three times too many

types of marvel fans i have seen on my dash during my time as a marvel fan
  • type 1: really love loki to a disturbing degree. probably joined around the time the first avengers movie came out. are rare nowadays but you occasionally still see one and cringe a lil bit but u do u fam
  • type 2: think the winter soldier is one of the greatest films ever made. would literally take a bullet for bucky barnes
  • type 2a: people who enjoy steve rogers (just kidding, this is everyone)
  • type 3: people who are in love with our lord and savior peggy carter
  • type 3a: people who are in love with our other lord and savior sharon carter
  • type 4: the guardians of the galaxy-ers. i'm pretty sure they're high like at least 40% of the time when they're not making fantastic edits
  • type 5: the Tony Stans™
  • type 6: the deadpool fans. interestingly probably the most respectful of the bunch
  • type 7: the comic book fans. always good for a good movie/comic comparison thanks guys
  • type 7a: the fraction!hawkeye fans. would die for kate bishop and think clint barton is A Mess™ (he is)
  • type 8: the Netflix Fan™. the only people capable of being adults here
  • type 9: never in my five years on this site have a seen an exclusively thor blog. but they must be out there. they must
  • type 10: people who have seen uncle ben die like three times too many. stop making origin stories for spiderman
  • type 11: people who needed the black panther movie yesterday (just kidding, this is also everyone)
  • type 12: people who would let natasha romonov kick them in the face
  • type 13: people who do not enjoy brucenat (just kidding, also everyone)

Boi, can you believe it’s already been a whole year since Horikoshi saved my life


          all of it there and then gone. he was drowning in the harbor. her limbs were a corpse’s limbs. her eyes were dead and staring disgust and longing roiled in his gut.
          he lurched backward, and pain shot through his bad leg. his mouth was on fire. the room swayed. he braced himself against the wall, trying to breathe. inej was on her feet, moving toward him, her face concerned. he held up a hand to stop her.  
↳ crooked kingdom by leigh bardugo, chapter 26

My thoughts are all over the place...

Idk guys but i think viktor actually falls in love with yuuri in chapter 4 back when they ran into each other in the bathroom:

“Viktor Nikiforov was standing in front of him, looking faintly shocked at the sudden appearance of a small Japanese boy who had just walked straight into him and proceeded to make a fool out of himself with his stuttering apologies. The Russian’s cheeks were a little flushed and there was a slight hitch to his breath as though he had been running just moments previously. If Yuuri had to guess he would assume Viktor had been running from the paparazzi that were still swarming the halls of the stadium. Since his senior debut, Viktor’s popularity had only grown and press and fans alike were clamouring to get a glimpse of the teenager at every event he attended.”

Now, idk if the blushing and the little hitch in his breathing was actually because of the paps or yuuri but its pretty similar to the banquet scene at the end of ep 10. And if i remember correctly, after that Viktor paid a little more attention to him like in chapter 6 when yuuri caught him staring… and two chapters later he asked yuuri to dance, all nervous like 🤔 ((why would he do that if he didnt have some sort of interest in him?)) ((maybe he did it because yuuri won and he wanted to make some sort of a peace offering?? Shit idk))

Or maybe he could’ve fell in love with yuuri after he first saw him skate which we now know was back in chapter 3. And we know how Vik felt after watching him skate so that could’ve stirred up something within him but idk–

Or maybe he could’ve fell for him much later–

I may be wrong 😂 bc we wont know until we get Vik’s POV but, its just my thoughts.

Your Theories?

Help me out here fam

kaitrionabalfe  asked:

I'm in dire need of a fluffy scene where Claire tries to read the lines on Jamie's palm and she ends up failing miserably.

Liv says: So this isn’t fluff, so to speak—but I hope it’s still fun! Set about 2-3 years before puir Frank the Mailman died in the Three Witches AU. No worries if you haven’t read it. This one stands alone! :)

Intersection: A Three Witches Story

Claire knew this was against coven rules. Like, totally outside the realm of acceptable witch behavior.

To dole out one’s magical talents—particularly at the county fair—was a bit manipulative (in regards to the customers), a bit sad (in regards to Claire). Still, she liked to think she was working for a kind of greater good. Ensuring the happiness of all mankind! And that was almost admirable, wasn’t it? Giving hopeful glimmers of adulthood to the stork-like teenagers, comforting the mopey singletons who trudged around, heads bent? She’d offered such assurances as:

“A new man will come into your life. A handsome one—with a huge prick! His name…I think his name begins with a ‘T’.” (This to the recent divorcee, clutching her naked ring finger like a burn. She hadn’t known what a “prick” was but was no less forthcoming with her money.)

Or this, to the bucktoothed 16-year old picking at his acne scars: “You’ll be the coolest person in college. Captain of the ultimate frisbee team!” He’d been disappointed at that one, enormous chompers clamping over his bottom lip. “Ho ho ho there, young man!” she’d said then. “Ultimate frisbee is cool where you’re going. The coolest cool.” And then he’d smiled, a patchwork of teeth and holes, which Claire hoped someone might find endearing. A nice and wholesome blind girl, maybe.

And then this, to the both of them: “For just $5 more, I can guarantee it! All you have to do is buy this magical rock and carry it with you wherever you go.” Nevermind that said magical rock was actually from Claire’s backyard. Nevermind that several of them were speckled in bird shit. Maybe some cicada guts.

But that was the thing about desperate Mortals. Metaphorically speaking, their whole lives were a succession of bird shit plops and smeared bug guts. So they didn’t even notice when it was covering their $5, not-magical rock.

“Yes please! I’ll take two!” the divorcee had cried, handing Claire a ten dollar bill. (Did she think this would bring two men into her life? Because that’s not how Claire’s bird shit rocks worked.)

“Um. Yeah. That’s sounds pretty sick,” said Beaver Bobby. “I’ll buy a rock.” He’d paid in all quarters but, hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

If her best friend Gillian were here, she would likely call this “an exploitative farce,” two terms she would’ve picked up from her beloved Word of the Day calendar.

Claire,” she would hiss, “this is such an exploitative (Wednesday’s word) farce (last Friday’s word).” And then she’d pull out her Moleskin, update her word count with a self-satisfied tick. Her record, she claimed, was sixty words in a single morning, and Claire imagined a horrible plague descending upon their town, zombifying everyone until they could only grunt “verisimilitude.” Gillian thought an expanded vocabulary made her smarter but, really, it just increased her smart-assedness to a barely tolerable level.

Luckily, Gillian wasn’t here to offer one of her impressive synonyms because she’d bailed on their plans. If Claire could place money on it—and she couldn’t, with only $7 to her name, the very reason for this “manipulative/sad/exploitative farce”—Gillian was protesting GMO’s one county over. Perhaps arguing for the rights of beluga whales. Or, and this was the most likely, she was loitering at the Creamy Whip, breasts thrust at a very specific angle so that customers’ cones would find their shirts and not their mouths.

Psh! Now if that wasn’t an “exploitative farce” then Claire didn’t know what was. Gillian had mosquito bite boobs and a push-up bra more magical than her own powers.

But here was the thing: Claire wasn’t completely faking it. She wasn’t, so to speak, wearing a bra with three inches of padding. She could read palms, see futures unfurl, weblike, across strangers’ skins. Forks, divots, complex branches—each had such a distinct voice, that Claire had no doubt as to whether or not, say, Mr. Duncan over there would choke on a hot dog and die very suddenly. Or whether young Malva—that girl with the cotton candy and ruffled socks—would pop out a kid by the time she was 17. Claire, being a witch, knew precisely what would befall her clients by simply looking at their hands.

But of course, teenage pregnancy and death by synthetic meat logs weren’t exactly good for customer satisfaction. And so Claire would read Mr. Duncan’s palm, and she would see Mr. Duncan’s red face, gasping on a particularly troublesome bit of hot dog, but say he’d live until he was 85. A little white lie for a happy client. And a happy client meant A) money, B) a potential second visit, and thus C) more money. The $5 rocks weren’t scams, just for-profit business cards.

So she was lying, but not, y’know, totally lying. She’d deal with the prevention of hot dog-induced deaths later, when it better benefitted her monthly budget. (Because just as she wasn’t a complete liar, she wasn’t a complete asshole either.)

The fair had died down to a trickling of stragglers: mostly drunks, a couple of junkies who’d staggered into Nayawenne County for cheap-rate smack. Sighing, Claire stood to begin packing up, turned off the moody sound effects, gathered Gillian’s stack of Tarot cards (all hand-painted variations of herself: man Gillian; tree Gillian; Gillian with bigger-than-mosquito-bite boobs).

In the five hours since Claire had arrived, she’d made $120. Not a terrible turnout if one compared it to last year’s fair, when an angry swarm of Bible-thumpers had tossed her earnings into the funnel cake fryer. Sally Bain—or, as Claire called her, Sally Bane-of-Her-Existence—had rallied her troop of Jesus warriors and thrust crucifixes into Claire’s face, chanting things like, “Begone Satan!” and “This is God’s land!”

Which was kind of funny when you thought about it. If God wanted to claim ownership of Nayawenne—out of every other place in the universe—then he was pretty damn stupid.

Fortunately, Claire had suffered no further Bible-thumping, crucifix-wielding disturbances. Sally Bane-of-Her-Existence had fled town once she’d discovered her husband had fucked the organ player up in the ass. And in the church rectory, no less. (Such irony! Claire’d had absolutely nothing to do with it. Ha.)

It had been a windy afternoon, and Claire’s crystal ball was now coated in a fine layer of dust. Though it was only for decorative purposes—for customer satisfaction!—Claire decided she ought to give it a nice shine, make it look at least halfway capable of revealing visions of tomorrow.

Witch Tip #1: Unbeknownst to Mortals, crystal balls were like kisses from a true love. Which was to say, not powerful in the slightest. The most a kiss could do was give you mouth herpes. And, at its highest power, a crystal ball would fly across a room, break a window and the pinky toe of an irritating significant other. Not that Claire had experience with either situation. Certainly not the mouth herpes.

Claire ripped off a paper towel and went to grab the Windex, only to realize she’d left the Windex at home. Had, by a stroke of poor planning, only brought the herbal tonic she sometimes had to spritz into her eyes when they got a bit cloudy.

Witch Tip #2: Seeing the future had its drawbacks. Your eyes would get all crusty if you did it too much. As if your body was punishing you with goopy morning blindness. Honestly, it was pretty gross.

Well shit, Claire thought. She spat on her hand and rubbed the ball, hoping the couple beside “Whack-A-Democrat” wouldn’t think she was, like, doing something sexual to an inanimate object.

But whatever the couple thought, they were watching her, whispering behind their hands and giving her darting glances. Oh God, Claire thought, Bible-thumper radar blaring. Did Sally Bain send them? Did she organize a sabotage via prayer? Was it possible to raise an army of vengeful Baptists an entire state away? (Claire wouldn’t be surprised. She’d heard of stranger things. Done some of them herself. See also: anally-fucked organ player before he was anally fucked.)  

But no, the couple wasn’t looking at Claire with the fury of God in their eyes—but fascination. The woman, a petite but sturdy thing, was shoving her partner in Claire’s direction. Making a not-so-obvious pointing gesture, like, Her. Her! that he seemed somewhat reluctant to obey. Still, he did, and soon he was striding towards Claire, long legs stomping up clouds of dirt dust, red hair matching the synthetic blood of a “whacked” Bill Clinton.

“Are you…” the man began, looking nervously over his shoulder. The woman pursed her lips, arched her brow like, Do it, you pussy. He shoved his hands in his pockets, defeated. “Are ye done for the day, lass?”

“I was just about to pack up, but I’ve time for another reading if you’re interested.”

“Aye…” he said, completely unconvincing. “Aye, I suppose I’m interested.”

“Well then, take a seat, Mr…?”

“Fraser. Jamie.”

Keep reading


What would I do without you?
Crash and burn.

Every Other Weekend pt. 14 (final)

Prompt: After five years of marriage and two kids, you and Bucky decide you can’t make it work anymore.

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Steve Rogers x Reader

Word Count: 3676

Warnings: divorce, angst, cheating, language

A/N: so… this is it. the ending. i know i spoke before of doing two endings, but it honestly didn’t feel right to me to do that. so i hope this is okay. thank you all for reading this fic. i’ve been truly lucky to have all of you read it.

Tagged: @all-around-geek @frolicsomefawkes @awwtommo@courtneychicken@lorenaheartsyou@irepeldirt @tardisin221bst @stomachfilledwithbutterflies @panda-reads-stuff @basse53@bucky-bear-barnes @brooke-supernatural16 @curlycals @gotta-get-back-to-johnlock@adaliamalfoy @iseedancingshadows

Part 13


Originally posted by sebjpeg

“He knew what time you were supposed to be discharged right?” Steve asked quietly as he helped you pack up all of your belongings and all of the things the hospital had given you. The nurses had given you a tip that you were paying for it all anyway, so you might as well take it home. You joked with your mom, saying you could never have too many baby blankets.

“I told him, three times.” You gave a sigh, putting on your flip flops and throwing your hair up. You were ready to go home. Being cooped up in the hospital was no fun. Added to the fact you hadn’t seen a lot of your son or your husband in the past few days, you were homesick. At least you had Steve though. You were starting to wonder if he was Bucky’s best friend or if he was yours.

Keep reading

how-i-met-your-mulder  asked:

Blanket? :)

you wake to the sound of a door closing, and your first thought is well, that’s symbolic.

you’re in his apartment, on his couch, and still wearing your pantyhose; at some point in conversation, you must’ve fallen asleep, and he must’ve spread that patterned blanket of his over you, pulled it up on your shoulders in the way he knows you like. the last time you woke like this, he was sitting alongside you, the rented starship troopers tape - his idea, of course - left unwound in the vcr, your last memories being those from twenty minutes into the movie; the time before that, you’d been awake since four in the morning because, of course, he’d called you and claimed he needed your expertise in regard to a pressing matter even though you know he just wanted to hear your voice, so that evening, while you wore lacy lingerie beneath your work-clothes, you conked out long before he could realize you’d made an effort. though you knew going into this that it would be a marriage, not a courtship, you wish that you at least felt some discomfort toward him, that you would keep your makeup on all night and sneak away to reapply it, that you would cover up in front of him so that you still held some air of mystery. with daniel waterston, you were elusive, the other woman, the young and malleable mind, the woman of the future; with mulder, you’re the partner who falls asleep on his couch. though you scoff yourself for thinking that, insist that what you have now is far more real than anything you ever had with daniel was, you still wish you accented your femininity more often. you wish you still knew how to be romantic.

but instead, you fall asleep on his couch, and now, you can hear the sink running, so you figure he’s in the bathroom. last week, he told you that the valve must not be working because the faucet leaks, but after the case with the luckiest man on earth, he figures he should hire someone to fix it. soon enough, you’ll have to teach him how to use a wrench.

you check your watch; the night’s still young, and you don’t plan on going home, so you’re going to bed in one of two ways: naked or clothed, sexed or unsexed. regardlessly, you won’t be spending the rest of the evening on his couch, so you shrug out of the blanket, messily fold it onto the edge of the cushions, crack your sleepy joints as you stand. though the thought of exercise, be it walking up a flight of stairs or exerting yourself in other ways, makes your muscles tense, you count the days anyway. four, five…ten. it’s been ten days since you last had sex with him, not even for lack of trying. though he wanted to stay over, and though you wanted to spend time with him, journal articles and crows in vermont took momentary precedence, so it’s been ten whole days. before you can think the course of actions through, you pull off your blazer, shimmy out of your skirt. though the easygoing pace of what you have with mulder is comfortable, you’ll be damned if you ever go more than ten days without him again, so you pull off your shirt, your brassiere, abandon your pantyhose on the floor. when the door to the bathroom reopens, you pick up the blanket once more, wrap it around yourself, push your clothes off to the corner of the room, sit back down where he left you.

“hey,” he says as he reenters the living room, as he sees your open eyes. “did you have a nice nap?”

“yeah,” you say, flustered; suddenly, you’re cold, and the chill brings your bare skin to a heady alertness. with the blanket covering your shoulders and the tops of your thighs, you appear not to have moved since he left.

“do you need me to drive you home?” he asks kindly, goodheartedly, as though ten days is nothing, as though he doesn’t feel deprived. 

“no,” you say. “i’d like to stay.”

“okay,” he says, then offers a hand to help you up, a hand you don’t take. furrowing his brow, he asks, “is everything alright?”

“yes, of course,” you say preemptively. 

then, you stand alone, take the blanket up with you, but before he can turn away, before he heads to bed, you let the blanket pool at your feet, the living room lamplight casting you in a warm glow, your piquant body open for him, your eyes demanding something between war and worship.

as he rightfully should, he gapes.

anonymous asked:

ok so this is probably stupid but: how do i avoid confusion (with pronouns and stuff) when writing a scene with two characters of the same gender? i'm trying to write a romantic bit with two girls and it's always "she said" "she replied" "she smiled" etc and it gets confusing even for me lol. thanks a lot!!!💖

Not stupid at all! This is a problem I have too because I don’t want to keep using their names!

The trick, I’ve found is variety. There are three main ways to establish who’s talking to who!

1. Body Language/direction! The lovely thing about writing two characters in close contact is that you get to use their placement as identifiers!

She slid her hands into the other woman’s hair.  “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” she said. Her hands found the edge of a shirt and slipped underneath to bare skin. “So much.”

She drew her head to her shoulder, fingers still rubbing over the silky strands. The fingers at her back were tracing the scars there, sending pleasant shivers up her spine. “We won’t have to be apart again. Ever again.”

It’s still a little muddy (partly from not having named them before this example), but I’ve given each woman a clear action. One has her hands in the other’s hair, the other has her hands on the other’s back. Be careful to put the action WITH the person doing it. If Character A is petting someone’s hair AND speaking, those go in the same paragraph. As soon as Character B does anything, that’s a new paragraph.

Action goes with dialogue, that’s a key rule to avoid confusion!

2. Limited Point of View: There are two types of third person POV (he said/she said) that I work with: limited and omniscient. When you want to use pronouns instead of names, it’s much easier to use limited since, at that point, the other characters are defined by how one character perceives them. It means that there is one “main character” and one “main character’s [blank\].” For example:

She slid her hands into her lover’s hair. “I missed you.”

Her lover wrapped her arms around her, relief plainly written on her face. “I missed you too. So much.”

She knew that she must look just as relieved as the other woman. She welcomed the skin contact and drew her lover closer. “We won’t have to be apart. Ever again.”

This helps the reader “tune in” to what’s happening through one character’s eyes. They know what Character A is feeling/thinking/seeing, so they know that any “she” they’re commenting on is not the “main character.”

3. Repeated Description. This one is useful, but use it sparingly! Readers don’t like things repeated too often because it makes your work drag. Think of repeated description as a rule of three– if you use it more than three times in scene for one character, it’s probably too many times.

Green eyes traced over warm, flushed skin and her hands moved to caress the dark hair of the woman in front of her. “I missed you.”

The dark-haired woman wrapped her arms around the other, her own hands worming their way past cloth to feel bare skin. She watched green eyes droop with pleasure and relief. She began to trace the scars under her palms. “I missed you too. So much.”

“We won’t have to be apart,” she promised. Her green eyes slid shut as she drew the dark-haired woman forward to rest against her shoulder. “Ever again.”

The benefit to repeated description? It sounds way more romance-y. The downsides to repeated description? At some point your readers begin to shout “We know she has dark hair! Her eyes are green! We get it!” So use it responsibly.

So here are the three main ways I try to differentiate characters! Let me know if you have any questions :) 

International Love: Yuri Plisetsky x Reader

Request:  May I request a Dutch reader x yurio? Like they once met at a competition and they’re both sassy af so it clicked? They message very day until a competition in the Netherlands and he kisses her the moment he sees her? She shows him Amsterdam and all?

A/N: This was really fun to write, especially since it’s my own country. Enjoy!

Yuri rolled his eyes as Yakov scolded him. His voice had been haunting him ever since he arrived at the building, and the thought of having to put up with him even longer was  terrifying. He wasn’t even doing anything, but apparently it still caused the old man to flip shit.

He sighed and pulled his hoodie over his eyes, hiding the earbuds he was actually wearing

This was a usual thing for him. He’d arrive at the rink, get scolded by his coach, warm up and practice and eventually performing. It seemed to repeat itself every other day and he was actually getting tired of it. Until one day, he noticed someone.

“I get it! Stop getting all up in my shit!”

Yuri’s eyes followed your appearance as you walked past him. He roamed his eyes up and down, inspecting every tiny detail. Your eyes were bright and had a hint of annoyance, which matched perfectly with the roll of your eyes. Your hands were stuffed inside the pockets of your bright orange hoodie, and the Dutch flag was displayed on your skates.

“Hey Blondie, eyes up here.” Yuri averted his eyes back to your face, landing on an amused smirk. He scoffed and looked the other way. You smirked and extended your hand to flick his forehead, grabbing his attention yet again.

“Hey, I’m talking to you, Punk.” Yuri groaned and smacked your hand away, looking back up at you from under his hoodie. You took in the details of his face. Strands of hair fell in front of his face, while his piercing greenish orbs were glaring back at you. He had a lean figure, with broad shoulders, and a very prominent jawline.

“Tsk. Not like I care.” He responded, but you noticed his lips tug upwards. You raised your eyebrows up at him and leaned down.
“At least look at me when I’m talking to you, kid.” You noticed a glint in his eyes when the words escaped your mouth. A deep chuckle came from his pink lips as he suddenly rose from his seat.

Your eyes widened as his tall figure towered over yours. You swallowed thickly as he leaned over you just slightly, a sly smirk on his attractive face.
“Kid? You barely reach my shoulders…” He taunted, poking his tongue out at you. You chuckled and punched his chest playfully, waving your hand up and down as you looked the other way.

“Okay, Okay, you’re a titan, I get it!” You told him with a casual smirk, to which he chuckled and sat back down. You looked down at him curiously and took the seat next to him. He turned to you and took out one earbud.

“Are you the ‘Russian Ice Tiger’ everyone keeps talking about?” You asked him, placing one of your feet on your knee to run your finger over the blade of your skate. Yuri sighed and nodded.
“I guess…”

“You’re more like a kitten though.”

“Shut up.”

From: Y/n
‘You totally failed your last jump though, so you have no excuse to miss practice.’

From: Yuri
‘You practically fail at everything in life, so you have no excuse to talk to me like this.’

From: Y/n
‘Okay, rude.’

From: Yuri
‘You love me.’

Yuri hesitantly send the message. Even though you made jokes about loving each other every day, it always caused his heart to skip a beat whenever you did.

You had given him your number, well… more like stole his phone and added yourself. Since that day you have been texting every day, excluding your skype calls every saturday. Yuri had grown very fond of you and eventually caught himself falling for you.

From: Y/n
‘Do I though???’

From: Y/n
‘Jk, you know I do.’

You hadn’t seen each other for more than 10 months when Yuri announced he had a competition in Amsterdam. You were stoked and began ranting about how you would take him to see the Rijksmuseum and make him eat stroopwafels. His response was a chuckle, and he let you ramble about where you would take him.

He loved the way you’d accidently slip some dutch words in your sentences, making them seem broken. But to him it was the cutest thing ever. He even recognised some words you had used before, most of them were curse words though.

“Yuri, klasbak, are you even listening at me?” You asked him, leaning into the camera of your laptop as you folded your arms over your chest. Yuri smiled and nodded, adjusting his position into something more comfortable. His head leaned onto his hand as he listened to you with a small smile.

He couldn’t wait to see you again.

He hadn’t expected this many people to wait for him. The whole entrance was blocked by ‘Yuri’s Angels’, holding up posters and shouting out his name in desperate need for his attention. He had no idea he even had fans from Holland, but there were three times that many than in any other country he had been too.

Like usual he just tried to blend in with the crowd as the exited the arrival hall. His tiger print suitcase was held by Yakov, who was actually scolding him for not carrying it on his own. But the words of his coach were muted, his mind only focused on finding a certain person.
You had promised to pick him up with a bright smile, so “You couldn’t be wasting any time and get right to the sight seeing part of his trip.”. You also told him you “Missed his ugly ass.”

So his eyes were taking in his surroundings in desperate need to find that one person. That one person he hadn’t seen in person for over ten months. The one person who he had grown feeling for and didn’t know what to do with them.

So when he did notice your appearance, looking back at him with a bright smile, his feet quickly made his way towards you. Eyes never leaving yours as he approached you, hands that were stuffed in his pockets now swaying by his side. You smiled and extended your hands as he was now close enough to touch you.

But instead of hugging you, his hands extended towards you to grab your face. He pulled you closer and suddenly you felt a pair of warm lips on yours. Your eyes widened as he kissed you, taken back by his actions. But after a few seconds you smiled against his lips and threw your arms around his neck, kissing him back with just as much love.

Once the both of you pulled back, you looked up at him with a toothy smile, and Yuri returned the gesture. He pecked your lips once more before you playfully punched his side. He groaned as your hand made contact just below his ribs and he hunched over in slight pain.

“We’re wasting time, idiot.”

“So what’s in this?”

“We call it stroop, it’s like caramel.”

Yuri nodded as he took another bite of the waffel. He hummed at the taste, extending his arm towards you so you could take a bite. You smirked and practically bit half of it off, making Yuri scoff. His fingers flicked your nose, making you whine.

You laughed and leaned your head back on his shoulder like you had previously done. It was a beautiful evening in august, and the sun was setting. An orange glow covered the building around the canals, as you silently floated over the water. Yuri’s arm around your shoulder, and your head against his.

After he finished the sweet treat, he turned towards you. You blinked up at him, thinking he was going to say something, when he yet again placed his lips on yours. You closed your eyes and melted into the kiss, cupping his cheek and sitting up slightly.

You parted your lips as you felt his tongue run over your lower lip. He smirked and you knew he was planning something. When he pushed his tongue against yours, you could still taste the sweetness of the waffel. You chuckled and pulled away.


“You loved it.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

the heartbreakers club: checkmate.

which one are you: the heartbroken or the heartbreaker?

pairing: OT7!bangtan x reader
genre: angst, fluff
type: au series
word count: 1,465 words
warnings: implications of sex, eventual profanity
author’s note: this is the prologue to my new series that i’m very excited to write. the series is based on john alan lee’s color wheel theory of love and inspired by hey violet’s break my heart.

There are only two types of people found in the world: the heartbroken and the heartbreakers.

In the vicious game of love, there is only a thin red ribbon separating the two, but fragile threads always break so easily. With just one snip of the golden scissors, the cerise strands can be pulled apart, and in that very moment, a heartbroken can slip through and masquerade as a heartbreaker.

And how, you ask? Because it is much harder to break a patched up heart. When you stitch the pieces of your heart back together, your heart is now glued together with something much more durable than the flimsy gossamer fibers of love, affection, and false promises.

And for you, once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, three times is a habit. Three heartbreaks are already three too many, and you’ll be damned if you have to endure a fourth. And by the third round, you have reapplied the glue enough times that your heart is so encased that it simply cannot possibly crack anymore from guy number four.

Nothing is more dangerous than a heartbroken girl with a vengeance.

So dry your tears, swipe on your mascara and rouge, pucker up your cherry red lips, bat those perfectly applied fake eyelashes, put on the little black dress that makes you feel like a million bucks, and slip on the mask of a heartbreaker.

After all, if you can’t beat them, join them.

Welcome to the heartbreakers club.

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pretty odd

genre: the fluffiest of fluff

warnings: death mention, but d&p don’t die, dw.

words: 12k what

summary: Dan Howell, piano teacher and speedster, craves chocolate cakes at three in the morning. He meets a baker named Phil who owns the only store opened at three in the morning and who bakes the most delicious chocolate cake in the world. It’s a pretty odd love story.

a/n: this motherfucker. This fucking fic, man. It went through seven different phases I’m not even kidding. This is the Chosen One™. I had such a blast writing this. I loved working on it, and I hope you love it, too. Thank you for 1k, and I hope this shows my gratitude <33

also, quick facts: John Chambers is an actual fictional character! he’s a speedster who obtained his powers via the speedster formula. The more you know.

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Amarte Es Un Placer (Part 12)

Summary: Soulmate AU. You and Draco share each mark, bruise, and marring on your skin. As life progresses and each mutual marking is worse, you grieve for your hurting soulmate. And he steps into your life when you least expect it.

Word Count: 2,209

Warnings: None.

“Amarte Es Un Placer” Masterlist

A/N: Sorry it has taken so long but here is part 12 :D AHHH. 

Originally posted by the-goblet-of-slytherin

The man looked up at you with a raised brow and suspicious eyes. Yet he didn’t answer your question, instead he turned towards Draco. “Sir, would you mind accompanying me, please?”

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