yes... he's tangled in one

What's Mine is Mine

“You touch me, Proko, and I’ll kill you.”

It’s a hollow threat, Prokopenko knows, but he flinches just the same. It takes a massive effort to keep from stepping away. He doesn’t like it when K gets like this. Twisting his fingers, nervously biting at his lower lip, he asks, softly, “You really that angry?”

Kavinsky’s glare could cut glass, dark and fierce and furious. Without his sunglasses, K is a beast.

Fighting back a rather pleasant shiver, knowing it’s a risk, Proko moves in to straddle Kavinsky’s hips, threading his fingers into dark hair. Brushing his lips against K’s by way of apology, Proko murmurs, soft and sweet, “Sorry, baby.”

“Don’t baby me.” It comes as a hiss, the warning of a snake before it bites you.

“Don’t sound so pissy.” Pissy is an understatement, Jiang knows. Seated on the opposite arm of the sofa, he nurses his busted lip, aware of the fact that he’s got blood dripping down his chin. He licks a bit of it away; The metallic taste of it is familiar and grounding. It’s not the first time K’s hit him, though this time was definitely deserved. The entire pack knows how possessive Kavinsky is when it comes to Prokopenko. “If you paid attention to him, he wouldn’t have to come running to me.”

Hands too tight at Proko’s bare hips, digging blue-violet bruises into golden skin, K snarls, “Didn’t ask you.”

“Don’t have to ask.” Jiang holds the concerned look Prokopenko shoots at him for a few seconds before he meets Kavinsky’s dark, dark eyes, steeling himself. “It’s obvious.”

Really, it is, but there’s no way in Hell K is going to admit that. Jiang and Proko are both fully aware of it. “You see this?” This proves to be Proko’s hand, and Kavinsky gives it a squeeze as indication, thumbing at the other boy’s knuckles. It’s strangely comforting for the both of them. “This is mine.”

Eyes narrowing, Jiang hisses out, “He isn’t a thing, K.”

Leaning in to rest his forehead against Kavinsky’s shoulder, his eyes still on Jiang’s, Proko sighs, “Yes, I am.”

Nodding, Kavinsky agrees, with a poor imitation of Proko’s lilting accent, “Yes, he is.” Tangling one hand into sandy-blonde locks, he drags Proko closer, mouthing along the side of his neck. “Dream thing.”

Proko whimpers at that, though it’s unclear whether it’s in response to the words, or to the flutter of chapped lips along sensitive skin. His eyes are still on Jiang’s, barely-blue on mirror-black.

“You oughta know by now,” Kavinsky says to Jiang between kisses, eyes rapidly darkening, “that I don’t like sharing my things.”

Leo Imagine

A 1995!Leo x reader where they are both starring in the same movie (it can be Romeo+ Juliet or any other movie really) and from the moment they meet each other they have chemistry they become bffs and eventually he ends up liking her (couple way)?

Originally posted by imsandraolsen

You fling your arms around as your nervousness increases. In 5 minutes, you and Leo will be walking out to get interviewed to promote your movie together. It has been almost a week since the movie came out and both of you have been doing interviews since then. 

You let out a wavered breath, turning your eyes to Leo, who surprisingly is staring at you. His mouth was curved upwards, you did not know if he’s watching you in amusement or just simply admiring you. Even though the shooting were all wrapped up, you and Leo stayed friends. Or best friends rather since you guys have been inseparable. Leo also picked you up every day so both of you could go to the venues together. 

Raising your brows, “What?” you asked at a very calm and confident Leo, who has no trace of anxiousness in him. “You look cute when your tense.” he said. You’ve gotten used to all his random compliments, and sometimes you would notice him look at you with a gleam in his eyes.

You started hearing the interviewer talk to the crowd about your newly released film. Your arms started shaking and you couldn’t help but to close your eyes. You whispered assuring things on yourself when suddenly you felt a warmth on your cold hands. There you see Leo placing sweet kisses on your hands before wrapping both of your hands together in a couple-like way. 

“Y/N, Leo, you’re out in a minute.”

You and Leo walked where you guys will be coming out, black curtains covering the whole backstage area.Your hands had started sweating but you can feel Leo’s hands squeezing yours multiple times. 

“Let us all welcome, Leonardo DiCaprio and Y/F/N!”

You and Leo practically walked out holding hands together, waving both of your free hands to the crowd. The way they cheer for the two of you was overwhelming, easing your tense feeling a bit. You plastered the best smile you have and you know Leo was doing the same.

The interview went like a blur, totally unaware that you and Leo were still holding hands.Sometimes you would answer the questions and Leo would look at how you talked, occasionally you would notice his eyes going down your lips. 

“Okay, this is the question every one would like to know.” The interviewer trailed, “Since we all notice how Leo look at Y/N and she’s oblivious about the whole thing.” 

Leo stifled a laughter beside you, your eyes gazing at him with your brows furrowed.

“Leo, do you like Y/N?”

“I do, actually.” he answered quite bluntly with a wide grin on his face. “I mean who wouldn’t?” he turned and looked at you. You felt your cheeks burn, his eyes staring deeply at yours.

“Would you date her?”

The interviewer was unaware of you and Leo’s little moment together but the crowd isn’t. They were cheering like crazy, screaming all of their lungs out. 

“Yes, of course.” Leo replied, he suddenly lifted your tangled hands together for every one to see. “It looks like she wouldn’t let go either.”

If it was even possible, your cheeks turned even deeper, and that moment you realized that you like this dork too.

the posh boy solution

hi hello welcome to the second part of this little piece

part one: the posh boy problem

also available on: AO3

***

Sometimes John calls Sherlock little secret names in his head. Greets him with hey, handsome in the morning, calls him genius when he’s being too clever, calls him pretty man, silly git, sweetheart. But sometimes he just needs to call him,

“You fucking idiot!”

John throws his jacket at the back of his chair in obvious distress. It falls off immediately. He is clearly angry with him, Sherlock has observed the ragged breath and flaring nostrils long ago and drawn his conclusions. He wonders what exactly he’s done wrong to upset him so much. The fact that he (technically not quite) stole a boat or that he managed to fall into the Thames? He himself is just upset about having been forced to sacrifice his woollen coat in order to save himself from drowning. Of course, he owns lots of coats. You never know when an accidence like this one might occur.

While Sherlock swam to the shore, John made sure the jewellery thieves, due to which that boat chase had originally been initiated, did not shoot at Sherlock, and in the process of that received a pretty hard blow to the head. A bump is already growing just next to the vein that always pulsates visibly when John is angry.

“You should cool that,” Sherlock suggests.

“Shut up! I will cool that when I feel like cooling it, I’m a bloody doctor!”

Sherlock swallows. It’s worse than he thought. He cannot deny that he likes John when he is on the right side of angry, but this is probably the wrong side and he is also being yelled at.

“A boat chase, Sherlock?!”

“In my defence-” Sherlock starts, but is interrupted by John raising a finger, ordering him to shut the hell up.

“Take your clothes off.”

Sherlock stares. Sherlock blinks. His mind stays blank for a worryingly long amount of time. Then he remembers. He’s wet. Soaked, in fact, completely down to his bones, and freezing too. It’s taken him a little long to catch up because these words, words spoken in the tone of an army captain, are something he’s last heard two days ago, half asleep and desperate in his own bedroom. Another one of those nights in which his imagination filled in for the needs that reality doesn’t meet.

John is waiting in this charged air of silence, maybe having realised what he just said, maybe not. Sherlock tips his chin up and obeys.

“I’m not so posh anymore now, am I?” he mutters under his breath.

John presses his lips together at this, and Sherlock worries briefly that the vein at his temple might just burst. His eyes withhold a certain kind of spark, like a candle flickering, like the glare of a predator. All of a sudden, Sherlock feels stripped completely naked by those eyes only. Then he comes to realise … He’s stripping down. The ruined jacket abandoned next to his shoes and socks, his shirt hanging open to expose his chest and stomach, and his trousers… he’s in the process of shoving them down his thighs. The process of stripping down to his underwear for John Watson. But he feels naked.

John is walking towards him. Slowly, like he means to break him. He might.

His eyes are boring into Sherlock’s own and electrify the space between them, the air they breathe. Sherlock swallows, once more, but his throat is dry and he is thirsty. He is cold, goosebumps all over his body from the river water and those ocean eyes, but his skin is hot with anticipation.

John steps right into his space. Sherlock can smell him. It does things to him, awful things to his heightened senses. It clouds them, but at the same time he is overly aware of naked skin and of John wearing way too many clothes.

“Yeah,” John whispers roughly, so rough and so low he could hurt himself on that sandpaper voice. “You’re still a fucking posh boy.”

John’s eyes drop, and his breath is ragged, but Sherlock suspects this time it’s for entirely different reasons than anger. He doesn’t know who gives in first, and frankly, he  doesn’t give one fuck about it because the next thing he knows is that John’s lips are on his and it feels like he’s dying and being reborn in one single breath.

They long for each other, and their lips meet so hard it might leave bruises. John is all-consuming, is groaning and opening his mouth by opening his own first. Sherlock’s knees buckle at the sensation that is John’s tongue running over his bottom lip. If this is what it’s like to kiss John Watson, he should be put in chains because it’s dangerous. He walks him backwards, shoves him into the wall next to the kitchen. Sherlock’s trousers have dropped down to his ankles and he almost falls over them, held upright by the hard surface of the wall where he bumps his head into.

Dizzy and with a sharp pain buzzing through the back of his head, he feels weightless when John lifts one of his legs, slowly running his hand over the underside of his thigh, fingers through thin hairs and over hard muscle, and Sherlock’s natural reaction is to wrap his leg around John’s middle and hold on tight, so tight. His trousers are hanging from the end of his foot like one last resort before they fall off and to the floor. The pain wears off, and suddenly Sherlock thinks he can feel everything.

The smooth fabric of John’s shirt and the rough one of his jeans that presses against the lower part of his body. Against his thighs and hipbones and the growing bulge in his pants. John’s one hand is rubbing back and forth over his inner thigh and the soft spot where it dissolves into firm buttocks. A soft spot that draws a quite whine out of the back of his throat. He places his other hand on his face to hold him. Lifting his jaw ever so slightly, his thumb is stroking over one sharp cheekbone, and he kisses him again.

Sherlock still feels like he is dying, but it’s different than it was before. John deepens the kiss, and he feels utterly devoured. He’s never wanted anything more, he thinks. Wrapped up in all of him. It fuels his addictive personality in many dangerous ways, but he cannot think, can only indulge in this dance of drawing back only to lean back in again, tongues against each other in one hot wet mess.

All the blood is running south, and as he wraps his arms around John’s neck, he isn’t quite sure how to feel, much less what he is doing.

John breaks the kiss with a sigh. A long, dreamy sigh Sherlock has trouble interpreting correctly. Is it regret? Relief? Pity? But as he closes his eyes in silence, he brings their foreheads together and leans against him. They stay like this for what seems like minutes over minutes, and it should be uncomfortable, should feel ridiculous - with one of them undressed and the two of them panting against each other - but it doesn’t. They breathe together in unison, and when John draws back to look at him, his eyes don’t show anger, aren’t predatory. They are warm, they are gentle.

“You have no idea how long…” he begins, but doesn’t quite know where he was going with it, or if he wants this sentence to end.

Sherlock’s response gets stuck in his throat and its remains come out in a sob. “Yes,” he manages.

“And all this time,” John continues, “So much time…”

“It’s okay,” Sherlock assures him. His voice is quiet, as if he was afraid of breaking emotions fragile and clear as glass. And when they aren’t clear as glass, they are a thick fog of all the things left unsaid. It’s very hard to see through it, but what he sees is sharp enough. “We’re here now.”

John leans back in. He takes his time now, is gentle in his touches and caresses his cheeks. They feel wet, somehow, but Sherlock doesn’t understand why. It’s like the tears are falling naturally.

“Bedroom,” John whispers.

How many times has he imagined John Watson in his bed before this? He hasn’t kept track, but he knows that this time couldn’t be further from his imagination. Because it is reality. And it feels so, so much better than anything else in the world.

John doesn’t hold anything back with him. He kisses him in every spot, he bites his lip and neck and, oh god, the sensitive skin up, up his thighs. He whispers names into all of those spots, lets them sink into his flesh and travel to his chest where they can burn and glow and melt his insecurities with flickers of bliss.

He calls him love when he breaks a kiss, calls him honey as he buries his face in the crook of his neck, calls him genius when Sherlock touches him in the most intimate of places. He tells him he is gorgeous, tells him I need you and I want you. It’s the hottest thing in Sherlock’s ears, goes straight between his legs. He asks him, Is this okay?, asks almost desperately how, how can I have you?

He calls him you brilliant man when he groans, you pretty, pretty boy. But as he thrusts, harder, yes harder, sinks his teeth into his flesh and moans, as his movements became frantic and they are so close and wrapped in each other with tangled limbs and desperation, and yes, as he comes, the one thing on his lips is Sherlock. Only Sherlock. As beautiful as he has ever heard his own name sound. He’s had no idea his name could sound like this, and he’s not sure how anything else could ever come close to being this good.

They lie together, cuddling and blissed out and fucking happy for the first time in what seems to have taken ages. Sherlock feels a smile stretching across his face. John’s thumb caresses long laugh lines as he is bent over him. But he isn’t smiling back. He looks like something worries him.

“Don’t ever risk your own life like that again,” he warns him, but warns him softly.

Sherlock thinks about it in the most rational way he can. He is very serious when he says, “If risking my life leads to this right here, to you and me, I might just consider it.”

John goes ahead and bites him. Just below his jawline, as he has very recently learned he likes a lot.

Sherlock gasps and John lets go.

“Oh no,” he whispers. “This wasn’t a reward, Sherlock. It was… long overdue. I’m still mad at you.”

Sherlock looks away in honest concern and fear. “Are you really?”

John sighs. “No.”

They cuddle in silence for a long while. Sherlock is very close to falling asleep. He is much closer to losing himself to whatever he feels for John Watson. He knows it is love. He’s not sure how much more it is, but it might just kill him one day. That might just be fine with him.

“You’re my posh boy now,” John murmurs right before he feels himself drift away.

He smiles, honestly. Wholeheartedly.

“I’ve never been anything else, John.”

***

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@kevystel said:                                                                                                                            writing yuuri is stress relief! i love this (can i tempt you to post that viktor snippet and Talk about his pov and how it differs from yuuri’s bc i’m a sucker for such writer analysis)

You absolutely can!! Half-snippet and POV talk under the cut:

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Anonymous requested: more Jarida sets

Here’s a random one i made on a whim at 1 in the morning. I’m not overly fond of it but hey, whatever. I’ll make you a couple better ones, Nonnie.

anonymous asked:

Can you do a Yoosung Fic were he wants kids, but MC is unsure whether their financial stable enough to have them.(It ends with her giving in, if you know what I mean)

Okay but like. This is it. You found my kink. I’m so ashamed. (But not really let’s be honest)

————-

Yoosung had started his own vet clinic nearly a year ago. Which was to say, the bills had slowed down and you two were finally able to build some savings, but you were still in poor college student mode. You had squirreled away every available CENT and were still filled with anxiety every time you used your debit card. To be honest, it made the entire situation worse - you desperately wanted a baby. Every time you went out and saw a newborn it was like a punch to the gut, tears streaming down your face while you hid away in the bathroom.

You thought you’d hid it well, but Yoosung was more than aware of the situation - because he wanted a baby too. He wanted to have kids as soon as you got married, but he hadn’t even brought it up because you were both college students struggling to make rent. Tonight. He’d talk to you about it tonight, over dinner and flowers. His heart pounding in his chest, he went home to get started.

When you walked through the door the smell of food hit you like a wave, your mouth instantly watering. “Yoosung, I’m home!” You slid your shoes off and padded towards the kitchen, a smile forming when you saw your husband carrying plates to the table. “Hey babe! How was work?” You sat down as you told him about your day, yawning as you finished your meal. “Um…I have something I want to talk to you about, MC.”

He was being awfully serious about this. You scrunched up your face in confusion, asking “Yoosung…what’s wrong?” He laughed at your expression, saying “nothing’s wrong! I just…I wanted to talk to you about maybe…having a baby.” Your brain refused to make sense of the words for a few seconds, and you shoved your hope and longing right down. “Yoosung…of course I want to have a baby. But we just can’t afford it right now.” You felt the tears dripping down your face. Shit. You hadn’t meant to cry, not now. Pain lanced through your chest sending even more water dripping onto your clenched hands.

He was on you in an instant, kissing your head and pulling you into his lap as sobs wracked your body. “Honey, honey, calm down. Do you think I’d bring it up if I hadn’t done my research? I asked Jumin for some help. I hope you don’t mind…but we came up with this.” He reached back to the table, pulling a small stack of papers around to hand to you. “W-what is this?” You scanned the paper in front of you. “A budget?” You poured over the numbers, but of course there were no mistakes. Jumin probably had a baby specialist called in for this, and you giggled at the thought.

“A baby, Yoosung? W-we can really have a baby?” You felt that ridiculous hope and excitement swell up again - as if you’d never tried to get rid of it at all. He smiled and pulled your face to his, whispering a “yes” before his lips tangled with yours. He stood up in one movement, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you into the bedroom. You undressed in a flash, sliding onto the bed to wait for him to get his pants off. You felt him settle between your thighs, lips dragging up your stomach to suck on the skin of your neck.

“Are…are you sure you want to have a baby with me Yoosung? I’m ready, but I don’t want you to feel pre-” he cut you off with a kiss. “I wouldn’t have brought it up if I wasn’t ready, MC. I love you and I want to have a baby with you.” You shivered as his tongue snaked out to play with your own, his hand going to feel the wetness between your thighs. He groaned as he rubbed your clit, the tip of his cock straining against you. Yoosung slid into you, and it had never felt better. You always made sure to use a condom - until now.

He began moving his hips in a smooth, rolling motion - just enough to drive you insane but push you up towards orgasm. You gasped his name and he moved faster, his fingers making tight circles around your spot. “Yes…come for me. I’m going to fill you up until you’re heavy with my baby.” His words were enough and you clenched around him, screaming as your mind went blank and stars burst behind your eyelids. Yoosung came with a groan, spurting inside of you with a few hard thrusts. He collapsed next to you in bed, wrapping an arm around your waist as his breathing evened out. “You…are a goddess. And I love you so much.” You played with his hair - the same blonde as when you met. “I love you too…dad.”

His smile nearly split open his face, and he rolled back on top of you. “We’d better make sure it sticks, huh?” You laughed as you pulled his mouth to yours, and decided in that moment - you’d never been happier.

Earned It

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Theme Song: Addicted by Saving Abel

Word Count: 1413

Warnings: Smut, NSFW, mild dirty talk, oral sex, mouth fucking, begging, explicit language

Summary: Reader makes up for Dean’s birthday by waking him up, in the best way.

A/N: Happy Smut Appreciation Day! So, I was really excited to write this because I love blow job fics and who doesn’t want to have Dean’s cock in their mouth, but really nervous because it’s the first time I’ve ever written smut (so be gentle)! I am not completely content with this but let me know what y'all think!

Tagging: @samsdirtylittlesecret, @spnfanficpond, @winchesterenthusiast, @fvckinpayno, @the-mrs-deanwinchester, @readingissupernatural, @winchesterwhisper

*not my gif


You turn over to the sleeping figure next to you. Dean was sprawled out on his back, light snores falling from him; evidence that he had been drinking the night before. You reach over and run your fingers through his hair, a content sigh leaving his lips as he stretches towards you, pushing into your hand.

You had woken up early, with the intent of waking Dean up with your mouth, since you hadn’t gotten to do it on his birthday. You waited up, listening for the pitter patter of Sam’s feet down the hall.

Once you heard the echo of the bunker door closing you turned to your handsome boyfriend, a burst of excitement coursing through you.

You reached down, trailing your fingers across his bare abdomen, and leaning your head down to place a kiss there. Rolling over so you’re straddling his hips you begin leaving little innocent kisses across his chest. He stirred beneath you, a lazy smile spreading across his face.

Knowing he’s awake you lean up and press soft kisses along his neck.

“You can open your eyes Dean, I know you’re awake.” You croon nuzzling his jawline with your nose.

“Mornin’ cherry pie.” He hums, bringing a hand up to rub across your lower back. “I didn’t want you to stop.”

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