “Do you like this one,” I asked of the black one piece bathing suit in my hand. “Or this one?”

Chris looked between the back bathing suit and the similar olive green one. “What happened to the two-piece you wore on vacation?” 

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It has been a month since I first took up Unohana and I am quite surprised there is three hundred plus blogs following me. Honestly, I never thought I’d get past twenty! And yet here you all are.
          Anyway, I am not so good at this so I’ll make it short.
Thank you for taking the time to check out my blog and following me. I do hope I get the chance to interact with every single one of you.
         Here is a list of people who made my experience worthwhile.
                                          Please follow these amazing people!!

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