whiskey soaked

Ship Names
  • Aries x Aries: Open Flame
  • Aries x Taurus: Mess with the Bull, you get the Horns
  • Aries x Gemini: Think before you Act
  • Aries x Cancer: Frustrated Tears
  • Aries x Leo: Spotlight Lovers
  • Aries x Virgo: Impulse Control
  • Aries x Libra: Lovers and Fighters
  • Aries x Scorpio: Left on Mars
  • Aries x Sagittarius: Adrenaline Junkies
  • Aries x Capricorn: Same Difference
  • Aries x Aquarius: Rebels Without A Cause
  • Aries x Pisces: Pure Imagination
  • Taurus x Taurus: Money Lovers
  • Taurus x Gemini: "I don't know how we made it."
  • Taurus x Cancer: Silver and Gold
  • Taurus x Leo: The Actors
  • Taurus x Virgo: Dressed To Impress
  • Taurus x Libra: Highschool Sweethearts
  • Taurus x Scorpio: Possession and Obsession
  • Taurus x Sagittarius: Restraints
  • Taurus x Capricorn: Sugar Daddy
  • Taurus x Aquarius: The No Comfort Zone
  • Taurus x Pisces: Lovers and Dreamers
  • Gemini x Gemini: The Twins
  • Gemini x Cancer: Head or Heart?
  • Gemini x Leo: Bring Me With You
  • Gemini x Virgo: Nerdy Babes
  • Gemini x Libra: Alice and The Hatter
  • Gemini x Scorpio: "You Only Call Me When It's Raining Out"
  • Gemini x Sagittarius: Philosological
  • Gemini x Capricorn: Doctor and Nurse
  • Gemini x Aquarius: Guess We're Heartless
  • Gemini x Pisces: Facts or Fantasy?
  • Cancer x Cancer: Clingy Couple
  • Cancer x Leo: Pulling Along
  • Cancer x Virgo: Netflix n' Nap
  • Cancer x Libra: Home is Where The Heart is
  • Cancer x Scorpio: Cigarette Smoke and Whiskey-Soaked Clothes
  • Cancer x Sagittarius: Homesick
  • Cancer x Capricorn: Mother and Father
  • Cancer x Aquarius: Head Over Heart.
  • Cancer x Pisces: Faith, Trust, and Pixie Dust
  • Leo x Leo: Model Lovers
  • Leo x Virgo: Attentive to Detail
  • Leo x Libra: "Relationship Goals 😍"
  • Leo x Scorpio: Late Nights and Bar Fights
  • Leo x Sagittarius: Hera and Zeus
  • Leo x Capricorn: The Princess and the Knight
  • Leo x Aquarius: Gods and Goddesses
  • Leo x Pisces: The Cowardly Lion
  • Virgo x Virgo: Attention and Details
  • Virgo x Libra: Pressed Flowers
  • Virgo x Scorpio: Red Rose, Wine and all that's Fine.
  • Virgo x Sagittarius: The Well Prepared Nomads
  • Virgo x Capricorn: Boss and Secretary
  • Virgo x Aquarius: Intellectual Lovers
  • Virgo x Pisces: Rational Emotional Breakdown
  • Libra x Libra: Sweet Love
  • Libra x Scorpio: Love and Lust
  • Libra x Sagittarius: Snow White and The Huntsman
  • Libra x Capricorn: Flower Crowns and Let Downs
  • Libra x Aquarius: The Social Butterflies
  • Libra x Pisces: Hopeless Romantics
  • Scorpio x Scorpio: No Strings Attached
  • Scorpio x Sagittarius: Didn't think we'd make it this far
  • Scorpio x Capricorn: Ambitious Passion
  • Scorpio x Aquarius: Harley Quinn and Mister J
  • Scorpio x Pisces: Bad Influence
  • Sagittarius x Sagittarius: Swingers
  • Sagittarius x Capricorn: Rockstar and the Groupie
  • Sagittarius x Aquarius: Detachedly Attached
  • Sagittarius x Pisces: Dream Team
  • Capricorn x Capricorn: Workaholics
  • Capricorn x Aquarius: Drug Deals
  • Capricorn x Pisces: "You're Grounded"
  • Aquarius x Aquarius: I'll Never Belong To You
  • Aquarius x Pisces: Science vs. Magic
  • Pisces x Pisces: Rose Colored Glasses
The Stairwell

Dean x Reader Drabble

Warnings:  Smut/language

Originally posted by spn-spam

You’re not entirely sure how this all happened. At the moment, you find it extremely difficult to care. There’s a large window in the stairwell that looks over the common area. You can see Dean’s car in the parking lot, but you aren’t focused on it.

Honestly, it’s hard to focus on anything other than the feel of Dean’s fingers down the front of your panties. Your forehead presses to the glass, each gasp that escapes your lips leaving a foggy mark of condensation on the window.

His thumb taps against your clit as two large fingers scissor inside of you. The bulge of his cock presses against your ass crack, Dean rolling his hips up and down to create friction.

Have you ever been this wet before? Jesus Christ. Dean’s whiskers graze against the delicate skin of your neck, his hot breath fanning out and prickling your skin. You shiver against him when his soft lips form a tight seal, latching onto your skin, sucking a bruise that will darken over time, marking you.

Your knees begin to shake as he fingers twist inside you, your skin flushed, your breath uneven. When he alternates the tempo of his thumb, your knees actually buckle. A deep throaty chuckle leaves Dean’s sinful mouth as he holds you up with the forearm wrapped around your waist.

Dean brings you right to the edge, right to that moment where you stand on the precipice of sheer and utter bliss, before slipping his fingers out of you. You whimper, the empty feeling leaving you wanting.

Dean’s fingers tug at your jeans, roughly pushing them down over your hips to rest on your thighs. A thrill shoots through you when you hear the zipper on his pants. The thick, broad head of his cock nudges at your slick folds before slipping inside of you.

“Fuck,” Dean groans as he pushes himself into you until he is fully seated. You breathe in sharply as you adjust to his girth, stretching around you. Without warning, Dean pulls all the way out and slips back in, meeting no resistance.

He begins to pound away, setting a ruthless pace, his balls slapping against your skin. Every thrust is punctuated by grunts and sighs from the both of you. The window sill presses sharply into your skin, but the pleasure far outweighs the pain.

His fingers snake around to find your clit, tapping and rubbing and pinching the tiny bundle of nerves. Fucking hell, it’s intense.

You are both so caught up in the moment that you don’t hear a door open on a different flight of stairs. The sound of footfalls on the metal steps alert you to another person’s presence. You tense up against Dean, nervous. Dean stops mid thrust, buried deep inside of you.  

He doesn’t pull out, he remains inside of you, thick and hard, his free hand reaching up to cover your mouth. The steps draw closer as the intruder makes their way down the flights of stairs. It’s both terrifying and thrilling - the fact that you are incredibly close to being caught turns you on even more. How is that fucking possible?  

Dean shifts slightly and you choke back a moan. Desperate for friction, you push back, sliding down his length. He bites down on your shoulder to keep himself in check. The footsteps pause and then a door opens, the interloper leaving the two of you to your own devices.

As soon as the door shuts, Dean resumes his thorough fucking, pummeling into you. His hips snap forward as if he needs you desperately as if he can get deeper inside of you somehow.  

Suddenly you feel your entire body go rigid, tensing in preparation of divine release. The world around you fades away, there is only this moment - this feeling of sheer ecstasy - that runs from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes that are now curling in on themselves. Your body trembles, your breath hitches. Pure pleasure crashes through you, wave after wave, battering your senses as your cheek presses to the cold window.  

Dean groans, his fingertips digging into your hip as he feels you contract around him, drawing him closer to the edge. The powerful thrusts become more erratic - he’s almost there. He adjusts the angle slightly, drawing the head of his cock over that perfect spot inside of you, sending you spiraling into another orgasm.  

Dean shudders and moans your name, drawing out the syllables, his deep, whiskey soaked voice making the vowels sound erotic. A few more lazy pumps and he withdraws slowly from you. Warm liquid rolls down the inside of your thighs.

Hastily you pull your pants back up, cleaning up as best you can. Dean’s cheeks are flushed, you can only imagine what you look like.

Hurriedly, you make your way to the bottom floor where you were supposed to meet Sam five minutes ago.

When you find Sam, he squints his eyes but doesn’t say a word.  

For the rest of the day, your damp panties remind you of what happened in that stairwell.

For the rest of the day, all you can think about is doing it again.

Keep reading

Ship Names
  • Aries x Aries: Open Flame
  • Aries x Taurus: Mess with the Bull, you get the Horns
  • Aries x Gemini: Think before you Act
  • Aries x Cancer: Frustrated Tears
  • Aries x Leo: Spotlight Lovers
  • Aries x Virgo: Impulse Control
  • Aries x Libra: Lovers and Fighters
  • Aries x Scorpio: Left on Mars
  • Aries x Sagittarius:Adrenaline Junkies
  • Aries x Capricorn: Same Difference
  • Aries x Aquarius: Rebels Without A Cause
  • Aries x Pisces: Pure Imagination

Keep reading

betsforsythetrash  asked:

Could you write something where F.P. is in Bughead's lives in the future? Like clean, sober, doting Dad helping plan the wedding or dancing with Betty at their reception or BABYSITTING their child or something? (:

Not gonna lie, I got ridiculously carried away with this, I literally just sat for ages and wrote it all in one go! I was gonna post this tomorrow but I’m too impatient so here you go :)

Thank you so much for the prompt, clearly I had some FP family feels I needed to get out <3


Jughead wasn’t sure why he’d come. Maybe it was because he knew that this time was different. His dad, though perpetually drunk, could usually take care of himself. It was a rare instance when he rang his son, babbling incoherently on the line about how he was sorry, that he couldn’t do this anymore. But that’s exactly what had happened tonight, which was why Jughead was currently making his way up the steps of FP’s trailer at 2AM on a Thursday.

“Dad?” he called out in trepidation, peering around the room at the mess of empty bottles and stale takeout cartons. A groan rang out from the kitchen to his left. Rounding the corner he found his dad, hunched against the cabinets on the floor, broken glass surrounding him, sticky amber liquid pouring out from what remained of the whiskey bottle, blood quickly soaking the fabric of his shirt from the gash in his hand. “Jesus, Dad.” Jughead crouched to get a closer look, tilting FP’s head to meet his foggy, unfocused eyes. He sighed, turning to his hand, picking up the heavy limb and examining the wound. “It’s not that deep, hold on.” He straightened up, searching the draws for a clean dishtowel to wrap around the wound while he cleaned up as best he could. He’d brushed up most of the glass when he realised it would be better to move his dad out of the way if he was going to get this done more efficiently. The smell of alcohol was starting to burn his nose. Jughead flung open a window before reaching down to pick up his dad, staggering against the dead weight that now bore across his shoulders. He dropped him into a nearby chair with a groan, placing a glass of water in front of him before turning back to the task at hand.

FP watched him with dazed eyes, head lolling slightly, blinking slowly as if he were insurmountably tired. Jughead tried not to feel the weight of his gaze burning into the back of his head as he swept, grabbing a mop to tackle the next mess. He was filling up the bucket with warm water when FP finally spoke.

“’m sorry, Jug.” The words were barely defined. Jughead scoffed, slamming the tap off and rested his hands against the edge of the counter, knuckles turning white with the strain.

“Why do you keep saying that?” he bit out. FP blanched at the venom in his son’s voice, one that he hadn’t heard before. Disappointment, sure. Weariness, definitely. But this? Never. “You don’t mean it, you never mean it. If you were sorry you wouldn’t keep doing it over and over.” FP hung his head in shame. “Did you even try? Did you even pretend, to yourself, that this time it could be different?” Jughead turned finally to look at his broken mess of a father. His eyes were hard, fed up of being forgiving. “I can’t believe another one of your empty promises.” He tried to keep the crack out of his voice.

“This time…” FP trailed off, voice drowsy. “You’re mom, Jellybean…” The sound of Jughead slamming a fist against the counter echoed throughout the trailer.

“Stop!” he shouted, tucking his quivering lower lip between his teeth, willing the tears away. He didn’t want to cry over this anymore. It was beyond repair, beyond redemption. “I can’t hold on to this hope, anymore. I’m sixteen, Dad. This isn’t… it shouldn’t be this way. I shouldn’t have to pick you up off the floor,” he let out a humourless laugh, “on a school night.” Jughead averted his eyes, knowing he wouldn’t be able to get this out if he didn’t look away. “I have to start looking for a home somewhere else. With Mr Andrews and Archie. With Betty.” He paused, the image he conjured up of the blonde girl with the soft green eyes and gentle touch calmed him. She felt like home. “I think… I’m gonna marry her someday,” his voice caught and he stopped to clear it, swallowing away every doubt he had about his future. “I want a life with her, a home. And it can’t involve this, I won’t let it. You-” he paused, steeling himself for his next words. “You shouldn’t call anymore. You shouldn’t try and reach me. I can’t be your fall guy anymore. I can’t be the collateral in your messed up life. I won’t do that, not to Betty. She deserves more so that’s what I have to try to be, starting with this.” He took a shaky step towards the door. He saw FP lift a hand towards him hesitantly before thinking better of himself, letting it drop against his thigh with a defeated thud. Jughead shook his head almost imperceptibly - that confirmed it, he didn’t want to try. “Goodbye, Dad.”

The door had swung shut before the first tear slid down FP’s cheek.

***

It was almost three weeks later when Jughead saw FP again. He shook his head in disbelief at the familiar figure of his father standing outside Pop’s. FP stood up straight on Jughead’s approach.

“Dad, I wasn’t kidding-” he began in a furious whisper, glancing round frantically for prying eyes. He was supposed to be meeting Betty and the rest of the gang here.

“I… I’m sober, Jughead.” The words hung between them as Jughead jolted back in disbelief. He took a moment, now, to really take in the man before him. His skin was pallid and sunken beneath the eyes, dark circles standing out in striking contrast. His hands, Jughead noticed, were shaking. “Almost a week now, for real this time,” FP announced. His tone wasn’t prideful, it was holding something else… hope? Hope that’d he done enough this time to reverse the irreversible. Jughead’s eyes narrowed.

“Really?” he asked sceptically, body stiff with uncertain tension. FP nodded vigorously.

“Yeah. Yes, I swear,” he pleaded. Jughead looked him directly in the eyes, an eerie replica of his own staring back at him, earnest and clear for the first time in years. Jughead felt himself begin to nod slowly.

“Ok. Ok, I believe you. I’ll… come round and see you tomorrow,” he promised, still not making a move to close the distance between them. FP visibly deflated in relief.

“Tomorrow, sure. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he smiled, still small and unsure, before turning to mount his bike, roaring out of the parking lot with renewed hope spreading throughout his chest.

***

“Here,” FP said, handing Jughead the box. Jughead looked up at him before opening the black velvet lid, smiling at the delicate ring nestled inside. “It was your grandmother’s, she’d want you to have it,” he finished, shrugging awkwardly at the offering.

“She’ll love it,” Jughead murmured, running a finger lightly over the blue sapphire surrounded by clusters of tiny diamonds, set in a gold band. He looked back up at FP with a genuine smile that reached his eyes, nervous excitement beginning to settle in his stomach. FP clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder, looking down at him with pride.

Seven years sober. A little worse for wear but he’d made it because of this boy - this man - stood before him. It had been the furthest road from easy, but he’d endured every shaky step to get him here because he knew this was it, his only chance.

He’d got to be there, in the gym itself, as Jughead took his steps across the stage to collect his diploma, see him look out into the audience for him and not be disappointed to find nothing but an empty seat. He got to be there to help Jughead pack for college, loading his and Betty’s boxes into the beat up old car that he’d salvaged for them as a graduation present, working with Betty in secret to fix it up so it ran smoother than it probably did when it was new.

“He’s gonna love it, Mr Jones,” Betty had giggled excitedly when they got the engine purring just the way they wanted. He laughed at the way she clasped her hands in front of her gleefully as he closed the hood.

“You think?” he asked nervously, dusting dirt off the bumper that wasn’t there.

“Of course! It’s so thoughtful,” she smiled warmly, resting a light hand on FP’s arm. He couldn’t help but smile back at her. He knew why his son was drawn to her, felt so safe with her around. He couldn’t have asked for a better guardian angel for him.

“And you can call me FP, Betty,” he called casually as he moved to clean up their tools. He glanced back at her over his shoulder. “You’re family.”

He was there, once again, when they graduated from college, whooping loudly, much to Jughead’s chagrin, as his son’s name was called. He was there as Jughead announced at dinner that he was going to be a published author. He was there on the day of the launch, posing for photos and making jokes about how he was gonna get a couple of autographed copies because his son was a big shot famous author now, Jughead rolling his eyes while his cheeks flushed. He was there at Betty and Jughead’s housewarming. They’d moved back to Riverdale, Jughead being able to write from anywhere and Betty wanting to be near Polly, taking the opportunity to learn the ins and outs of the family paper. FP said a silent prayer in thank you, as he looked around the room of guests, that his son had chosen to come back to him, even after all that had passed.

And he was there now, as Jughead’s voice shook, telling him that he was going to propose to Betty.

“Took you long enough,” he’d quipped, hand reaching out to ruffle the dark mop of hair as Jughead ducked, laughing shyly.

***

“Oh, this one’s beautiful, Juggie!” Betty had gushed as she poured over wedding magazines while the three of them sat in their living room over coffee - a weekly routine for them now. FP leaned over to catch a glimpse of the image she was pointing to. The wedding was outside, full of white fabric and furniture. Betty was pointing to the ornately carved archway, weaved with white roses, lilies, baby’s breath. Her eyes were shining.

“Well I could make you one of those, help with the cost,” FP said casually, taking a sip of his coffee. Betty turned her glowing green eyes on him immediately, gripping his forearm lightly.

“Really?” she was radiating hope. FP laughed at her enthusiasm.

“Yeah, sure. There’s a lumber yard not too far away, and I can borrow a couple of tools from the construction site. Easy,” he nodded in affirmation.

“Oh, thank you, FP!” she gasped, leaning over to kiss his cheek in gratitude. A shy laugh burst from his lips as he looked down, pink dusting the tops of his cheekbones. Betty flew out of the room to call Polly as FP looked up, catching Jughead’s mouth turned up in amusement. He smiled back contentedly.

***

“Need a partner?” FP asked, holding his hand out to the bride where she sat, chin resting in her hand as she watched her husband dance with his sister. She smiled gracefully, accepting his offer and floating out onto the dance floor, an ethereal wave of satin and lace.

“Thank you so much, FP,” she said earnestly as they began to sway, reaching up to adjust one of the flowers in her hair.

“Aw, it was nothing, Betty, really,” he replied, casting his eyes to the floor.

“No, it was! You did all this,” she insisted, gesturing to the space around them. He’d gone a little further than just building the archway he’d promised. He’d practically taken it upon himself to build the whole venue. Along with the arch he’d set up strips of white fabric, draped through the trees to create a canopy above their heads, illuminated by rows and rows of soft yellow string lights. Petals covered every inch of the floor, strewn delicately down the isle that was created by the rows of mismatched chairs FP had found in various scrap yards and secondhand stores, all cleaned up and painted white. “It was just how I imagined it, more even.” FP lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck.

“Yeah, well. I just wanted to make it everything you wanted… that you deserved.” He paused, looking down at her warm smile for a moment before taking a breath to continue. “Betty, I want you to know that, without you, I probably wouldn’t be here right now.” She furrowed her brow, waiting for him to continue. “I’d gotten to a place where Jughead wasn’t willing to help me anymore, where I’d done too much to ever redeem myself. Being with you helped him see that he deserved more than I could give him at that time, that he could be more than just my safety net. When he told me that… I saw everything I was going to miss out on, and that never would have happened if he hadn’t found you. So, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life thanking you, the both of you, in any way I can for what you did for me.” Betty blinked away the tears in her eyes, not bothering to wipe away the stray few that still managed to fall.

“You’re welcome,” she whispered.

***

He’d been speechless when they told him, knowing there was something different in the air as they sipped their usual morning coffee together.

“A baby?” he’s asked incredulously, hoping beyond hope that he’d heard them right.

“Yeah, Dad. You’re gonna be a grandpa,” Jughead had laughed, his face glowing at he gazed down at his beautiful wife, tucked under his arm with an equally bright expression gracing her face.  

Grandpa. Him, a grandpa. That was going to be his new title now. He couldn’t believe it - he’d made it.

***

“Ugh, thank you so much, FP,” Betty had greeted him with a relieved expression as he bumbled through the door, a paper grocery bag under each arm. “I would have asked Jughead but he’s out all day in the city at this press thing for the new book and I just…” she broke off, gesturing flippantly at her huge swollen belly stretching out before her. He laughed as he set the bags down on the counter, turning to watch her waddle in behind him.

“No problem, Betty. Anything I can do, remember?” he said, eyes taking on a hint of seriousness round the edges. She nodded in understanding, smiling gently. She placed a hand on her back, groaning as she brushed a few stray hairs back from her sweaty forehead.

“Whoever thought being pregnant in the summer was a good idea was seriously- oh!” She flinched, hand flying to her stomach. FP was at her side immediately.

“Betty? Everything alright?” he asked, hovering by her. She nodded slowly, eyes staring at nothing in particular as she focused on the sensations happening inside her body .

“Yeah, I just… FP, would you be able to take me to the hospital, I think I’m about to have this baby,” she said casually, straightening up and placing her hands on her hips. FP’s eye bugged as he took in what she said.

“Now?! How-” he broke off in question.

“Well, I’ve been having contractions all morning but I thought they were just Braxton Hicks or something, and I didn’t want to stop Jug going to this event…” she trailed off sheepishly glancing up at her father-in-law from under her eyelashes. He blew out a chuckle in disbelief, shaking his head slightly.

“You really are something else, Betty Jones.” She just shrugged, blowing out a slow breath as another contraction took over. “Ah, ok, where’s your bag? Ring Jughead, I’ll meet you by the car.” He rushed towards the bedroom, swinging back round the corner to raise an eyebrow at her. “He’s going to kill you for not saying anything, you know.” She waved a hand dismissively, already making her way outside.

“I’m about to push out his child, he doesn’t have the right.”

***

“Are you sure?” Jughead asked nervously, hands hovering over Juliet where she lay, cradled in her grandpa’s arms. “Maybe it’s too soon, Betts…” he trailed off, turning to look at his wife with anxious eyes. Betty sighed, coming over to place a reassuring hand on his arm, smoothing out the crease between his eyebrows with a cool finger.

“It’ll be fine, Juggie. You’ve got everything covered, right FP?” she asked, turning to face him with a confident smile. FP nodded, never taking his eyes off his granddaughter’s face as he bounced her gently.

“Both your cell numbers are in my phone, bottles in the fridge, spare milk in the freezer, extra diapers in the cupboard under the stairs. We’ll be fine, won’t we, lovebug?” he cooed at the soft bundle in his arms as she snuffled slightly before settling down again. “See?” FP looked up at Jughead with calm eyes. Jughead stared down at him for a beat, battling with his instincts internally before letting out a sigh, nodding his head.

“Ok, yeah. But if you need anything…” he repeated, fixing his dad with a look.

“Just go, already!” FP laughed gently, trying not to disturb the baby. Betty giggled, pulling on Jughead’s arm slightly to get him towards the door. “Have fun!”

FP stared down at Juliet, allowing her tiny hand to wrap round his finger as he spoke softly to her.

“You have the best parents, I hope you know that. They’ve saved me more times than I can count and I’ll never be able to repay them for that. I made some bad decisions, worse than most, but here I am. I get to hold you in my arms because your mom and your dad didn’t give up on me. They were there when I needed it the most.” He sniffed, blinking rapidly. “I got to see it all because of them, and I can’t wait to see it all again with you.”

The Party

Suho x Reader

Request: “Suho is on tour or doing promotions and she’s there on a business.” + “Daddy Suho” + “Sugar Daddy Suho” inspired by The Weeknd’s “The Party & The Afterparty” 

Word Count: 3771

Genre: Smut

Originally posted by ethereal-baek

The club you were in was packed, sweaty bodies creating one pulsing mass that spanned for what seemed like miles on the dance for. The room was dark, the only real light coming from the strobes lights flashing around the room, the smoke machines in full blast this Saturday night. You’d lost your friends to the crowd and had moved to the bar, shooting them all a text to tell them you’d find your own way home. You knew your friends and colleagues, and you knew that they probably had a tongue down their throats in the middle of that floor or up against a wall and they had no intention of going back to their own hotel that night.

You spun around in your chair, glass of whiskey in hand. Your eyes followed the edges of the dance floor and checked the corners of the room for the familiar red of your best friends’ hair. You couldn’t find her there so you shifted your eyes towards the booths, taking a large swig of your drink. Your eyes drifted over the occupants of each booth, eyes squinted as you tried to make out faces in the dim light.

Your eyes met the face of what could be described as nothing less than a god. The man was absolutely beautiful, so beautiful it took your breath. Your started at his lips, pink and luscious, and worked your way up. His nose was perfectly shaped, his cheekbones high and angular. His eyes flashed to you and you froze, eyes dropping slightly to watch his lips stretch into a smirk revealing a row of shockingly white teeth.

You turned around quickly, the ice in your cup threatening to fly out in your haste. You ducked your head, staring into your glass as you held it in your shaking hands. You stared into the glass but what you saw was not ice, but the eyes of the man that had you so shaken up. They had been soft, milky brown but the second they landed on you they had hardened to a deep brown so dark they almost looked black.

Embarrassed, you shook your head and took a sip of your drink. ‘This is why you don’t stare at people’, you chastised yourself. Ten minutes later and you’d almost forgot about the man, almost forgotten the chill that had threatened to trail its cold fingers down your spine. You’d spun back out to face the crowd subconsciously, watching as the bodies pressed together so tightly they were almost one mass, grinding and moving in unison.

A wave of heat passed over you as someone took the seat to your right. You peeked out from the corner of your eye, eyes widening as you watched the man from across call over the bartender. He ignored the weight of your eyes on his face as he called out his order, staring straight ahead until the waiter returned.

You came to your senses after he took the first sip, gulping in a deep breath before you went to turn away again. His hand shot out, cold, damp fingertips wrapping around your wrist, the glass you were holding jerked, contents splashing onto your lap. The whiskey stunk, and your tight black dress chilled and clung to your skin as though it was a second layer. You sighed, tearing your arm free of his grasp and slamming your glass down on the table. “What the fuck,” you growled maliciously. Your eyes slanted, darkening in rage as you stood up, several dollars worth of drink pouring onto the floor. You turned towards him with balled fists, fury barely dimmed by his stunning face and even better body.

He was muscular, pecs showing through the white t-shirt he had on under a thick black cardigan. His thighs were muscled, lithe like that of a dancers. His hair was black and fell across his eyes messily, blanketing them in a shadow that you knew hid a smirk he was desperately fighting his lips to keep at bay.

His mouth opened and your eyes flashed to follow the moments of his lips as he spoke. “Are you done fucking me with your eyes?” he laughed lowly. He reached up with hand that had gripped you so tightly and carded it through his hair, eyes watching you as your breath caught in your throat. You shook your head imperceptibly, fighting an inner war with yourself. Half of you really wanted to deck him in the fucking face, the other half was pissed at yourself because he was fine as fuck goddamn it, and you really wanted in his pants.

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Imagine...

Number 25 & 39 With Tommy Shelby:  “I want an answer, goddammit!” “We need to talk about what happened last night.”

“Hello, (y/n), a drink?” Tommy wandered into your living room, a bottle of whiskey in hand. You were expecting an early night, but the trouble with Tommy was that he didn’t know the meaning of those words in that order. 

“I would ask where you get off wandering into unsuspecting ladies houses uninvited, but then you’d think I didn’t know you at all.” You responded, closing the book you had been enjoying and standing up. You had changed into a nightdress and were clad in a robe, although it didn’t matter much. You had been friends for a long time and you were closely involved in the business, being his personal secretary. 

“And I’d ask where the lady was.” He quipped, walking into your kitchen. You gasped in feigned outrage and followed behind him as he reached up, grabbing two tumblers. Using your hands and pushing yourself up onto the counter, you looked over at him as he poured two generous glasses.

“What’s the occasion?” 

 “Since when do I need an occasion to get belligerent with my best girl, hm?” He questioned, cocking his head to the side as he handed you a glass. He did have a point. He had done it before. A lot of times before. Shrugging, you grasped the glass, your fingertips brushing. 

“Hm. Right, well. Bottoms up, then.” You extend your glass and the pair of you clinked glasses, shooting back almost effortlessly. Working with the Peaky Blinders didn’t leave room to not be accustomed to drinking a lot of whiskey. 


Two hours later, the pair of you were strewn on your couch, more than a few glasses deep. You knew your face was flushed in the way it did when you were drunk, and Tommy’s eyes were swimming in the way they did when he had more than a few. You were leaning against each other, your laughter and body heat mingling pleasantly in the slightly chilled apartment. 

“You look pretty like that.” Tommy slurred slightly and brought his hand up to cup your cheek. You had long disrobed and were wearing just your nightdress, your hair loose and cheeks flushed. You looked up at him in confusion. 

“Like what?” You asked, your voice sounding much higher than usual. Resting your own hand over his, you looked away from his eye contact, too intense. 

“Like you’re just yourself. Relaxed.” He stated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “There’s something about that pretty color your cheeks turn and the way you’re so comfortable in your nightclothes.” You suddenly felt self conscious. He was scrutinizing you in a way that you had never realized he did. 

“Yeah?” You asked, your voice hushed. He moved his hand from your cheek, and you dropped your own hand. He placed his finger under your chin, tilting your face up to look at him. 

“Yeah.” He was closer than you expected, and you could practically taste his whiskey soaked breath. “Stop me at any time.” He ran his hand over your arm, goose bumps rising in his wake. You closed your eyes in anticipation as he brought his lips to yours, the gentleness of it shocking. This was Tommy Shelby; he was not ever particular gentle. You responded to the kiss, placing one hand on his jaw and the other deep in his hair. There was something about this kiss that promised more. 

Tommy pulled away slightly, looking into your eyes, only to pepper kisses along your jaw. You gasped in surprise, the feeling foreign coming from Tommy Shelby. Sure, you had thought about this before, but to have it actually happen was something else entirely. “Tommy.” You whimpered as he trailed a hand over your nightgown clad legs, traveling upwards. 

“Yes?” He asked against your ear, his hand moving the fabric out of the way of what he wanted to touch. 

“Don’t stop.” You commanded, grabbing his head and bringing your lips together into a searing kiss. He growled slightly, a sound that was so distinctly Tommy, before pulling you into his lap. 


You woke up the following moment in your bed, head aching, and wrapped around something warm. A person. A person who smelled suspiciously like tobacco, whiskey, and something muskier. A person who smelt exactly like Tommy Shelby. You shot up immediately, your hand flying directly to your mouth, the sheets falling and exposing your bare chest to the early morning. 

A chuckle came from the lump in bed, who was now next to you and was clearly already awake. “’Morning, love.” He greeted, voice still thick with sleep and filled with amusement. 

“What the fuck, Shelby? ‘Morning, love?’ I’m not ready for morning talk.  We need to talk about what happened last night.” You said, everything too loud and happening all at once. You weren’t sure how you felt about the predicament you found yourself in, but you needed answers. “What did happen last night?” You didn’t remember much, and you certainly didn’t remember how you got into your bed, completely naked with Tommy Shelby. He grabbed your arm and pulled you back down, which you barely fought. 

“Relax. You were so damn… relaxed last night. Where is that girl?” He asked, smirking. He was toying with you. “I’ve discovered the key to getting you to really relax, and it’s somewhere between the second and third orga-” You slammed your hand over his mouth, mortified. He just laughed and removed your hand. 

“Did you come over just to get into my skirt last night?” You asked, fearing the worst of his intentions. You felt his body tense under you, and you realized just how entwined you were. “Ply me with whiskey and-”

“I’m going to stop you right there, (y/n). What happened last night was spur of the moment.” 

“Do you mean it? I want an answer, goddammit!.” You questioned, eyeing him slightly suspiciously. 

“Yes I mean it. I came to drink and have a good time, we just had a better time than I expected. I didn’t come over to fuck you, but…” He brought his hand down, tilting your head up towards him. It felt familiar. “You were so pretty last night. I’m not one for sentimentality, but I do go after what I want. And truthfully, I’ve wanted to do that for quite a while. Do you feel okay about what happened?” He asked, looking surprisingly serious. 

“I do. I wish I could remember more of it, but that’s okay. We’ll just have to do it again.” You responded, trying your luck and snuggling into his chest. He brought a hand to your hair, “But right now, let’s just sleep. We’ll figure it out in a few hours.” 

Why I'm still afraid to hold my girlfriend's hand.

In 2017, we still can’t just be us. And things are only getting worse.

By Kirsten King

Mar 28, 2017


I sat in a small photo booth watching a smile spread across my face as my girlfriend, Jane, pressed her lips firmly onto my cheek. It was one month after the election and we were at Dave & Busters, distracting ourselves with arcade games and oversize beers. The countdown for the last photo came onto the screen in front of us, “5 … 4 … 3…”

Suddenly, a man stumbled into the booth and purposefully jumped in between us.

I tensed immediately. On the “fight or flight” scale of dealing with crisis, I usually fall somewhere in between “flight” and “melt into the ground and hide.” Jane usually chooses to fight. She pushed the stranger out, looked back at me, and then back at the screen. We both smiled in a way that didn’t reach our eyes as the camera flashed.

“What a fucking jerk,” Jane spat as she walked out, grabbing our photo absentmindedly. “If we were a man and a woman — he never would have walked in,” she said.

“I know,” I said, the depth of her anger just dawning on me.

“We should say something,” she said. “We should tell him he can’t just do that.”

I wanted to advise against it but it was too late. She spotted him.

“Hey. You’re a real piece of shit, you know that?” she said, pressing her index finger into his chest. My stomach flipped — I knew how these confrontations usually ended for LGBTQ people. He flashed an unaffected grin and laughed.

“Relax,” he said and walked away.

His response, though brief, turned inside me. “Relax.” I realized now why she was so mad. She was mad because we couldn’t relax. We couldn’t kiss and touch and be us, and not be watched by other people. That was a privilege that we had not yet been afforded as a same-sex couple. Not even in a photo booth. Not even behind a curtain. Especially not in 2017.

Maybe in the past, we would have brushed it off. We would have taken the photo and hung it up on the fridge, ignoring the context which it was taken in. But we were exhausted. We were tired of small moments being taken away from us; we wanted things to be easier. But under an administration with a hugely questionable LGBTQ track record, that end didn’t feel like it was in sight.

I remember the first time a man made me and another woman feel unsafe. It was at the Baseball Tavern in Boston, a bar known for heavy pours when the Red Sox lost. Her name was Angela, and she would end up with a good Boston boy a few years down the road, but not that night.

She touched my wrist softly, pulling at a bracelet an ex-boyfriend had given me. Electricity pulsed through me.

“Kiss her, already!” 

We turned to see a group of guys ogling us. Angela dropped her hand.

“Maybe buy us a drink first,” she said, smiling at them.

She wasn’t sick of it yet — the attention we got while out. She didn’t realize that accepting a Whiskey Sour from a guy hoping for some sort of group sex scenario meant that guys would keep asking. She didn’t realize the more we played into a game with rules we didn’t make, the more we’d never be allowed to make our own.

The guys smiled. Angela turned back to me.

“Don’t worry. I’m just kidding,” she said. “But hey, if the drinks are free,” she laughed.

Her words cut through me, despite the protective layer of cheap tequila. I was upset because their ogling and her acceptance made me feel like there wasn’t an “us.” It made me feel like our relationship, as minor as it may have been, only existed to the outside world as a performance, even if it was the most real thing to me.

Being a feminine bisexual woman, I have the privilege of passing as straight. I can walk down the street and any Tom, Sue, or Larry will assume I’m your average hetero gal. I’ll be read as “normal.”

But when I’m dating a woman or a person of color, that story changes. That makes Tom, Sue, and Larry all stop. 

During Barack Obama’s presidency, various legislation protecting the LGBTQ community was passed, including the legalization of same-sex marriage in all 50 states. Stationary goosebumps sat on my arms as our former president stood at a podium and declared the Supreme Court ruling a victory not just for the community, but for the country.

I felt like maybe people were starting to get it, like maybe the days of leering at two women in a bar or giggling as two men held hands were over.

The night it passed, I went to a bar with two male friends who were dating. I remember how they looked at each other like the whole world was laid out in front of them. As they exchanged whiskey-soaked kisses, I couldn’t help but feel like we were finally getting somewhere, like the community had been handed a little Monopoly card that said we could all pass Go.

Then Donald Trump came into office and things got even harder. Because even if we had the card to pass, it didn’t mean it would be easy.

What was scarier than any of his potential legislation were the people who marched proudly for him. Suddenly, people felt safe in theirhate again. Suddenly, holding my girlfriend’s hand brought first glances that led to second glances, and second glances that led to stares. Even in Los Angeles, a city bursting with people from all walks of life, people were watching us again. My relationship wasn’t just my relationship anymore; it was a political statement.

At least it sure as hell felt like it.

The news cycle brought rumors of anti-adoption LGBTQ bills, but outside, the news was scarier. A friend was spit on walking down the street with her girlfriend. Hateful graffiti was painted on the Los Angeles LGBTQ center. Trolls starting finding me on YouTube and Twitter.

“Two girls kissing? Nice.” one comment read. “Why is everyone turning gay?” said another. “You’re going to hell,” said another. “Die,” said countless others.

It was clear the floodgates that had been struggling to hold back hate for so long had been perforated in a big way. Jane and I were whistled at walking down the street more and jeers flew more easily from car windows. And it wasn’t just happening to LGBTQ people. A Muslim friend rode the train five stops past her apartment to avoid a group of leering white men. A Mexican-American friend pretended not to see graffiti that read, “Go back home,” as we walked to our favorite lunch spot.

And none of us feel home, not really. Because people who maybe hated us all along aren’t just silently steaming anymore: They’re knocking at our doors.

I realize that the love that exists between me and the person I’m with won’t be understood by everyone; not completely, and not right now. Men will continue to leer and mothers will continue to avert their children’s gazes. The highest form of government may even say someday that I don’t deserve the same inalienable rights unless the future I choose is with a man.

And knowing that does make it hard to “relax.”

But I must remind myself to enjoy the small moments that are just for us; the moments that no other person, group, or legal system could ever call into question.

I’ll enjoy the way the nerves in my stomach bubble over with a mixture of excitement and terror every time I realize how much I care for the person I’m with. I’ll enjoy the way electricity moves through me when we touch and the way our laughs sound when we know we’re laughing for no other reason than feeling completely understood.

And most of all, I’ll enjoy the way my girlfriend’s hand is the only thing that can make me feel safe, even when I know I am not.

Source: http://www.cosmopolitan.com/sex-love/a9195838/afraid-to-hold-hands-lgbtq-couples-essay/

Protect - Young Shelby Reader

Requested by anon: Could you write something where the reader is the youngest Shelby (one year younger than Finn) and the boys are protective over her?

Words: 1,986

Warnings: violence, swearing.

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Requests are open!

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French-Canadian singer songwriter and model Charlotte Cardin is spellbinding on Dirty Dirty. Her deeply hypnotic, sultry simmering voice inevitably evokes the whiskey soaked bewitchment of Amy Winehouse, but accompanied by stylishly smoldering production which at times recalls Marian Hill. Charlotte’s vocals churn and bristle in a restless sea of haunting dark pop and jazzy chic soul. Dirty Dirty is as gritty as its name might suggest, a mischievous and seductive ode to heartbreak from Charlotte Cardin’s debut EP Big Boy, out right now. Head to iTunes to purchase the EP.

Made with SoundCloud
Breathe Again

This was written for Kari’s Favorite Things Challenge! Thanks for hosting @thing-you-do-with-that-thing, sorry for cutting it so close on the deadline!

Dean x female reader

Song Inspiration: Breathe Again by Sara Barielles

Warnings: Angst (but not too bad… well… It doesn’t end terribly anyways!!), character death, grief induced panic attack, Set right after Season 3 and mid Season 4 episode 1 (Spoilers)

Word Count: about 1500

Check out my masterlist for more fics!!

—————————————————————-

Your vehicle was parked next to the Impala, your packed bags in the passenger seat of your red ‘74 Bronco. You used to laugh seeing your giant Beast parked next to sleek Baby, but now the black muscle car brought you nothing but agonizing memories. Dean was gone. You hadn’t been able to stop the hellhounds from ripping your love apart and although Lilith hadn’t been able to kill Sam, you hadn’t been able to end her either. She smoked out of Ruby’s meatsuit leaving you and Sam to deal with Dean’s mangled corpse.

The last couple days had been devastating. Sam was a mess, especially after burying Dean, and as much as you wanted to be there for him, you couldn’t even look at him without your heart shattering all over again. And watching you grieve was only amplifying his own anguish. So you’d decided to part ways. You held each other for a long moment, neither one of you ready for this but both of you knowing you needed time apart to deal with your grief in your own separate ways. The pain of being around Sam was just too much. Although you loved him like a brother, now he was just a bitter reminder of the time when you called yourself Dean’s.

You hopped up into the Bronco and pulled away, fighting back tears as you found yourself looking back at the only family you had left in the world shrinking away in the rearview mirror.

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anonymous asked:

I'm aware that this is a highly subjective question (and also that you don't have a designated gay/lesbian expert, whoops) but I'm...writing a character who's homosexual, but starts the story in a relationship with someone of the opposite sex. I'm wondering what being in that relationship might...feel like? and what would clue them in that it was not the right one for them (but that wouldn't have done so/that they could have ignored earlier in their life). Again, anything helps. Thank you!

=============

Hi! 

Well, first, I want to make sure you’re aware of the spectrum. Kinsey was one of the first to describe it, so we often use his scale:

Or sometimes it’s shown as a numbered guide from 0-6. Someone can be gay, gay enough to identify as gay, and still have that 1% of interest in another sex.

That’s one reason our gay character might be in a straight-seeming relationship.

Another is simple denial or confusion: if you grow up never knowing being with your own sex is possible, you may just consider yourself a faulty heterosexual, and do your best to give it the ol’ college try. And sometimes, but not always, this sort of relationship can even be successfully sexual, if not sexually successful. Your character may really love the partner. Might secretly hate and resent their partner and the whole sham life they represent. They might sneak out and have sneaky sex in alleyways. 

And the most cynical and bitter option is simply: “I am gay. I will not get what I want in life as a gay person. So I have to grit my teeth and pretend. And to do my damnedest to seem as straight as possible, I will do what it takes to make other gay peoples’ lives a living hell.”

Leaving the relationship might be a whiskey-soaked revelation at 2am, a sweaty grope in the locker room, or a nice, quiet chat with the spouse and a pastor or marriage counselor. Or simply running away.

And obviously, age and personality will play an effect on how it goes. But a lot of gay people have a straight-seeming relationship or two before they settling into their eventual full-fledged gaiety. 


~~Mod Scix

SCENE ONE
this bed is a temple and i am the goddess and your body is the offering. this temple is blindly in love this temple is beautiful is passionate is on fire. this temple does not look at the stars.

SCENE TWO
this goddess is worshipping a mess of skin & blood & bone, she is waking up with alcohol veins, she is laughter after you tell that dirty joke. this goddess is crumbling her divinity to dust.

SCENE THREE
this offering is mortal, she is garnet haired and onyx eyed and perfectly in sync with the syzygy of worship. she is stumbling up to the altar and daring to be refused. this offering is whiskey soaked and obsidian tongued. this offering is unforgettable.

—  your breath is incense // a.m.
Best Buzz I’m Ever Gonna Find

A/N: Just a little something since I haven’t posted in forever and I’m trying to avoid responsibilities right now lol love yall 

He couldn’t take his eyes off of you. It physically pained him to focus his attention on anyone other than you. Dean swore that there was no one in the world who could make him feel as euphoric as he did when he was with you – constantly promising that each and every day that passed, it was like he was falling in love all over again.

The two of you met during a lake party that your best friend, Benny, had thrown.  Between the two of you hitting it off instantly, and each of you searching for something more – Dean believed that it had to be fate. And now after 6 months, he was still a goner.

“Dean, stop it,” You whined, playfully pouting as you laced your arms around his left bicep, appreciating the tight muscle that rested beneath the layers he had on. He wasn’t able to stop the large grin from stretching across his whiskey soaked lips, even if he wanted to. He knew that you were easily embarrassed, and when Dean looked at you with nothing but adoration, you were doomed to have flushed cheeks and a sparkle in your eyes.

“I’m sorry that my girlfriend just so happens to be the most gorgeous person in the world, babe,” He cooed, pinching your cheeks with his fingers teasingly. Rolling your eyes, you rested your head against his shoulder as the two of you waited for the performer of the night. The two of you had decided on heading over to the San Jac Saloon, craving some live music and good drinks.

“We have a special treat tonight, friends! We have a pretty well-known performer here today with us, and once word gets around well…you lucky bastards are up for a surprise. Please, welcome country star, Luke Bryan!” The owner of the bar yelled, immediately the bar was filled with screams and hoots. Your eyes widened as you realized what was just said. Dean was laughing whole heartedly at your excitement as soon as the star entered the small stage. The two of you being huge country music lovers, making tonight take a turn for the best.

“Can we go up closer, please, babe,” You begged, your hand tightly clutching his jacket as you eagerly stood on your tip toes. Dean quickly grabbed his glass of whiskey, slipping an arm around your waist so that you were tightly pressed in front of him – the two of you making your way to the stage.

“How are y’all doing tonight, Austin? I’ve missed ya!” Luke hollered, earning a huge round of applause. The band waited patiently as he gave his thanks to the bar and owner for allowing him to be here tonight, hearing it was a good place to be. “Now it’s my favorite time of year – the sun, the heat, the water. Most of my songs are inspired from moments that happen during summers, so I’m gonna start off with a little love song. Sing along if you know it,”

Cottonwood fallin’ like snow in July

Sunset, riverside, 4 wheel drives in a tail light circle

Roll down the windows, turn it on up

Pour a little crown in a dixie cup

Get the party started 

The crowd immediately screamed in response to the well-known country song, you being no exception. With your hands in the air and your hair falling down your back, Dean was mesmerized as you swayed along to the song and sang your heart out. He hardly noticed when you guided his whiskey glass to your lips and cheekily took a few sips, making a show of licking your lips slowly and savoring the taste. Brushing a strand of hair away from your face he mumbled along to the chorus.

“Best buzz I’m ever gonna find. Girl, I’m a little drunk on you and high on summertime,” Dean lazily grinned, ignoring the people that surrounded the two of you. Your eyes widened, unsure if he meant something behind the words that he chose to sing along to.

“You mean it?” You asked, lips brushing against his ear. You could feel the vibrations from his chest as he chuckled.

“Every day, sweetheart.”

thesilverqueenlady  asked:

Oooooh! Can I suggest "I might have slept with your robe when you were gone" for Hannigram? (I was soooo tempted for the "you look handsome in the moonlight", but I figured we already got that and it would be cheating, sooooo I chose something else :D )

How about a little Digestivo fix-it fic? :)


Will lay in bed (his bed, he thought, giddy with pain and exhaustion) and watched the grey morning light creeping in through his windows.


He’d had plans for this moment; for if they got out Muskrat Farm alive. He’d chosen his words carefully. A rejection couched in a goodbye. A manipluation that would allow him to set Hannibal aside while he decided what to do with himself. They’d all been perched on the tip of his tongue, but then-

Hannibal dozed in Will’s arm chair, fingers clutched in a familiar bit of navy blue silk. Will flushed at the sight of it. He swore under his breath.

“You’re awake,” Hannibal murmured, voice thick with sleep.

“You brought me home.”

“Yes.” Hannibal turned over the robe in his hands. He traced the a little cream H.L. embroided on the fabric, fingers following a path Will’s had taken one whiskey soaked night. “And it would appear a piece of my home followed me here.”

For a long, quiet moment he looked at Will. The weight of his gaze made something in Will’s chest constrict.

The truth tumbled out of him in a rush.

“I might have slept with your robe while you were gone,” Will admitted. “I went to your house and found it there. It seemed like a waste to leave it to rot.”

Hannibal smiled. He folded the robe and placed it on the bed.

“Do we talk about teacups and time, and the rules of disorder?” he asked softly.

“No.”

Will pushed himself up. His body ached, as though he’d aged a thousand years in the space of a week. He reached out, palm up in invitation.

“We talk about where we go next.”


Send me a prompt and a pairing and I’ll write you some fluff.

I.
Speak in tongues, darling. Serpent words, stumble over one another. A thick tangle of roots in an overgrown garden. I cannot tell where Gaea ends and I begin. There are sharp trowels hidden in this sweet meadow grass. What are Earth’s sharp thorns, to our tender caress?

Oceans rage at our disease, turbulent waves, shake in fists. What is this? They roar. What is this? They whisper, freshwater tears to those all lost and gone. Poseidon will wreck our shores with the bloated dead of his kingdom. Mermaids eat our carcasses, it’s the only way left to heal their oozing sores. What is the sea to soft mortal flesh?


II.
Zeus curses us thunderbolt after thunderbolt. The scorched earth policy says we all must burn together. Let’s go down with daises on our tongues, and sunshine in our lungs. Let’s go down the way we entered this earth, damned from the second we emerged.


Dionysus comes armed with his drunk divinity. Athena readies her bow. Ares grabs War with his hands and kisses her hard, blood soaked teeth and a heavy heart. Hephaestus burns as hot as his heathen forge. Aphrodite feels something akin to love, she takes up arms with her glass hands. Is this what devotion feels like? She kisses away her husband’s burn scars.  Hestia leaves her hearth, takes its fire and swallows it whole. She seethes how dare her children be threatened? She will be the last to go down. Zeus and Hera stand watching from celestial thrones. They start the onslaught but we end it.


III.
I curse you with my eyes crossed, I curse you with my hands in ivy chains, I curse you even when you cut my tongues out.


IV.
Why did god send us down to populate his holy land, instead of the angels with their golden eyes and hymns strung like machine guns? Maybe their inorganic flesh would make something bloom out of this mortal ground, other than hand grenades and land mines. There is something divine in the molten core of this barbed wire hell.


Do you dare send down your archangels now? We haven beaten gods before and we will burn down this very planet before you lay your unholy hands on it. Lucifer was right when he damned us, he knew that divine words are just hate speech soaked in holy water.


V.
We wear your psalms like armor, the ark of the covenant is our only ship. My hands are your prayer book, I cut them off to bloody stumps. This is a holy war. This is my last stand.


Who said we cannot be our own holy men. We are seraphim in our own right. We stood toe to toe with Gods. We ascended Mount Olympus. We stole Zeus’s fire and took apart his throne for our own gold. We sip ambrosia and feed on honeycomb nectar. Prometheus unbound we burn.


VI.
The earth rebels against human interference. We go down with knives clutched between our teeth, with angel’s swords in our ribcages, with stars in our eyes, and our bodies withering in fire. We go down but we get back up again. Moon soaked wounds, sun shine amputees, we regrow even in the harshest winter.


You made one mistake when you birthed us, heady with your own blood loss. You did not listen to blind prophets with hands that shake like leaves. You did not listen when you took your own rib for Adam. You did not listen when Cain invented the word murderer. You sure didn’t fucking listen when we asked for your help.


VII.
When will we search for the dark in your embrace? Foolish humans, with whiskey soaked tongues, too drunk to look past the light. We die in the face of a revolution against our own god forsaken divinity. Now we are in a war with every mortal we once called holy, every mortal we bent our knees like prayer books to, every mortal we sacrificed our breath to.


We fucking damned ourselves the moment we uttered your name.  I curse you and your holy armies. I dare you to smite me over and over again. I know that no matter what you do I will persevere for we are the old ones that calmed the storm before you were even born. We are a new race, we are something bigger then you.

—  when the greek gods rose and we conquered you knew it would be bloody. so, where is your garrison now god?
Midnight Run

Originally posted by howtobesupernatural

Notes: I’m so sorry it’s taking me forever to get around to writing these days, I’m busy with my artwork and well… work. But I promise you we’re getting there with requests! I’ve had writers block for a few weeks. T_T I kept this one short and sweet. 

Pairing: Crowley x Reader

Summary:  Anon Request:  What about a Crowley x Reader that starts off with the reader going for a run in the woods and Crowley surprises her

Warnings: Violence

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2

get to know our members challenge: favorite rare-pairs - ron weasley & pansy parkinson (3/5) - adrenne

late nights, whiskey soaked lips, and sex in the kitchen. nails down the back, snark, and cigarettes on the balcony. leftover pizza, hangovers, and refusing to admit there might be something more. accidental sleepovers, a playful shove, and defending the other behind their back. cold winter nights, a change of heart, and finding solace in an unlikely place.

You saw him

Michael Gray x Reader

Prompts: 20: “ Please don’t hurt me like this. ”

31: “ I fucked up. ”

A/N: I know this is different and I’m sorry if you guys don’t like the style. Let me know.

The first time you saw Michael Gray was the best and worst day of your life. Little did you know that this man would shape you into the person you are today. He was and still is a big part of your life.

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Great tension in the Miss Fisher fanfic – post number 2

The tension is palpable.

Some weeks ago, I wrote a post on the theme of Unresolved and resolved sexual tension in the Miss Fisher fanfic, where I collected great quotes submitted by the fanfic readers. Here is post number two, and I apologise for the delay. A third will come soon! 

Thank you to everyone who took their time to send me recommendations – you are the sweetest! The text about every fic is from the recommender!

So, here goes:


Kneel” by @edeainfj/deedeeinfj (chapter 1 of “Investigations”). Recommended by @firesign23:

In “Kneel” from deedeeinfj’s “Investigations”… well, there are times I am just going about my totally not Phrack-centred life and moments from this drabble cross my mind. (I could actually say the same about pretty much all of her work, to be honest, but this was one of the first ones I read so it’s getting the shout-out). But It’s a beautiful story about pleasure and control, and the unexpected depths of passion in our beloved inspector. And I can’t reduce it, every piece integral to the outcome, so you can get it in full:

Phryne judges her lovers on their first reaction when she kneels to pleasure them with her mouth. She doesn’t like being told that she doesn’t have to, as if she doesn’t know that damn well already. As if she, Phryne Fisher, would kneel and put a cock in her mouth if she didn’t want to. A man who is forthright about wanting his cock sucked is a man who truly understands the pleasure of giving pleasure. He is a man who will put himself at the mercy of his lover—even a woman. He is a man who isn’t afraid of losing control of his power or his body. He is a man who is willing to take, to submit to what is freely given. When she kneels and her partner begs her to continue, she aches with desire.

So, the first time she kneels before Jack, her heart sinks a little when he lays a hand on her head and says, “Wait.”

She should have known that he would fall into the gentlemanly, chivalrous category, but still she had hoped—

He continues, though. “Wait. Let me sit,” he says, out of breath, voice hoarse, fingers curling in her hair until it’s almost painful. “I can see you better this way. And I don’t think I’ll be able to keep standing while you do that.”

His smile is sheepish, but the one she flashes in return is devilish, happy, adoring. She doesn’t give him time to beg.


Perhaps Another Time” by @mercurialbianca / TheHonorableMrsMcCarthy. Recommended by @geenee27:

The author writes a delightful epilogue to “THAT SCENE” containing a lethal dress and dangerous lingerie. What happens, after these two have thrown charged words and filthy looks each other, is superbly explored from Phryne’s point of view:

“Perhaps another time. At a less dangerous hour, in a less lethal dress.” Phryne Fisher knew “a tell” when she saw one and the flutter of his eyelids confirmed her suspicions. His lips may have said he was leaving for the evening, but his eyes had given her an I.O.U. And his voice had unmistakably lowered half a register. A little thrill ran through her. Flirting with Jack Robinson had become a favorite pastime, she was now thinking there was a very real chance it might become a contact sport.

I love how much Phryne recognizes a worthy opponent when she sees one.

Not always, Miss Fisher.


Appropriate” by @whopooh. Recommended by @geenee27

Aunt P interrupts Phryne and Jack’s “Not Always, Miss Fisher” moment; however in this wonderful tale it happens later as she catches them in a scenario not particularly ‘appropriate’. There is lots of delicious reactions from Phrack, Mac and Aunt P, about the interruption, in the following days, but I particularly chose this passage relating to Jack’s thoughts as he beats a hasty, embarrassed retreat and is driving home:

He already knew something about kissing Phryne, but he hadn’t imagined the difference it would make that she was now fully aware of what was happening, and focusing on him. He took her in his arms, like he had wanted to do more times than he could count. He revelled in feeling her against him, sensing her through that thin robe she was wearing. As their kiss grew heated, he felt a bolt of lightning burn straight through him, almost incinerating him. This was how it felt to kiss Phryne Fisher – to press her to him, to hear her whisper against his lips. It was like containing electricity in his arms, like being scorched beyond recognition and not regretting it for a moment.

First real kiss – perfection. Is it getting warm in here?


For jeneep’s “Sweltering”, I received two recommendations:

Sweltering” by @jeneenp/Collingwoodgirl. Recommended by @federalistdarling:

Can I quote the whole thing?

I love this piece because it seems such a realistic crescendo to the will they/wont they nature of their relationship. It seems typical Phryne to catch Jack off guard and even goad him a bit then to have her quote Shakespeare to him almost as an olive branch for her naughty behavior.

A frustrating beginning and a sweet and somewhat sweaty ending. Haha!!

God, she wanted him. Months of doing this little dance - this slow waltz with Jack - had left her feeling dizzy, almost desperate, with desire for him. The feeling was mutual, she knew, but whether out of propriety or fear, he had managed to parry each and every one of her advances. Well, not this time, she assured herself. (from chapter 1)

When Jack dared take his eyes off the road, he could see Miss Fisher attempting to nonchalantly observe his every move through her dark sunglasses. It was far too loud in the roaring motor car to talk and he could feel the expectation and anticipation building between them. (from chapter 2)


Sweltering” by @jeneenp​/Collingwoodgirl. Recommended by @kanste:

A heatwave, a picnic and a hail storm – what more do you need? Ah, yes, Phryne seducing Jack with Shakespeare. Here is one great quote from this wonderful story:

The last of the ink residue long since vanquished, her fingers continued to caress his hand. He finally allowed himself to look up at Phryne’s face and found that his gaze was met instantly by darkened eyes. A sultry smile was bestowed on him, her lips twisted in a bright red bow that he ached to unwrap. Jack was so caught off guard by her unmasked attraction, he actually smiled back. He saw her eyes widen in surprise and triumph and he felt immediately wrong footed.

“Ah, thank you,” he murmured, half surprised that he could speak at all and reluctantly wrenched his hand and eyes away from her.

Phryne let his hand slip away but continued to smile, a wicked glint sparkling now in her eye. She had been watching him closely as he had given himself permission to take her in, indulge in her touch and proximity. She could practically feel the heat smoldering from him. All she needed to do was strike the match and pray that the fire would consume them both.

“You’ve got more,” she informed him, her voice as smooth as the whiskey.

She raised her hand to his face and skimmed a curled finger across the soft skin under his chin, her thumb braced against the small cleft.

“Just here,” she breathed, reveling in the feeling of his tender flesh, how his eyes fluttered shut at her touch, the tiny shudder that seized through him and electrified her fingers.

A tiny huff of breath escaped his lips, sharpening his features. But before he could protest, she brandished the whiskey-soaked handkerchief again and was blotting his throat, careful to let the backs of her fingers brush against as much of his exposed skin as possible.

Jack sat stock still, seemingly in utter anguish as his body rejoiced at her touch while his brain stuttered for a reason to stop her.

Phryne had lowered her face so close to his, she could feel his breath ghosting against her, count the green flecks in his aquamarine eyes. She felt his adam’s apple bob against her hand and knew his self-control was tenuous at best.

“Phryne,” he whispered. His nostrils flared as he spoke and it was the sound of her given name on his lips - the pleading tone in which it was uttered - that provoked her.

“Are you alright?” she asked - the very picture of innocence. “You seem a bit overheated, Inspector,” she challenged, looking him directly in the eye and refusing to give an inch.

Are we on stage or not, Miss Fisher?

Nine Times Out Of Ten” by @ollyjayonline. Recommended by @whopooh:

There is such delicious tension in this story, in the way Phryne and Jack have one relationship in reality, and then plays up another version – where she needs to pretend to be interested in him, while he not in her – and @ollyjayonline explores the uncertainty about what is play and what is real in such a wonderful and very tense way.

Here is a lovely passage showing the two layers:

“I’m making things right, everyone here is now very clear that I have decided to put an end to your budding romance with Miss Bowen - oh and I’m about to seduce you.”

“Really?” his eyes flashed back to hers, “Am I going to enjoy it?”

“No. I need you to look uncomfortable and perhaps a little angry, remember we’re only professional colleagues and you know better than to get romantically involved with a woman like me.”

He nodded, this was a role he knew how to play.

And this is a wonderful example of how the two layers are starting to blend together for Phryne:

“I think that’s enough for tonight,” she had whispered, gazing up into his eyes, as she let her hand wander possessively over his upper arm, “I want you to look like you’re telling me how inappropriate my behaviour is and then leave.”

“This is me telling you Miss Fisher that I would appreciate it if, next time you decide to play match maker, you leave me out of it,” he spun on his heels and walked away.

She stood there for a moment, unsure exactly how much of that had been acting.

And then it gets even more tense, because their play also harks back to hurtful actions in their relationship, reminding them of their own pain – and then the fic gives us an incredible release of the tension, after the break in this quote:

“Can we start again Jack? As friends? Please?” She would never admit, not even to herself, how often she had dreaded having to say these words to him.

He shook his head, “I don’t think that would work, last night you reminded me of feelings that I thought I had conquered.”

“Sounds serious,” the words were out before she could stop them, damn him for unsettling her like this.

A flash of pain appeared in his eyes and it took a moment before he replied, “It is.”

Upset at having unintentionally brought up their previous estrangement she reached out, seeking the comfort of what they were to each other now, only to have him step away.

“Good night, Miss Fisher.”

For the second day in a row she was left behind, alone and off balance.

***

As soon as he stepped in her cabin she threw him up against the door, claiming his mouth with a wild hunger. “Don’t you ever walk away from me like that again Jack Robinson,” her voice was dark and threatening, “You don’t get to leave me behind. Never!” Her hands moved roughly around his body undoing buttons, ripping off his bow tie, pushing off clothes in a frenzy that left him groaning helplessly against her.

Dragging her dress up over her hips she ground herself hard against his thigh, leaving him in no doubt exactly how much she wanted him. Her frantic desire was intoxicating and he spun them round, her back against the door, lifting so she could spread her legs around him.

(…) Her kiss in response was savage. Her teeth hitting against his, her tongue so deep in his mouth he was almost choking, her finger nails digging into his scalp until it hurt. And he came so hard he almost collapsed.

Reluctantly letting go of her thighs so she could take her own weight, he did his best to keep them both upright.

When he had finally caught his breath, “Dare I ask?”

“Its what I should have done,” she confessed, “all those months ago when you told me you were giving me up.”

“I’m fairly sure if you’d done that then, it would have scared me to death.”

“Not quite the reaction I would have been aiming for,” she conceded.


That Moment is Now” by @phrynesboudoir/Sassasam. Recommended by @quiltingmom:

“That Moment is Now” by Sassasam is one of my absolute favorites (top 3 but they change positions all the time, lol). This fic for me has it all, the setting, the romance, the banter, the casefic but the sexual tension (resolved and unresolved) is off the chart. I really consider it probably one of the dirtiest and yet… I love it so much. Shhh don’t tell anyone.

Here’s one part that references URST and the anticipation of the possibilities as well as feeling Jack’s mind churning is just one of many moments in this fic that gives me goose bumps:

“I can feel your eyes on me,” she said, reaching for her wine and taking a sip. 

“I like watching you, what can I say,” he replied.

He faltered a little under the intensity of her gaze. Her eyes darkened as she appraised him and he felt like a child blundering through asking out a girl he fancied. But broach the subject he must. He couldn’t resist the siren call that was Phryne.

“About earlier,” he began. “What exactly did you mean?”

She leaned into him and whispered something in his ear. His eyes widened.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he kept his voice low and quiet, “that some people actually enjoy that?”

“Some people, yes,” she affirmed. “It can be very liberating. Once you relinquish control to someone else.”

“I imagine it would take a great deal of trust,” Jack remarked.

“A very great deal. But I trust you Jack. I’d let you try some things, if you wanted to,” she answered.

“I’m not certain I could,” he leaned into her, whispered in her ear, “I mean could I? It wouldn’t be – gentlemanly. Some of the things I might want to try.”

She chuckled and batted her lashes at him. “But that’s the point, Jack. It’s like playing a role. We’re miles away from home. No one knows us here. To them we’re honeymooners wildly in love.”-

She smiled softly at him.

“What if I hurt you?” he asked.

“We could have a word. If things get uncomfortable for either of us, we could say- I don’t know- ‘Prudence’ and we’ll agree to stop,” she said.

Jack chuckled and ate a mouthful of chicken fricassee. “Well that would certainly put me off,” he admitted.

Phryne laughed and sipped her champagne. “You like the idea though, don’t you,” she said at last.

Jack took a deep breath, eyes downcast before looking her in the eye. “I do.”

She smiled. “It excites you.”

He nodded slightly. “It does.”

“The thought of what we might do.”

“Don’t,” he warned. “I’m not certain I’ll be able to control myself.”


“Something of a Miracle” by @heavyheadedgal. Recommended by @firesign23:

@heavyheadedgal’s “Something of a Miracle” is a fantastic first time fic, mingling expectations and reality in a way that’s both amusing and hot, and keeps the deep and abiding friendship between these two. It’s hard to choose an extract, but I suppose I’ll go with:

In some dim corner of his mind still capable of rational thought, Jack registered that Phryne liked it when he cursed. She liked it a lot. Years in the army and police force had earned him an extensive vocabulary of foul language, though he rarely used it. So much for romance, he thought, then put his mouth to her neck and murmured every filthy word he knew. She was sweating and scratching at his back and looked absolutely glorious.

It’s perfect for this challenge of restraint and tension: Jack letting go of what he thought he wanted to do what satisfies them both, and the image of Jack Robinson with filthy words is just too delightful for words.


A Glass Splinter” by @firesign23, chapter 31. Recommended by @whopooh:

I completely adore this fic, and just reread it. I seem to especially love the “false RST,” where there seems to be a resolvedness to the sexual tension, but it’s not properly solved. Like in chapter 26 that I never seem to stop alluding to, where Jack and Phryne have excrutiatingly different views of what they’re doing – as well as here, in chapter 31, when they have a night of farewell. They are more sincere and open to each other than they have been previously in this fic, but it’s still tinged with sadness and parting, and the resolution of the sexual tension is only half:

“Miss Fisher.”

She reached up to cup his cheek.

“Say my name, Jack. Please. Just for tonight.”

He shuddered, the hastily erected walls between them crumbling once more.

“Phryne,” he breathed.

Nobody in the world said her name the way he did, like it was everything precious in the world, like it was a secret to be treasured, to be used sparingly in moments that mattered.

She kissed him, a light brush of her lips against his tampered with hesitance. His returning kiss was slow and shallow, his hand cradling her head. They pulled away at almost the same moment, sharing a small smile.

“One last gaudy night?” she said softly, hoping he would say yes. She couldn’t bear to end it already; there were hours before her ship left.

“No,” he said, and her heart fell. He gave her a sad, lopsided sort of smile. “A farewell, perhaps, but there is nothing gaudy about tonight.“

And then a bit further on:

“Do you love me?”
He had been tracing circles across her skin when she’d asked; he’d shaken his head.
“Would it change anything if I did?”
“No,” she admitted; it was both freedom and duty that called her away.
“Then spare me that one indignity,” he’d said, so quietly that she had almost missed it.


I hope this makes you want to go and reread some fics – it sure makes me want to do it! More recommendations will come very soon.