#odds and sods

[olivelune]

Just a Matthew and Keeley appreciation post

Their love and friendship and adoration is beyond compare ❤

I can only hope someday I find a love as beautiful as theirs

#matthew macfadyen #keeley hawes #matthew x keeley #matthew and keeley #pics #odds and sods

[kieraillustrations]

Art style goal wise, I want my art to give off a cozy, quaint and whimsical vibe

#so autumn cottages forests lakes magic etc #small spaces that are jam backed with odds and sods that tell a story over time of the people that have lived there #*packed #notes for later

[starlessea2]

If you still want Astarion requests, I’d love to see something with a Tav who’s really nervous to let Astarion bite? 🥺

Positively Starved (Astarion)

Pairing: Astarion x Reader [Baldur's Gate 3]

Summary: In spite of your nerves, you invite Astarion back for a bite; admiring the trust you've put in him, he promises to be gentle (Act 1 spoilers).

A/N I wrote this in under an hour as I wanted to play around with some requests! Let me know if you'd like to see more of these off-the-cuff oneshots! (Also, slight mention of blood in this one).

Masterlist

"You can feed on me tonight... if you'd like."

The words sprung from your mouth. They lingered in the air, each syllable punctuating over and over—ringing out through your shared connection.

You felt a cringe.

Where in the seven hells did that come from? Was one near-death encounter not enough?

Before you could attempt to splutter out any sort of explanation, you were met with Astarion's laugh. "How very generous, my dear! I was starting to wonder when you'd invite me back for a bite."

Blood pooled to your cheeks; you could feel it—see it in the way his eyes turned them a similar, darker shade.

As you ruminated on his words, your heart hammered in your chest. The silence was palpable. But just as you were about to open your mouth to dismiss the idea completely, the man was roused into action.

"You know... I never expected you to be so eager," he finally said. Your embarassment swelled tenfold. "Tell you what, when the others have turned in for the night, I'll come to your bedroll."

Immediately, your breath caught in your throat. You glanced around—far less subtly than you would have hoped. To anyone in earshot, it would have sounded like Astarion was propositioning you.

Well, he was, you quickly realised. Just for blood over sex.

"Right—okay," you stammered back. You hated how weak your voice sounded, so you took a moment to make it stronger. "Come find me later then," you told him, before returning to sifting through your supplies.

You tried to calm your nerves, but as you turned to leave, you did not miss the way Astarion's fangs poked through his grin, nor how his eyes trailed your neck. Your legs almost buckled.

◤━━━━━━━━━━━◥ ◤━━━━━━━━━━━◥

As night fell, you found yourself, and your bedroll, tucked away in a small stone outhouse on the edge of camp. You'd discovered it earlier in the day, when looting storage boxes for odds and sods. It was cold, and damp—but at least it wasn't dark.

Amber glow lit up the space; you'd illuminated it with a few low-wicked candles as you waited for Astarion. In this warm light, you tried to make yourself comfortable on your bedroll.

"Setting the mood are we?"

Astarion's voice echoed through the outhouse. Although you tried not to acknowledge it, your heart immediately quickened in response—as did your mind race.

Your eyes followed him as he came inside, closing the old oak door behind him. "I must admit, I didn't expect this..." He waved a hand before him, inspecting the dripping candles, and your poor attempts at cleaning the place up.

"How come?" you asked.

His smile sent a shiver down your spine. "Well, aside from me getting a tad carried away the first time we did this... I could also feel your thoughts."

Even in the dim light, you could see his half-lidded expression, as though he was reliving the moment behind tired eyes.

He went on, "Excitement, yes, my dear. But also flighty as a bird."

Your brows furrowed. Part of you felt indignant, craved to prove him wrong by baring your neck without an ounce of apprehension. The other part wondered how he already knew you so well.

You tried to muster a reply, but it was Astarion who spoke first. "As much as I appreciate the offer, you don't have to do this, you know."

In that moment, everything seemed to still. You could only imagine the state of disbelief painted on your face. Throughout your time together, that must have been the most selflessness Astarion had ever strewn into a sentence.

But now was not the time to comment on it.

"I know," you said instead. "And I won't lie to you. I'm not sure exactly why I sought you out."

You sat up and reached for Astarion's hand. Something flashed over his face, but even so, he allowed you to guide him down to your bedroll.

"Perhaps you were right. Perhaps there is a spark of curiosity in me—excitement, even." His eyes widened, set alight by your confession. "Or maybe, and I know you won't like it..."

With a raised brow, he coaxed you, "Go on."

"When you told me about Cazador—" You paused for Astarion scowl, watching the lines materialise on his porcelain skin. "Well, I just thought how horrible it must have been to be constantly..." You sought out the word. "Hungry."

Astarion's lips parted ever so slightly.

Are you hungry? You shared the thought with him.

"Positively starved," came the reply.

Then he leaned in, casting shadows over your candle-lit skin. To any onlooker it might appear he was preparing for a kiss. But you weren't that naive.

"Not—" Your hand found his chest, the exposed skin peeking out of his shirt collar. "Not too much," you whispered.

Your eyes caught his in a silent plea. Astarion answered by taking your hand and pressing it into your bedroll. "No need to worry, my dear," he said, hot against your ear. "I promise to be gentle."

Your breath hitched. That wasn't the first time you'd heard those words spill from his pretty lips; you just hoped he'd be true to his word on this occasion.

You kept your eyes tightly shut as Astarion found your neck. As his fangs scraped your skin, you took a fistful of his hair between your fingers.

He bit down.

You tried not to cry out. The sensation was one you could hardly describe: a sharp sting followed by... euphoria?

No that wasn't right.

But all you could confidently say was that Asatrion's body lay hot over yours, and his lips were soft, but not quite as gentle as promised.

As he drank from you, you saw stars behind your eyes.

Your body thrummed as he suckled on the tender skin of your neck. The sounds he made were nothing short of sinful; they elicited a strained sort of moan from behind your own lips.

You felt Astarion's hand tighten over yours. He took more from you, worrying your skin between his teeth, coaxing more of your gasps to surface.

Pleasure mingled with pain coursed through your shared connection—a deep longing on either end. You cried out, and quickly, Astarion pulled away.

Feeling the loss of warmth, you opened your eyes. You were dazed, but even then, you noticed his cherry-red lips, tinted with your blood.

You blinked, trying to rid your vision of its blurred edges.

"Are you alright, my dear?" Astarion asked. He sat up immediately, inspecting your neck and overall complexion. "You're looking a little... flushed," he concluded.

A tired laugh escaped you. "My blood runs hot," you managed to say.

"Indeed it does," he agreed. Then he promptly stood up and dusted himself off.

A pang of hurt struck you.

It must have been strong enough to have travelled through your shared connection, since Astarion glanced back almost immediately.

"Don't look at me like that," he said, exasperated. "I'm just going to fetch some water. Try not to move until the dizziness passes."

Your mouth fell ajar. A wave of shyness overcame you. Had it been that obvious you wanted him to stay?

Apparently it had, so you tentatively rolled over, hiding your face from the man. "Thank you," you mumbled into your bedroll.

You heard the door creak open, and Astarion's footsteps damper. "No, my dear," he replied. "Thank you."

#astarion #bg3 #astarion x reader #bg3 fanfic #astarion fanfic #astarion x tav #baldurs gate 3 #astarion fanfiction #astarion x oc #astarion x you #fanfiction #fanfic #bg3 fanfiction

[ellecdc]

Hardass

Chef!Sirius Black x mixologist!reader who survive a shift from hell

CW: fem!reader, mention of alchohol/drinking, fluff.

comes from a request from @maladaptiveescapism: chef!sirius and mixologist!reader. sirius is a chef at a fancy restaurant and maybe a mishap happens with booking and reader has to keep the people sitting at the bar waiting for a seat and she does such a good job because she’s flirty and fun and trained for this. sirius who always has such a short temper (chefs, am I right) secretly worships her because she’s the one thing he can count on

Sirius was fuming, to say the least.

He loved his job; he really did. The kitchens were his sanctuary, and it was the first place he fled to when he ran away from home at only sixteen. 

Though he knew Effie and Fleamont would have helped with anything he needed (or even wanted, for that matter), he didn’t want to become a burden or take advantage of their kindness. So, he found a part time job in a small family owned restaurant as a dishwasher.

Washing dishes became bussing tables. Bussing tables became hosting. Hosting became serving. He went from a server to a line cook, until finally someone took him under their wing, and Sirius made a name for himself.

Now he was a successful chef working in a successful restaurant and he certainly had made a name for himself.

That name? Hardass.

But it took a certain intensity to run the kind of kitchen that Sirius did, and he expected nothing short of greatness from the kitchen staff.

Fortunately for Sirius, it was the restaurant manager’s fuck up that caused tonights issues.

Unfortunately for Sirius, that fucked everything up for his staff in the kitchen. 

“So, quick question for you Jeffery; did you pass year four maths?” Sirius asked earnestly, watching Jeffery shove his tongue in his cheek to avoid snapping back at the glowering chef in all his tattooed intensity. “Because last time I counted, we don’t have this many sodding tables!” He continued, pointing at the number of reservations scheduled for tonight.

“Uh oh.” You carefully called out as you walked in through the front door, in the process of shucking off your jacket as you made your way towards the bar. “Looks like you could use a drink, chef.” 

Sirius was almost mad at how much of the rage seemed to settle down into a simmer at the sight of you; he didn’t want to calm down, he wanted to ring Jeffery’s fucking neck out.

But Jeffery, the coward, had used your entrance as a means to fuck off from whatever circle of Sirius’ personal hell he’d been summoned from. 

“We’re overbooked tonight.” Sirius grumbled as he sat dejectedly at your bar; mirroring what likely most of your patrons looked like as they spent their weekday evenings with you.

“Shit luck.” you sighed commiseratingly as you poured two shots of vodka and slid one to him. “Here’s to working our sodding asses off then, hm?” You said with a smirk as you touched your glass to his and threw it back like a pro. 

And you had indeed been right; the two of you had worked your sodding asses off tonight. But the difference between the two of you was astounding.

Sirius spent most of his evening sweating, cursing, and - more embarrassingly - shouting at the poor servers looking for their orders that ‘clearly weren’t fucking ready yet, were they?!’. 

But not you. 

Alright, did he take the opportunity to run out the odd plate for the servers just to steal a glance at you? Sure. Sue him. And everytime he did, he’d pass the very busy bar which was always full of couples and groups waiting for a table to clear. None of them seemed to mind, however, as they watched you shake, throw, spin, catch bottles like it was an olympic sport; all with a smile on your face and mischief in your eyes. 

It was as if they were your captive audience and you were thriving on stage. 

Sirius wanted to stay and enjoy the show; but you were working your arse off, and Sirius should be too.

Sirius’ feet were killing him, which meant most of his staff’s feet were worse; his shoulders ached, his head was pounding, and his fingers were raw.

But they made it to the end of the shift; and he supposed that was all that mattered.

He brought out two plates of the restaurant’s famous (read: Sirius’ famous) pasta alla gricia.

You were no longer wearing your beaming smile and Sirius could now see some of the weight of the night in your shoulders and the way your hair was falling as you reorganised your bar.

“Think you can take a break?” He asked as he sat at your freshly cleared bar and placed one plate in front of him and one behind the bar for you.

You startled, which Sirius thought strange for someone who seemed so confident and assured every time he’d walked past your bar for the past almost year the two of you have worked here, but he didn’t comment on it.

“Oh my God.” You groaned appreciatively as you abandoned your task to take in the plate he’d prepared for you. “I’m starving; thank you!”

Sirius chuckled and suddenly felt shy, which he did not think suited him at all, but you were smiling at him like he was your personal angel on earth and he couldn’t help but return the gaze.

“Let me get you a drink?” You asked, but turned to start pouring him a glass of wine (perfectly suited for the dish, mind you) before he had a chance to answer. 

You placed both drinks on the bar and brought your plate around to sit on the stool beside Sirius.

The two of you ate in relative silence; allowing the stress and exhaustion from the shift to wash over you. 

“I think I made Chloe cry.” Sirius said finally, causing you to snort.

“You did.” You agreed quickly. “She came and helped me in the bar for a bit and Jeffery had to run her tables after that.”

Sirius barked a laugh as he took a sip of his wine. “I was wondering why that sod was in my kitchen. Well, I’m sorry to Chloe, but happy to have put Jeffery to work.”

Speaking of the devil; Jeffery came out front with his jacket on and a work bag slung over his shoulder. 

“I’m heading out now; are you two okay to close up?”

You smiled at him, but unfortunately for Jeffrey, Sirius responded first. “Yes we can close up.” He sneered. “We’re not new here Jeffery.”

“Thanks Jeffery, have a nice night.” You relented; giving Sirius a gentle kick in the shin.

The door shut behind the bastard and Sirius felt his shoulders relax. “I hate that sod.”

Thankfully, you only laughed at him.

“I think you hate everyone here.”

“That’s not true.” Sirius disagreed quickly.

“Well you certainly don’t like anyone here.”

“That’s not true either. I quite like you.” Sirius admitted, quickly hoping to god his cheeks didn’t flush at his impromptu admission. 

You hummed in acknowledgement with a cheeky smile on your lips. “Is that why you made me dinner? As a thanks for being the most tolerable coworker?”

“Most tolerable, certainly. Also for saving our arses tonight in the kitchen; I’m not sure how you managed to keep those folks so happy all evening.”

“Oh, that’s easy; get them drunk and steal desserts from the kitchen.”

“That’s where all my tiramisu was going?” Sirius asked in faux contempt.

You only smiled at him and shoved the last bite of your pasta in your mouth.

“You minx.” He continued, taking the now empty plates to the kitchen as you followed dutifully behind him with the glasses. 

“Get out of my kitchen.” Sirius joked, plucking the wine glasses from your hands as he moved to wash the dishes.

“I’d think not.” You argued. “I got a free meal; put me to work, chef.”

“First of all, it was not a free meal; you more than earned it after your performance tonight. Secondly, don’t call me chef.”

“Why not? You are a chef, aren’t you?” You teased as you leaned sideways against the counter to watch him work.

“Yes; but if you call me chef, what am I supposed to call you?”

Your eyebrows raised at that. “What do you mean ‘what are you supposed to call me’? My name is fine.”

“My name’s not chef.” He countered.

Your eyes narrowed challengingly at him. “What do you want to call me, Sirius?”

Mine?

“Haven’t decided yet.” He said instead, keeping his eyes on the dishes in his hands instead of meeting your gaze currently burning into the side of his head.

“Well…” You started, walking over to release some paper from the chit, and scribbling something out on it. “Why don’t you just call me…tomorrow?” You said, handing him the paper after he dried his hands on a teatowel.

Your number was scrawled out with a dainty little heart beside it.

Sirius looked back up at you to see you smiling shyly at him.

“I can assure you I will be.” He promised.

Your smile grew at that as you began walking backwards towards the backroom. 

“Have a nice night, Sirius.” You said before you exited the kitchen.

It was too late to wish him a nice night; he’d already had one.

#marauders era #marauders au #marauders fanfiction #reader insert #self insert #mutual love #sirius black #sirius being sirius #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #sirius black blurb #sirius black fic #sirius black ficlet #chef!sirius #restaurant au #ellecdc fics

[amongemeraldclouds]

sweet dreams

It should have been simple: boy meets girl then falls in love. Except everything only happened in his dreams. Can Theodore Nott bridge the gap between fantasy and reality to get the girl of his dreams?

Inspired by Taylor Swift's song, Guilty as Sin?

Theodore Nott x f!Reader

Warning: Fluff, some smut so 18+ only MDNI, characters are aged up. Uses a magical concept that deviates from canon.

✿ Masterlist | 2.9k words

Prologue

The door creaked as you swung it open to leave The Three Broomsticks, eager to breathe in the cool evening air. You scrunched your note as smoke invaded the fresh air you hoped for and turned towards the culprit, Theodore Nott. You didn’t know him personally, but guys as popular as him did not need introduction.

He didn’t notice you as he took another puff and the streetlamp cast him in a soft halo. It was not fair how some people could look so effortlessly gorgeous. 

“Want one?” He reached out when he finally saw you staring, offering you his pack of cigarettes.

You huffed, “No thanks, I was hoping for some fresh air.”

He simply shrugged and turned the other way, smoking in a different direction and out of your way.

You hoped the cool air could return some of your sobriety, but nothing was as effective as a good ol’ near de*th experience. You looked up when you heard someone shrieking from the distance, growing louder and louder until you saw a broomstick zig zag across the sky that was quickly hurtling towards you and Theo.

Theo was quicker than you, holding his wand out and casting a spell just fast enough to redirect the impact to an open space. By the time you held your wand out, you had enough wits about you to cushion the witch’s fall.

You ran towards her to make sure she was fine. She laid on the ground as if she was peacefully sleeping, oblivious to the accident. You crouched beside her, arm outstretched to wake her when-

“Oh bumbling broomstick!” She yelled out and sat upright. You yelped in surprise, yanking yourself back and landing on your bottom. Theo was there within seconds, offering you a hand.

You took it and it was unbelievably soft, his grip strong as he supported you back up from the ground. You registered the smell of alcohol and cigarettes with a subtle hint of expensive cologne. You wanted to take another whiff, but reminded yourself to focus.

“A - are you okay?” You turned back to strange woman, careful to keep your distance this time.

“That chap knows sod all about wizard engineering. Mixing magic and muggle work - ridiculous!” she spat in disdain, dusting off her dress.

She turned around, catching your worried look and Theo’s stoic expression, noticing you both for the first time. “Oh my, where are my manners?” She asked, straightening her back and introducing herself.

“I’m Miss Amelia Adams, thank you for rescuing me,” you shook hands and smiled at her politely, introducing yourselves in return.

Your eyebrows knit together as she fished around her bag, looking for something.

She beamed when she found it and held out a daisy for you. “To properly thank you, please accept this flower,” she then leaned in conspiratorially, “it grants a wish.”

She winked before gathering herself and her ‘bumbling broomstick’ as she called it. “Well, I’m off,” she declared, walking away as quickly as she had come before you had any chance to say goodbye.

You were stunned, holding the flower in your hand. You scoffed at the idea of wishes, the only way to get something is to go out there and take it. Hard work and strategy was far more effective than any wish. After a few moments of awkward silence, you turned to Theo. “That was…” you trailed off, trying to find the right word.

“Odd,” he completed for you, just as stunned as you were.

“Are you okay?” You asked Theo. He grunts and you reassured him you’re fine in return.

“Have this flower, you saved us first. Thanks, by the way. You should get the wish,” you said casually, only half believing the mysterious Miss Amelia.

He accepted it and placed it in his coat, stoic expression still in place. When he said nothing else, you turned on your heels to go back to your friends in the pub.

You paused when Theo called after you as if saying goodbye as an afterthought. “See you at school?” He said. It seems he recognized you too.

You turned around and gave him a friendly grin, “in your dreams,” you said in a playful tone. Despite being school mates, you and Theo revolved around different orbits. You experienced just enough failed relationships to know better than to start a friendship with Mr. Emotionally Unavailable.

He just smirked and watched you go before returning to his cigarette. Had he held the flower in his hand, he would have noticed it glow before bursting into tiny glitters, a wish about to come true.

That night, Theo first dreamt of you.

Main story, months later

The booming party music faded when Theo heard the familiar sound of your laughter. He shifted in the Slytherin common room couch as his entire focus gravitated towards you like you were the sun his planet revolved around.

It was always disorienting, he thought, to hear and see you somewhere outside his dreams. Mostly because you never looked his way here but in his dreams, you’ve given him everything he ever needed and more.

He recalled the first words you ever said to him in his dream, “you again?”

“Is that such a bad thing?” He asked with his boyish grin, amused. He wasn’t used to seeing this reaction from others except for his friends.

He no longer remembered the rest of that conversation, but one minute you two were laughing at something silly and the next, he was tucked comfortably in bed. It was then he realized it was all a dream he could just laugh off and forget about. It was no longer funny by the third night he kept seeing you. 

You both discussed how absurd this all was until you realized how fun it could also be. So you tested different ways you could take your power back and control the dream you found yourselves in. He discovered you were smart and funny, it warmed something in Theo’s heart that he did not care to examine.

Soon enough, he was flying with you through the sky, swerving through clouds as the stars blurred past like strings of fairy lights. You both flew like it was the most natural thing in the world, no broomsticks needed. He felt like a kid again, fearless and free.

One time, he went to a muggle amusement park you heard so many great things about. You rode on roller coasters and ferris wheels then ate candy floss. You would have gotten a fever the next day from all the sugar and shouting if not for the fact this all happened in your dreams. He had never felt happier.

On quiet nights, you laid on cool grassy hills enjoying the evening breeze. Sometimes, you watched sunsets on the beach while listening to the ocean waves. Those were his favorite days. You told him about your big plans and ambitions. He tried to stifle his smiles, but your energy was so infectious. The world felt bigger and brighter when he was around you. 

He’d tell you about his mother. How close they were before they were permanently separated. He said he kept her alive by remembering their happy moments that he’d tell you stories about. He also talked about his strained relationship with his father and how silly his friends were, but oh how he’d d*e for them.

He found himself spilling thoughts and secrets he could never tell anyone else. He stammered every now and then, not used to opening up, but you were so patient. He felt safe with you because you’re a good listener. Besides, wasn’t he basically just talking to a figment of his imagination? He tried not to overthink it.

Theo felt the couch beside him dip as the familiar smell of smoke and cologne announced Mattheo’s presence. “Want to go for a smoke?” He asked with a smirk as he flashed a joint.

“Later, okay?” Theo replied distracted, his focus still on you.

A student rose from the couch and moved away as Lorenzo approached. Thanks to their popularity, the boys always seemed to find a convenient seat when they needed it. He joined the two with a grin, drinks in hand. Mattheo took in Enzo’s disheveled hair and loose tie. He accepted the drink and gave him a high five knowing he already had his conquest for the night. Theo accepted the drink and just held it.

“Who’s the lucky girl?” Mattheo asked, taking a swig from his cup.

Enzo blushed and took a sip of his drink. “You know I never kiss and tell.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes in response, “until you’re drunk enough.” He pushed Enzo’s cup back to his mouth. “Come on, drink up.”

Theo tuned out the conversation and he saw you dancing with your friends, your hips moving to the beat of the music. His eyes darkened as he remembered how those hips rocked into his. It didn’t take long before you first kissed him under the stars when the conversation died down, simply because there was nothing else to say.

All other thoughts and sentiments could only be expressed in the way your fingers gripped his wavy hair, when he bit your bottom lip and you moaned against him. Before he knew it, you were reciting his name like a prayer even though it felt anything but sacred when he slammed his hips into your dripping cunt. He savoured the way your nails scratched his back. He didn’t know until then how someone’s grip could make him feel so wanted.

He always made sure you knew he how much he appreciated you:

“Fuck, you’re taking me so well amore.” 

“I’ll make you feel so good principessa, I’ll ruin you for anyone else.”

“You’re so beautiful when you’re on your knees,” he’d say as he stuffed his hard length down your throat.

He memorized your shape and knew just where to touch you to be rewarded with your filthy moans and curses. He liked making your eyes roll to the back of your head. Loud screams, sheets gripped, chest heaving. He took delight in the way you came undone for him, your little whimpers were so cute he could not resist thrusting faster into you so he could feel you clench against his desperate cock again and again.

His favorite part was after he came inside you when you swiped your finger on your upper thigh and brought his spilled seed to your lips. You said you loved the way he tastes. He always said you could have as much as you want, he was all yours and you were his.

“Theo, mate?” Blaise called out to the unresponsive boy who gazed intently at the crowd.

He turned to Mattheo and narrowed his eyes, “how much weed did you give him?” Blaise couldn’t help but worry about his friends, it was exhausting really. Mattheo pushed Theo outside his comfort zone whereas Theo pulled Mattheo back in when he went to extremes. They always kept each other in check, but he was worried that balance could tip off at any moment. 

“Easy on the accusation, he’s a big boy. He can do what he wants,” Mattheo replies defensively. “Besides he hasn’t taken any green, he’s too high on that girl already. Been eye fucking her all night.” 

Mattheo’s harsh words finally cut through Theo’s daydreams and his jaw twitched in annoyance, “I’m not. You should talk about her more respectfully.”

Enzo chimed in, “you know I hate agreeing with Mattheo, but he’s right.” Ignoring Mattheo’s de*th glare, he continued, “there’s nothing respectful about the way you’ve been looking at that poor girl.”

Theo just rolled his eyes and groaned, not wanting to discuss this with his friends. Even if he did, he wouldn’t know where to start. Instead, he stood up and said, “I’m going out for a smoke,” and walked away before anyone could protest or go with him.

As he walked, his thoughts returned to you. One day, you laughed because of his jokes. He laughed because he was in love with you.

It was all so ridiculous, but it had been months and he could no longer deny his feelings. He always thought love was overrated. How can others go out there declaring love like it’s a wild adventure you’re about to embark on? Love that you would fight and break for? He didn’t want an adventure nor a battlefield.

Then there was you and he realized everything he knew about love had only been one version of it. Being with you restored his breath and calmed the butterflies in his stomach. It’s a love that did not challenge him to be better, but instead told him he is already good enough. That he was always enough. It’s the kind of love that felt like home. It’s what he never knew he needed.

You haunted him even when he was awake. He was always tempted to approach you to see if the things he saw in his head could be real. His only clue was the way you wore ribbons in your hair and how it matched your mood to the stories you’d tell him.

He noticed you wore red when you were angry like the time you had to do a group project by yourself. You wore blue when you felt sad and green when you felt generally peaceful. His favorite was pink because it meant you were happy. He noticed how the closer you got, you wore the pink ribbon more often. But today, you wore a black ribbon. He had never seen it before and it worried him. Then again it was only a theory, maybe it didn’t mean anything.

So he always talked himself out of approaching you. Theodore Nott was used to broken things whereas everything with you and about you was perfect. He knew at the very least to leave it well enough alone.

His thoughts carried him to the Astronomy Tower where he lit his cigarette and stared at the evening sky.

“You always seem to be polluting the fresh air I go out for.” Something in his heart froze and then burned brightly. It was you. He heard the smile in your voice before he turned around to look at you. Salazar, you were so beautiful.

“You always seem to find me when you need fresh air. Are you sure you’re not just looking for me?” He teased, but nevertheless moved to extinguish his cigarette. 

You chuckled at Mr. Arrogant who always knew his way around girls. “I was joking, keep your cigarette though your lungs probably hate you.”

He scoffed, he already hated himself. But mostly, he hated how desperately he wanted to reach out and kiss you without being a total creep. “I’ll survive,” he replied, taking a final drag before snuffing it out. “What brings you here?”

“Aside from the not-so-fresh air?” You grinned before turning serious. “This is a nice place to think.”

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Salazar, he’s relentless. “I’m in an impossible situation and I’m starting to lose hope,” you admit. So that’s what the black is for, Theo realized.

He scrunched his nose as he thought twice about what he was about to say. It was so silly trying to hold back when he’d give you the moon and the stars if you asked for it. “Whatever it is, you shouldn’t lose hope.”

You laughed at him and let out an exaggerated gasp, “coming from Mr. Emotionally Unavailable?”

He laughed in return, “ah, my reputation precedes me.”

“Exactly, so don’t go around saying things like that. People might think you have a heart behind that big brain of yours.”

“Wouldn’t want that, would we?” He leaned in conspiratorially.

“No, everyone would stare at you then.”

“You know it’s rude to stare.”

“Oh yeah? What should I do instead?” You challenged.

“Kiss me,” he said with a smirk, a half joke and a half plea.

You laughed and took a step back, placing distance between you. So this was how he got girls, you mused.

Salazar, he was losing you. If he was going to try, he had to be sincere. No charms, no masks. “Amore, I…” he began but grew self conscious at the nickname. “I mean, I wanted to…” he started then stopped. “I wonder if…” he tried again.

“I know,” you said, fire burning behind your eyes at recognition. This was the boy of your dreams. Awkward when he tries to be sincere and it was so adorable. It always made you feel special because you knew he had walls for the rest of the world. But with you, he was at home.

You closed the distance to meet his lips and the kiss said everything he needed to know. All those evenings together talking beneath starlit skies, exploring flesh and soul, falling in love. They were real.

His hands found the curve of your hips so naturally as he pulled you closer against him, just like he’s done countless times. He savoured the way your fingers made their way through his hair. Everything felt electric, at once new and familiar. It was better than anything you had dreamed of.

When you both broke for air, you found yourself blinking in disbelief. “How do we both have the same dreams?”

Theo just shook his head as if to say he didn’t know but then he remembered your first meeting. There was a witch with a bumbling broomstick and a flower. His eyes widened. “The flower from all those months ago.”

Your eyes lit up with remembrance, “the mysterious Miss Amelia!” You brought your hand to your lips, “I didn’t think it was real. I said you’d see me in your dreams.”

“And now you’re my dream come true, amore,” he said, pulling you in for a hug.

 You giggled at how sweet Mr. Not So Emotionally Unavailable could be. “And you’re mine. See you tonight then?”

He chuckled, “and then tomorrow I’ll take you on a real date?”

You scrunched your face, “but now we can’t fly through the stars anymore.”

“Oh, I have other ideas,” he whispered in your ear.

Your heart leapt to your throat and anticipation hummed in your veins. After all, some things were sweeter than dreams.

✿ Masterlist

A/N: I've mostly written for Enzo and Mattheo until now but when I thought of this plot, I just knew only Theo could do it justice. So this is how I wound up writing my first Theo fic. Hope you liked it!

#theodore nott x you #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott imagine #theodore nott smut #theo nott #theodore nott #slytherin boys x reader #slytherin boys #amongemeraldcloudswrites

[rwrbsource]

rachelonacloudyday: bits bobs odds sods. grateful for my union!! 

#rachel hilson #rwrb #rwrb movie #red white and royal blue #bts #cast #taylor zakhar perez #nicholas galitzine #ellie bamber #malcolm atobrah #aneesh sheth #matthew lopez

[vs120shound]

And a little bit of this and a little bit of that! Well, when you add it all up together, you kind of have something grand on its own. Below is a compilation of recent SF photographs that caught our eye and fell betwixt and between of being in our standard posts. They shine here!

ODDS & SODS, BETWIXT & BETWEEN | GREAT PHOTOS WITHOUT IDEAL HOMES

February Photo Extravaganza!

Who better than Brytanny Leahann Dodge (Justnitnee2) with one of her "secondary" Misty 120s Menthols to lead off a post featuring a collection of great photos who -- although each is outstanding within its own nature -- just cannot quite join the parade into posts that use pictures to support video-centric posts. These are freestanding treasures that we are assembling together without any real or imagined theme . . . just remarkably gorgeous BHYSWs (Beautiful Hot, Young Smoking Women) showing their love for their sexy and wonderful cigarette-smoking habits. Light 'em-up, Honeys!

Dual-Media 31-Pack Megapost!

Let the roll of sensational photographs begin . . . with Anchor Photographs at the very end of the post, saving the Best for Last!

A Quartet of Kriss H.!

Beautiful Ukrainian blonde living in Prague, Czech Republic . . .

From urkamamil of Smoking Fetish Kingdom on February 24, 2024

From george123 of Smoking Fetish Kingdom on February 20, 2024

A Twin-Killing of Klassi Katti!

Gorgeous Ukrainian model living in France . . .

From urkamamil of Smoking Fetish Kingdom on February 24, 2024

Solo of @smokingfetishgirl11!

New to the SF game!

From urkamamil of Smoking Fetish Kingdom on February 24, 2024

Colorful Candy (IG@smokingredxx)!

A Social Media Smoking Darling and SF Entrepreneur from Bethlehem, Pennyslvania (U.S.A.)

Top photo from urkamamil of SFK on February 21, 2024; bottom photo from Instagram@smokingredxx on February 14, 2024

SKIPPING AROUND . . .

Unidentified One-and-Done'r!

From Jackson105 of SFK on February 22, 2024

Sugar_Linchen from Germany!

From urkamamil of SFK on February 21, 2024

Lola Montez (Megan/@thesmokingwitchh)!

SF Entrepreneur and mother from Georgia (U.S.A.)!

From user0726 of SFK on February 17, 2024

@ale_smoke21!

A young fashion model from somewhere in Europe!

From Instagram@ale_smoke21 on January 27, 2024

Madelyn Sultri (Smokingprincessof/ Riverprincess) of California!

Loves her Marlboro 100s, playing to the camera and heading in a NSFW direction nearly at all times

From Jackson105 of SFK on February 22, 2024

Anka ("Anna") Zapala!

She's just stopping by on her way to greatness. At 27 y. o., has done SF modeling/acting work for Nicotine Ladies, Smoking-Models (U.K.), SmokingModels (Florida, U.S.A.) and Smoking Sweeties (Spain); has her own SF website (www.annasmoking.com); plans to open her own line of lingerie as her long-term goal. Half-Spanish/half-Polish!

From slavek999 of Smoking Fetish Kingdom on February 3, 2024

Hot, New Social Media Clip!

From Instagram@ciggietime10 on February 25, 2024 . . .

ANCHOR VIDEO!

Victoria of USA Smokers from lobo68 of Smoking Fetish Kingdom on February 22, 2024! . . .

ANCHOR PHOTOGRAPHS!

Josee (Real-Smoking-Girl)

Laura A. (R.S. of Australia)!

Maddy (Australia)!

Skittlez Cano (Ariel/Arielle)!

#SF #Hot women who love smoking cigarettes #Smoking cigarettes #Smoking #February Photo Extravaganza!

[actual-changeling]

Crowley watches him silently, motionless, and with his shades securely in place. If he has been counting correctly, and he rather assumes he has, then Aziraphale has been talking uninterruptedly for twenty-five minutes and two seconds now.

Three seconds.

"…so, I'm sorry, Crowley. I'm so, so sorry."

He is wringing his hands, unable to stand still, and shifting his weight slightly from foot to foot, searching for Crowley's gaze and failing. The sudden silence feels almost odd, the expectation rolling off Aziraphale in waves even more so, only infinitely heavier, and for a moment, he entertains the thought playing the part Aziraphale has thrust upon him.

But only for a moment.

"Right," Crowley responds, tightening his grip on the door and pressing his other palm against the frame, effectively barring Aziraphale from entering like he has been for the last twenty-six minutes.

"Anything else?"

Confusion wrinkles his forehead, and his fingers no longer turn his ring round and round over a stretch of reddened skin. Maybe it is the utter monotony of Crowley's voice or the lack of reaction in general, but Aziraphale seems, finally, at a loss for words. His mouth opens and closes a few times, his eyebrows knitting together, and Crowley allows him another thirty seconds of patient waiting, after which he calls it a day.

"Great."

He steps back and closes his front door, normally and without slamming it, locks it, and then miracles up a deadbolt for good measure, before picking up his cup of coffee from the chest of drawers (still hot if it knows what's good for it) and strolling back to the living room.

Eighteen months. A year and a half. Another apocalypse is dawning on the world, but if there is anything the last six millennia have taught him, it's that humanity will fix it anyway; they have a knack for that, always outsmarting heaven and hell alike. Well, and him, since he is neither here nor there—so, a special mention to the former angel slash demon Crowley, thank you very much.

A familiar pain tugs at his stomach nevertheless, a faded lightning bolt of distress shivers down his spine, and Crowley sinks into the cushions with a sigh, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table and pressing play on Queer Eye again. The ache will never fully disappear, but it has lessened, and he has learned how to live with it, how to breathe around the crudely stitched-up black hole in his chest.

Aziraphale left, and Crowley stayed. It's really simple, in hindsight, and after weeks of moping and crying, being completely wasted for days at a time, and overall being so miserable, every single one of his plants stopped being scared and became concerned instead, Crowley had picked himself off the floor and kept moving.

Not moving on is worse, Nina had told him during one of their board game nights (none of them can resist Muriel's angelic puppy eyes in that regard, and it is, admittedly, kind of fun), and she had been right.

He still loves him, fuck, of course he does; he doubts he will ever stop. Yet if Aziraphale thinks showing up uninvited and monologuing without pause for twenty-five minutes is going to fix anything, he is sorely mistaken.

'Listen, do you hear that?'

'I don't hear anything.'

Ironic, somehow, that Aziraphale is still not listening to him. Crowley will wait because it's Aziraphale, because he loves him, because despite everything, he is fucking lonely and misses him enough to be tempted to take him back without any apologies whatsoever.

Just tempted, though. His barricades and well-practiced self-control are going strong.

He has to be sure this time. He has to be sure that Aziraphale won't break him again, because the most recent incident almost killed him, and Crowley loves earth, loves him—but he has to love himself more than he loves his angel, or it will destroy them both.

Jonathan van Ness gives some poor sod a new haircut, Crowley drinks his piping hot coffee, and Aziraphale goes home.

It's a nice Tuesday, all things considered.

-

i'm sorry but also not :)

#alex writes good omens #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #good omens season 2 #go2 #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable divorce #good omens ficlet

[delicrieux]

𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝 | endless drabble series (autumn edition)

pairing—james potter x reader genre—very light enemies to lovers in the span of 5 mins xx summary—someone comes to annoy you as you read your book on the pier word count—2.7k

author's note: i've been on james potter spiral. won't elaborate

masterlist. ☕. reqs are open!

there’s absolutely nothing romantic about the way james looks at you – gaping maw and all, glasses crooked on the bridge of his nose because he smacked his hand to the thin, wiry edge to lift them up and did it quickly and clumsily and for no reason – and if you assume otherwise, you’re an idiot. but you don’t assume otherwise, nor are you all the curious about the tangle of mush that could, perhaps, in a mind more evolved, be considered a thought. james can, you suppose, have decency, and he can, given the benefit of the doubt, appear thoughtful and tactful and, based on the information that came to dorcas in a dream, be serious about his affections. which he has none for you, just to be clear. in case the scene might paint otherwise.

what a curious sight it is on the rickety pier of the boathouse. the weather’s grown cold, near frosty, and the sky had long turned into something grey and woolen. the wind scratches at your ears, and at your lips, and james’ nose has gone red and so have his cheeks, and he looks ridiculous in his coat and burgundy sweater peeking underneath that you almost take pity on him. almost. though, if any of your friends inquired what was so ridiculous about him in that moment, you wouldn’t be able to form an answer that would appease them. james potter is simply too much – is that not fact? why should there be a trial to scrutinize your claim when the words are truth? yes, he’s ridiculous, and he’s stupid, and his hair is all a mess, and—

“i didn’t expect to find anyone here, to be honest,” he says after the long pause of nothing but glances and an understanding you haven’t figured out yet. when you’ll go to bed tonight and toss and turn, perhaps you’ll pick up the magnifying glass and recognize it as interest and be tremendously distressed and nauseous of that knowledge. now, you only worry for a heartbeat that’s just a tad too quick, “’s a bit odd, innit?”

“what?” your voice could’ve been like a whip in the air if only it wasn’t so hushed. pillowed by the cold that had frozen the strings of your syllables.

“you are.” he explains, a hint of teeth showing from his smile.

if you swung with all of your weight, perhaps he’d fall into the freezing waters beneath your feet and be so shocked that he would never resurface. no one would suspect you as culprit, since no one would see you escaping the boathouse, and you could, with great smugness, mourn with the rest when his disappearance is declared as demise. how positively villainous. he’s sitting close enough, you could try, but you know that, while a valiant attempt, he would grab you quicker than you could blink and drag you down to the depths laughing, like some deranged grindylow. a mirror-image in appearance, too.

“sod off,” you mumble, and seldom have you spoken words more genuine. you flip a page of an inconspicuous book borrowed from the forbidden section, intended to be returned, of course, once you had absorbed all it has to offer. not much, so far.

“there’s a library you can read in,” james says, scooting closer, because your personal space must be shared and perhaps he’s curious of the text that has commanded so much of your attention. he nudges your shoulder, and nudges it again when you don’t look up, “not sure you knew that.”

“was terrified you might find me too quick,” and there is some truth to that, but more so you were dissuaded by the idea of the librarian catching you. the book supposedly reveals archaic jinxes that went out of fashion – either too impractical or too dangerous – and the long-withstanding mythos about the book implies it discloses only when the shift in temperature is great. so you sit here, and freeze, and if you were honest enough you would tell him, and you would add that you like it here, even when cold, because it’s tranquil and the castle looks trapped in a snowglobe under the dome of the sky.

he snorts, “found you anyway.”

“have you nothing better to do?”

“not really. you upset?”

“hard not to be, around you.”

“flattered. and thankful. for, you know, the stature that comes with such an accomplishment—”

there you go, taking the bait and reeling in close. if your teeth chatter a bit as you speak, well, you were already blaming the chill, no? so let him think what he wants – a smirk tugging at his lips and eyes all lit up and giddy – and his face could warm you a bit. but then, it was your temper all aflame that might solve the problem entirely. and all you can think is, ridiculous.

perhaps his conversation isn't stimulating. perhaps the cold numbs your thoughts. or perhaps he is a pretty sight against this miserable, clouded backdrop, and so are you. a hand comes to the cover of the book, still flipped, and the skin brushing against the page is frigid to touch.

"you're freezing," he says, eyes trained on the book, and perhaps he really is talking to the cover. you wouldn't put it past him, "fancy warming up a bit? back inside, near the fire place in the common room. with company, for once. bet that'd be better."

"with your company, i take it?" you chime smartly.

"didn't i just say that?"

"hmm," is a reply given with a hum, and he only speaks again when his stare hasn't caused your skin to peel away.

"c'mon, then. there's nothing for you here but a bloody draft. come up now and we can steal butterbeers from the kitchen, if you'd like." there are an unnatural many suggestions, like he's grappling for a hook even when his expression shows nothing. he's usually less scattered than this, and he never considers your feelings in his very many attempts: 'come to the three broomsticks with me,' and you ask, 'why?' and he replies 'cuz i wanna drink.'

"no." you say.

"stubborn."

"willfully," and the emphasis is drawn out so maybe it sticks. you've dealt with him enough that his ramblings can hardly deter you, though, no matter how charming the prospect might sound, because you hate him. you've practiced saying these exact words in the mirror only to make them sound more potent. train your expression not to wobble, because no matter how unassuming james can appear at times, he strikes the moment he notices a slight hesitation.

he doesn't, because if he had, your hand wouldn't be clasping his so tight.

"fine," he nods his head, a huff of white cloud billowing from his mouth as he says so. his hand is equally as cold, like ice against your palm, but then his fingers wiggle a bit and lace through the empty spaces to properly intertwine.

"james?"

"they say sharing body heat is the quickest, y'know."

"unnecessary," you hiss.

"warm," is his only answer, and he inches closer so it's no wonder his face flushes like that. he's got his other arm around your shoulders, knee knocked with yours, "how long, you recon," he mutters, "before frostbite starts?"

"soon," you drawl, and if there's a small shiver running up your spine, then that's all the cold. nothing to do with the person beside you and how unabashed he is at his own closeness, and how warm he could be in this circumstance – when he was offered no objections, "if lucky."

a subtle lean in your direction, a nose buried in a scarf that smells faintly of cinnamon, is, at this rate, your ultimate surrender. how painful it is to do so, when pride swells like a bruise deep in your chest and the pain lingers. perhaps you can hide behind the flimsy veil of not caring and listen to the pace of his breath under your ear where his chin rests on your shoulder. if you were to look, you'd see a vague pout on his lips – chapped, but red, maybe even lovely.

"what are you reading, anyway?" he mumbles.

"history," is the quick and clipped answer. he doesn't deserve the details.

"not quite my subject. boring as all, i take it. does it at least mention me? history? dunno how anything goes without the noble house of potter contributions."

"noble? hardly," you state, "absolutely vain, though, obviously."

"begrudge me my blessings, but you love them," he chuckles and if you were feeling nice, you would say that it was warm enough that it chipped a tiny sliver of ice away. just a little. you settle for pinching his wrist, and are entertained to hear him wail a little.

he is the worst thing that's ever happened. the most tragic accident, and you just happen to have the most unfortunate timing. did he take a specialty class to master the art of pestering people? his eyes are big and hazel, and maybe it's because they are trained on that they seem a bit darker. absolutely repugnant. you'd rather die, and that is the truth. a death by looking. a tragic fate, a complete misfortune, an absolute bloody mess.

"you're blushing," he says, and if he had to bring it up, at least his voice is soft. no amusement, and he sounds just as fond as he is mystified, "thinking dirty thoughts? and on school grounds, no doubt. i am positively scandalized."

"piss off," the hiss is made venomous on purpose, and maybe you mean it. maybe.

"hope you aren't thinking too many about anyone else," this is the closest he has been to sounding thoughtful in any conversation, "that'd make me all sorts of bitter. wouldn't like that."

"of course you wouldn't, not when the possibility exists to bully me with the information," a huff, a quick exhale that clouds the air like his smile had before, and maybe he'd be charming, if only his intent wasn't as devious as it is.

"or i really just wouldn't like it," and how he dares to sound wounded with such a tender sentiment, and perhaps your insistence upon finding his ways less than humble could have come with a greater reluctance. as if you were dragged out of this, kicking and screaming. how utterly sickening his lips might taste, and your want has to be damned, so you don't look. and instead, his head comes to nuzzle on a shoulder with a knit scarf tickling his cheek, "wouldn't like it."

how utterly horrid.

there is no solution, really, and if you had looked, his eyes would've been heavy and his mind more so. it doesn't bother him, even if you are so silent – silent as stone – and his voice comes a bit thick, but he's smiling and he's always smiling like the imbecile he is. that you know he is. no one could fake the joy so pure that is beaming across his face. and what's worse, what is infinitely worse, is that he sees what must look like something far gentler in your expression.

"you're sweet," and if he is smug, you'd hardly noticed. a press of his lips at your temple, a warm chuckle against your neck, "and bloody adorable, too," because if there's anything that you couldn't handle right now, it's a heartfelt conversation. a damsel-worthy declaration, because, knowing him, he'd embarrass the both of you enough to melt a few inches of frost, and that just won't do.

"don't push it."

"or what? afraid you might lose the resolve to your no-nonsense-pretend-to-loathe-everyone act? and it was so brilliant, too."

"please stop talking," the whine could've been unbecoming if you weren't so desperate for him to silence himself, but, lucky you, "seriously."

"so hard not to when you are. how are you real?"

"questionable," you mumble, and this must be torture, except the prick hasn't pushed you, or grabbed you, or anything beyond holding your hand and wedging a cold nose into your scarf, "at the moment, i'm not entirely sure."

"miserable, aren't we? c'mon," and the only solution is to knock his head with yours, hard enough to make a noise that's audible over your hammering heart, and this time you give him the courtesy of seeing a brief flash of pain. and if you give him the curtsy of pressing your lips into his, well, he takes advantage of it and gets your hands. warm hands around cold, pale fingers, and a hum sounds into your throat and might vibrate all the way to the ends of your hair.

he's the bloody worst, isn't he? and somehow you're fated to know how terribly true the statement is.

"no, really, your hands are cold," he says softly, and the weather hasn't affected him. his words are sluggish and slow, like the pace of his palms on yours, rubbing and trying to warm them, and he might have a point, but he won't have the satisfaction of knowing that. the confirmation only came with another kiss, and how is that a deterrent? it really shouldn't be, "adorable, but i see frost on your fingers."

you roll your eyes, but for what it's worth, his kisses have an aftertaste of warmth, "my savior," your murmurs, and the irony is evident in how unamused the words are, "thanks."

"always at your beck and call."

"have i called?"

"many times," he presses a kiss to a wrist and another to your palm, and if his breathing warms the space between your hands then the problem's almost solved.

"in your dreams, perhaps."

"quite vividly," james has always had a glint to his eyes – an ambition, maybe, that shines brilliantly every time he's truly serious, but it's an intensity you had only seen a handful of times in him. so many wasted words, and how ridiculous he could be, how aggravating, and stupid, and wonderful, and in that instant, you think you could see stars, "but they don't last much."

"nice to know you've figured your issue."

"oh, hush." and the lips are on yours, and he smiles while doing so and you might melt away if only because the frost were forced into it. he doesn't open his mouth or let his hands do more than touch your cheek, your neck, with such gentility and no wonder your face grows warmer. it must glow in the evening air and you could be seen miles away, looking like an absolute prat, being adored so thoroughly. a long inhale before pulling away, but he rests his forehead against yours, "see? better, isn't it?"

"dreadful."

"sure, love." and it must be the first time the petname sounds endearing rather than mocking, or perhaps the frost in your limbs has really started to settle and the chill has worked into your bones, or perhaps his skin looks so bright under this awful dome and no one ever talks about the way his hair frames his face. maybe his voice has warmed you more than his hands. or perhaps he is softer and gentle with his affections and he isn't as mean as he claims to be or you insist. maybe, just maybe, you are secretly, obviously, terribly fond the brat and the starry eyed fool sitting next to you. more, or just as much, as he's fond with you.

"can we go back to the castle now?"

"no."

"cold out here," he reminds.

"so i've heard."

"i could help you with that, though."

"thought you already are."

"amazing," a new kiss, quick and chaste on a corner of your lips, "this has got to be a new record of no arguing. good. i can't believe, for once, that all it took was a kiss and some, like, a minute or three of talking, and i would've done it earlier, too. probably."

"don't think too much of it."

"i will. warm-up?"

"what?"

 "kiss me," is that impatience in his voice or the beginning of a tantrum? either way, when a something isn't instantly granted, it prompts a series of groans and complaints that surely rival the level of insufferability james has attained through the years. his head rolls onto your shoulder and you feel his voice against your neck. a hum, "you really, absolutely, one hundred percent have to."

 "i never signed up for such a deal."

 "you did. c'mere."

thank u for reading <3

#harrry potter #james potter #james potter x reader #james x reader #james potter x you #harry potter x reader #hogwarts #imagines #imagine #reader #xreader #reader insert #harry potter x you #harry potter x y/n #james potter imagine #james potter x y/n #the marauders #the marauders x reader #one shot #fluff #just fluff heh

[olivelune]

I swear this shouldn't be legal 🔥

📸 @justinejenkins on Instagram

#matthew macfadyen #keeley hawes #matthew x keeley #matthew and keeley #pics #odds and sods

[mcflymemes]

PROMPTS FROM RED, WHITE & ROYAL BLUE *  assorted (and slightly adapted to suit this meme format) dialogue from the book by casey mcquiston, adjust as necessary

on purpose. i love him on purpose.

i've always thought of myself as a problem that deserved to stay hidden.

i'm going to have you offed. you'll never see it coming.

take anything you want and know you deserve to have it.

get in there.

you're literally putting your dick in the leader of a foreign state.

before you, i was all right letting everything happen to me.

i can't believe even mortal peril will not prevent you from being the way you are.

sorry, are we not? did i skip ahead again?

you've been warned.

he died as he lived: avoiding plans and sucking cock.

my life is a cosmic joke and you're not a real person.

hey, have i told you lately that you're brave?

i honestly have never thought i deserved to choose.

we're gonna make it work. you and me and history, remember?

if you finish that sentence, i'm gonna spend tonight in jail.

but the truth is, also, simply this: love is indomitable.

i actively wish for the sweet release of death.

yes, good, carry on.

i won't hear a word against it.

we're gonna do it together.

i said you look great, baby!

i meet you in every dream, and when i wake i cannot close my eyes again for ruminating on your sweetness.

i'm so in love i could die.

you can take your legacy and your decorum and you can shove it up your fucking arse.

i wonder if it's too late to swan dive off the roof.

i'm learning all your hidden depths today, sweetheart.

you must invent an entirely new system.

a curious thing about grief is the way it takes your entire life, all those foundational years that made you who you are, and makes them so painful to look back on.

he's proof that it doesn't matter where you come from or who your family is.

i've bloody well had it!

we can unpack the ironic symbolism later.

that's beyond our sense of decorum!

i'm not afraid of anything i feel. i'm afraid of saying it. i'm only afraid of what happens when i do.

aw, you do care.

if there's any legacy for me on this earth, i want it to be true.

straight people probably don't spend this much time convincing themselves that they're straight.

the moment you first called me a prick, my fate was sealed.

you are the absolute worst idea i've ever had.

should i tell you that when we're apart, your body comes back to me in dreams?

can you perhaps stop putting your sodding life in danger now?

what are we even defending here?

history will remember us.

when i sleep, i see you.

i hate this so much.

every person who bears a legacy makes the choice of a partner with whom they will share it with.

we're just gonna fucking fight.

he is my choice.

i can appreciate that maybe this isn't your fault.

i've been gay as a maypole since the day i came out of mom.

when i wake up in the morning, it feels like i've just been with you.

i can feel your skin against mine, and it makes every bone in my body ache.

your spine's a ridge i'd die climbing.

for a few moments, i can hold my breath and be back there with you, in a dream, in a thousand rooms, nowhere at all.

the phrase 'see attached bibliography' is the single sexiest thing you have ever written me.

i promise you, one day we'll be able to just be, and fuck everyone else.

give yourself away sometimes, sweetheart. there's so much of you.

i want to set myself on fire, but i can't afford for anyone to see me burn.

you see, for me, memories are difficult.

never tell me the odds.

i wish there weren't a wall.

jesus christ, it's like they can see into your soul.

you're it, okay? i'm never gonna love anybody in the world like i love you.

i'm finished. i don't care.

god, i want to fight everyone who's ever hurt you.

the whole world watched, and history remembered.

are you quite finished?

just so we're clear. i'm about to have sex with you in this storage closet to spite your family.

you insane, hopeless romantic little shit.

#rp meme #rp memes #rp prompt #rp starters #roleplay memes #roleplay prompt #ask meme #ask memes #roleplay meme #roleplay inbox prompts #writing prompt #askbox meme #rp asks #inbox prompts #inbox prompt #rp inbox meme #inbox meme #sentence starter #sentence starters #sentence starter prompt #mcflymemes #red white and royal blue #rwarb #book prompts

[theycallmemisterbutterfingers]

Somebody To Luuuvvvvvv

so, i wrote this fic a WHILE ago, and promptly forgot abt it lmao. it was something i worked at on and off for a month, so it may be a little disjointed. also, I very much recommend listening to Somebody To Love (Queen) while reading, although depending on how speedy you are with reading, the fic will extend past the song's length. ALSO, I started writing it to mirror the lyrics of Somebody To Love, but I lost track of it a little in the last stretch, since there's a lotta instrumental and I just kinda went off HAH

anyhow

oh also i drew this little animation in like October and i'm sorry and you're welcome? sorry because ACK i swear to god i can draw better but you're welcome in case you like it ,,,,, yeah ,,,,,,, much love!!

Can

Anybody?

Find me

Somebody to…

Love.

…

Crowley launched himself up from his desk, sending a few pieces of glass clattering to the floor, shattered remains of his heart. He wobbled for a moment, the alcohol settling in weird places.  Reality spun. He thought he saw stars. And then worse.

He thought he saw his angel.

His knees buckled, and his hand shot out to brace himself on his desk. His other hand reached up to shakily run a hand down his face. Take a look at this poor sod, he thought bitterly, about to berate himself. Then he caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of his window, and he traced the scars down her cheeks that the tears had left in their wake. Crowley sighed, then chuckled—a small, self-deprecating one. Oh, what he’s doing to me.

He’d spent all his years believing in the bastard, chasing him, wanting him, hoping that they were the same. Thinking that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t fully alone. 

And then the angel took his heart and blasted it away with his halo. With his Heaven-besotted ideals that Crowley thought he had left behind. No such relief.

And all Crowley wanted was to love and be loved by him. Too much to ask, turns out.

…

He was behind the wheel. Again. He didn’t quite know how he got there, really, and he didn’t know where he was going, either. All he knew was that he was driving—driving away. Driving far away from…what? The work he had put in for himself—for his angel—to live a life safely in the corner? Maybe. Driving away from being alone? Hm. As if he could be driving away from the ache in his bones and towards Az—well. He wasn’t, at any rate. Crowley cursed himself under his breath and pulled over.

The sun was setting, colors bleeding out into the sky. Bleeding out. Now that was something that Crowley was familiar with. He looked up at it all, trying in vain to see anything—any sign from the Universe, from God, anything at all—but no. His knees hit the dirt. “God…what’re you doing to me? You listening? This part of your Great Plan, too?”

Nothing. Crowley dug his nails into his palms until he drew blood.

They do say that snakes can’t cry. 

Well. 

They also say snakes don’t fall in love. That they can’t feel it.

But just look at Crowley.

🌟

Aziraphale hurried through the empty space of Heaven, a harried look on his face. He had been working nonstop ever since he returned, trying to prove his worth, trying to do good, trying to be good. But there were stares pricking the back of his neck. Veiled criticism, judgement. They thought him odd, strange, impure. Tainted from Earth. They don’t want me here, he thought, then quickly shook it away. He had to keep faith. Believe in good in others, and the good of God. 

But there’s nobody left to believe in me.

…

Aziraphale blinked. He had been heading towards the higher floors, but his feet had betrayed him. They had led him to the globe. His chest warmed seeing Earth, but there was this terrible, sudden ache in his gut. Aziraphale put a hand to his stomach, breathless for a moment. 

Guilt. 

Horrible, horrible guilt. 

His hands shook. His stomach roiled like there was a nest of snakes, snakes, Crowley, his Crowley, his Crowley that he left behind, the desperation etched into his face as he—

Stop, he told himself. Stop. You can’t. Push it down, push it down, remember? You need to focus on your tasks. You need to forget.

Do you? Part of him whispered.

Quiet, he thought. No thoughts. You must be good. 

It would be good, this traitorous part of him whispered. You would be doing a good thing. Checking up on that nice angel, Muriel. 

Oh, yes, Muriel. Of course. It would only take a moment to pop in, after all. He wrung his hands, thinking hard and thinking fast. His tasks weren’t too urgent—just some paperwork, a few visits to the superiors; yes, it would be fine. Tickety-boo. Besides, he really needed to make sure the bookshop and Muriel were fine. Nothing else. What else would there be, really? For such a quick visit, especially? Aziraphale was still for a moment—save for his hands, which shook like leaves—and then with one decisive motion he tapped the globe, and felt himself dissolve into light. 

🥀

Crowley slumped in his Bentley, cheeks stinging, throat hurting. Queen played over the speakers, but he kept losing track of the song, sliding in and out of white noise. After a few moments, he inhaled sharply and clenched his jaw. He was alright. He was fine. He was a demon. Of course he was alright. In fact, he was so alright, he would go and make sure Muriel hadn’t sold anything. At the bookshop. Because he was alright he was alright he was FINE. He stomped on the gas pedal with a bit more vigor than usual and began to whip through the streets, disregarding anything his mind might mutter to him. Perhaps that—Crowley ignoring himself as much as he possibly could—perhaps that was why he didn’t notice the feeling of his angel returning to Earth. 

…

Crowley slammed the Bentley’s door shut and sauntered across the street to the bookshop, confident as a lioness. The confidence was a sham. He was a right wreck internally. He unlocked the door and swung inside with carefully practiced nonchalance, carefully hidden nerves, everything under the surface, as it should be. But the memories still hit him like a Bentley going 90. Frozen, he could do nothing but boggle at the bookshelves with their alphabetized books all in the right places and the angel wing mug with hot chocolate still steaming, until he heard a cheerful voice from up the stairs, “Be with you in a minute!!”

This managed to jolt Crowley out of his reverie, and he managed to shout back, “It’s me!”

“Oh!! Ah,” and there was quite a bit of shuffling around. Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to take measured breaths. Being back in the same place, the same spot where he—

“Hello, Mr. Crowley!!” Muriel beamed over the banister upstairs before hurrying down the stairs. “Haven’t seen you in a bit!”

Crowley hummed noncommittally. Muriel fidgeted.

“Did you need anything, Mr. Crowley?” They asked, looking at him a little too expectantly. Crowley had a sudden memory of that kid he had encountered as Bilidad, the little one who wanted to be a lizard. 

“Erm…”

It wasn’t to check on the books, really. What did Crowley need?

Well.

Wasn’t it obvious?

He needed him. 

His angel. His Az—hm. 

His A—guh.

His A…He needed Aziraphale. 

There, he said it. Wasn’t so hard.

He needed his somebody to love.

But his somebody was gone.

He didn’t say any of this to Muriel, though. Instead, he just shrugged. “Thought I’d stop by, make sure you hadn’t sold anything.”

Muriel shook their head vehemently. “Oh, no, certainly not!! I remember what you were like when I first took over the shop,,” they took on a grumpy, spiky air then, ignoring the dinging of the shop bell, “Now listen here, Muriel, if you sell any one of these books, I will march right up to heaven and tell those higher-ups that you are doing Very, Very Bad Things. So do not, under any circumstances, sell these books!!” Muriel finished their impression attempting a scowl matching Crowley’s, cementing their inability to make any sort of coarse expression.

Crowley scoffed and was about to complain that he did NOT sound like that, not in the slightest, when—

“Oh, Crowley, did you really?”

Fireworks rocketed up Crowley’s spine and exploded in his chest, and he whipped around to see—

To see—

His angel. 

Aziraphale standing in the doorway of the shop, looking like he was already regretting even stepping through the door, but still with that nervous, gentle smile Crowley loved so, and he could do nothing but gape at Aziraphale, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Aziraphale didn’t fare much better, only just managing to stand there, wobbly and woeful. Muriel, slowly becoming more adept at social situations, sidled into the back room, and the sound of the door shutting snapped Crowley out of his stupor—and his wounded heart throbbed.

“Back to forgive me again, then?” Spat Crowley bitterly.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, teary-eyed, and before Crowley could say anything else, Aziraphale rushed into him, grabbing his lapels and burying his face in Crowley’s chest. 

“I mi-i-issed-d you,” He sobbed, and Crowley wanted to shove him away, wanted to snarl barbed words and sharp jabs, wanted try and make him feel some semblance of the pain he felt—

But he couldn’t bring himself to do so. He couldn’t bring himself to hurt his angel, when he was already so awfully distraught. So he put a tentative, shaky hand on Aziraphale’s back, and said, quietly, “Hi, Angel.”

Aziraphale sniffed loudly at that and looked up at him. Then he stepped back, only slightly, and they simply looked at each other for a moment. Then—

“Why did you leave—?!” They started, simultaneously, then stopped. 

“Well, you were the one leaving, Angel,” Crowley snapped, brows knitted together.

Aziraphale looked at him quizzically and sniffed again. “B-But I asked you to come with me, dear. I wanted you to come with me. I wanted you to come so terribly,” his lip wobbled, “And-and then you got mad, and ki-kissed me, and then—hic—and then you left!”

Crowley scowled, confused. He was quite certain that Aziraphale had been the one to do the leaving.

“But you abandoned me,” he said, voice rough, “After all we’ve gone through! I thought we were a team, Aziraphale. I thought you liked me how I was—not an angel, not a demon, as me.”

Aziraphale whimpered, wringing his hands. “But I do like you, Crowley! I’m so, so s-sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, I promise, I just—I want to be with you, oh so much! And we could be together, in Heaven, as angels, without messiness, and—and, oh, I thought you’d be happier as an angel. I mean, you used to be, when you were…”

Crowley sighed, his anger beginning to cool. Oh, Angel. “I don’t want Heaven. I don’t want to be who I was. I just want to be me, now, here, with you,” He said, as gently as he could muster, taking his sunglasses off. Aziraphale blinked, another sparkling tear trailing down his cheek. Crowley had to curb the urge to wipe it away by shoving his hands in his pockets.

“B-But…but an angel? A-a demon?? That—”

“Would be alright.” Crowley finished, trying to smile, trying not to hope. “We could do it.” Aziraphale wavered, unsure, worried. He cast a look around him, and then, resolutely, 

“I need to go back.” Crowley’s heart plummeted to the floor and shattered like an empty bottle. Again. 

He made to leave, eyes already stinging, but Aziraphale grabbed at him. “Wait, Crowley!!” But no. Not again. Never again. Crowley wrenched away, looking at the ground, trying to stride past him, a painful crescendo rising in his head, already berating himself for trusting so quickly, hoping so easily, and then, and then he felt a soft hand tilt his face up and take off his glasses and, and, and—and Aziraphale was kissing him. Kissing him. Crowley’s thoughts blinked out of existence completely. All he could focus on was Aziraphale, him against Crowley’s lips, again, finally. Aziraphale’s tears wet Crowley’s cheeks and burned there and Crowley didn’t mind in the slightest. And he kissed back, fiercely, not caring if the rest of him burned up as a result.

Aziraphale gasped at the kiss deepening, and something roared deep inside of Crowley, and then, suddenly—Aziraphale pulled away.

It was as if Crowley had been lit on fire and then doused with cold water, and all he could do was stand there, shivering and overheating at the same time. Aziraphale, though shaking as well, took a deep breath.

“Crowley. I am going, but I’m not leaving,” and he took Crowley’s face in both hands, “I’m not leaving you. I never meant to in the first place. I’m sorry. Please…forgive me.”

Crowley didn’t know how to respond. What could he possibly say? What could he—

A tear slid down his face, and Aziraphale brushed it away with his thumb, tenderly, lovingly. 

And Crowley broke. 

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale murmured, and cradled Crowley close as he crumpled into his arms. He trembled like a leaf, loud sobs wracking his body. 

They sank to the ground together, and stayed that way for a long time. 

Eventually, Crowley could breathe without feeling like he was suffocating. Cheeks burning, he slowly sat up, looking anywhere but at Aziraphale, embarrassed. “Ngk—sorry, Angel.”

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale turned his face back to him with a feather-light touch, “You have nothing to be sorry for.” Crowley damn near started crying again. He nodded and sniffed, rubbing his face. “You’re too nice to me.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, eyes twinkling. “Nice is a four-letter word.”

They gazed at each other adoringly, neither quite believing that they could hope again, hope for a future together, as hope was a four-letter word, too. Then Crowley looked down at the ground. “So…you have to go.”

“I will be back, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and stood up, “I just need to do a few things first.”

“I need you,” Crowley pleaded, on his knees, all defenses forgotten, all barriers down. “Stay. Please.”

“I need you too,” Aziraphale said softly, doe-eyed, and kissed him on the forehead. “I want to stay with you. But I have to keep Earth safe. I can change things, in Heaven. I can stop the Second Coming.”

His face hardened and, for a moment, looked every bit the Archangel he was supposed to be. “Even if it means making a few…executive decisions. In the name of good, of course.”

“Of course,” Crowley echoed, feeling a bit dazed.

Aziraphale smiled at him and then looked up, wings materializing behind him. “I’ll see you soon, dear.”

Crowley, as if struck by a pin, sprung up towards Aziraphale and kissed him once more. Aziraphale, who had already begun to glow with departure, kissed back just as hard, if not harder. Crowley held onto the quickly dissipating angel tightly, as long as he could, until Aziraphale fully disappeared…and then Crowley fell flat on his face. 

Oh, would you look at that, Crowley mused to himself, ass up, face down. I’ve fallen. “Erm,” said a timid voice behind him, “Would you like some hot chocolate, Mr. Crowley?”

thank you for reading!!!!!!!

#good omens #gomens #ineffable husbands #ineffable divorce #anthony j crowley #crowley #aziraphale #aziracrow #these idiots #theyre so gay #theyre so in love #look at them #the angst #ahhhh #i love them sm #good omens fandom #archangel aziraphale #good omens fanart #aziraphale loves crowley #and i will stand by that #there is no way he does not #michael sheen did not spend a whole season goggling at david just for us to think that aziraphale does not like crowley #good omens fic #good omens fanwork #good omens fanfic #queen band #somebody to love #ngl #kinda proud of myself #someone stop me

[njordr]

hello! i’ve been very diligently hammering out this one-shot/short-story and it is now 12k (so far edited) so i thought id share a little blurb, it should be posted sometime by next week at the latest! 🤞

“Baggins.” Kili said the name, scrunching his nose in distaste. “What ugly sod gave you that?”

The sound of cutlery and gnashing of mead quieted in the wake of Kili’s, otherwise obnoxious question. Hobbits being an incredibly private species, to ask of one’s family was often taken as romantic interest. Knowing better, he cleared his throat before speaking.

“My father,” Bilbo responded flatly, more annoyed by Kili’s pestering than the question itself. His parents had both been dead twenty some odd years, he was well acquainted with the old grief. “—And he was quite ugly in his old age. Not as ghastly or brutish as a Dwarf, we have a reputation to uphold you know!”

The company grumbled in slight offence. Those who listened. “What of your mother?”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow from where he sat at Belen’s large, stretching wooden table. The Hobbit did his best to hide his amusement. “Before she married my father she was a took.”

“A took.” Kili exchanged glances with who, Bilbo could not see. Though the interaction only served to widen the young Dwarf’s smirk. “What is that?”

“They are names,” He huffed. “My father was a Baggins and my mother a Took. Should you ever find yourself with your nose in a book instead of in the business of others, you might learn that names have reputation.” Kili’s expression stuttered, cheeks darkening with amused embarrassment as he grinned. Non Perturbed by the Hobbit’s insults.

“Took,” Kili emphasised his prononciation with flying spittle. “Hobbits are strange little things, next time we visit you’ll have to introduce us to her.” The Dwarrow brought his mead to his face, taking a long swallow that sloshed out the sides of his mouth and down his face.

“Oh, my mother passed long ago.” Bilbo said as casually as you might tell someone the weather. Twenty-some years now, he’d long since stopped counting to save himself the heartache of reminder.

Kili choked on his food, eyes blown wide as he searched across the table for another pair of eyes to glance into to share in his horror. Bilbo felt Thorin’s eyes, burning concerned holes into the side of his head but he brushed the look of sympathy in their eyes off.

“My mother enjoys painting.” Fili chimed in, muttering under his breath as though it was a soft topic for him. Bilbo appreciated his consideration, but felt a lance of embarrassment with the attention. “She also enjoys cooking until there is nothing left; makin’ sure we’re stuffed. She makes a good stew. Plays the harp real well.”

“Aye.” Gloin hummed in agreement. “My Gimli loves it!”

Bilbo felt any and all prior grievances with the pair of brothers melt away from him. They were good boys, sons. Inwardly, The Hobbit swore that he would see them back to their mother at all costs.

“She sounds lovely.” He met Fili’s gaze; as intense and deep as his Uncle’s. Softer though, as he ducked his head in quiet appreciation.

When his gaze flickered to Thorin at the head of the table, he was pleasantly surprised to find The Dwarf looking back at him. His blue eyes softened for a moment before they flitted away again.

#the hobbit #bagginshield #writing #njordr #brain go brrr #thorin would definitely glare at kili for this while Fili is like bruh facepalm #Bilbo takes it in stride of course #blurbs #lotr #Bilbo Baggins #kili the hobbit #Fili #fili and kili #thorin oakenshield #the company

[ellecdc]

All's Fair in Love & Chaos

2nd instalment (read the first one here)

a short blurb style mini-series in collaboration with @unstablereader no real plot, just vibes and comedy.

Synopsis: soulmate au, everyone's soulmate's initials become visible on their wrist when the last person in the bond 'comes of age' (I've left the age ambiguous because their may be mature insinuations later on in the story). As luck would have it, and much to everyone's horror; it appeared that you, Barty Crouch Junior, and Sirius Black were soulmates

poly!DeathStar x fem!reader

Though this soulmate thing had caused Sirius a bit of grief so far, he was feeling rather chuffed about it today. He was currently sitting with you in the library; you were currently doing research for your Herbology project, and he was pretending to work on his Transfiguration essay.

It was an odd sight, he was sure; Sirius Black found in the library working quietly without being involved in some sort of mischief. It was no secret he didn’t exactly take his school work seriously, but that was only because he didn’t have to; classes came easily to him and getting good grades didn’t require any extra work on his part.

But…

But, he had a pretty little thing sitting across from him, that was certifiably his, and she was spending time in the library, which meant he was, too. 

It was a precarious arrangement, but Sirius found he didn’t much mind when the unpleasantness wasn’t around. 

Unfortunately, the unpleasantness was insistent on following him around.

“Junior.” He growled lowly as a figure sidled up behind you and cast a shadow over your shared table.

“Black.” Barty sneered before turning a saccharine smile in your direction. “Hello, sweet darling angel.” He cooed, earning him a scoff from Sirius.

“Hello, Barty… what are you doing here?”

Barty laughed as if you’d made a particularly funny joke. “I’m here to spend time with my best girl, of course!” 

“Like hell you are!” Sirius barked, earning him indignant shushes from the other students around him.

“Barty… you agreed to this.” You tried placating.

“Agreed to share you with Black?” Barty squawked. “I’d sooner start wearing red and gold unironically.”

“Junior, this schedule was your idea. I get the library study time on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. You get the library study time on Sundays, Mondays, and Wednesdays. It’s Tuesday; get lost.” Sirius lamented.

“But I don’t want to!” Barty pouted particularly petulantly, even stomping his foot for good measure. 

“Well, you can take it up with management.” Sirius taunted.

“You just sodding said yourself that this was my plan; I am the management!” Barty countered. 

Sirius mustered his most Noble and Ancient menacing glare from countless Black ancestors. The Slytherin boy had no problem reciprocating it, and it wasn’t until you intervened that the boys broke the silent war being waged between them.

“Barty, I…I think you should go see what Pandora is up to? And…maybe we can sit together at dinner?” You offered hopefully. Sirius was simultaneously grateful you were trying to rid them of the unpleasantness and also terribly jealous that Barty was going to share a meal with you.

“Yes! Okay, I’ll go get Pandora to help me organize a romantic meal for us tonight.” Barty beamed excitedly.

“Please. How romantic can a meal in the Great Hall be?” Sirius sneered, albeit slightly worried that Barty may in fact succeed.

“You mind your fuckin’ business, Black. Salazar’s balls you’re a pest.” 

“I’m the pest!?” Sirius exclaimed, but you were quick to place a conciliatory hand on Barty’s forearm.

“Please, Barty?”

Barty looked down at you with a pained expression that Sirius could understand all too well.

You were impossible to say no to.

Barty looked between you and Sirius a few times before groaning exasperatedly. 

“Fine.” He relented, pressing a smacking kiss to your cheek and stalking off.

Sirius let out a sigh of relief as you turned back towards the table with an embarrassed smile.

“Oh!” Sirius heard, causing him to let his head fall with a thump to the table before him. “I almost forgot.”

And Sirius lifted his head from the table to watch as Barty pulled at the collar of your uniform shirt to expose part of your neck and began sucking a bruise into your skin.

Sirius spit out a shocked guffaw as he watched Barty pull back, admire his work, press a chaste kiss to it and replace your collar to its proper place before leaving the library for good. 

“What…” Sirius started as he turned his attention from the door he’d been keeping an eye on to ensure that menace didn’t return to continue tormenting him back to you, just as you were embarrassedly rubbing at your neck. “...in the buggering fuck was that?”

“That’s just Barty.” You replied timidly. 

Sirius let out another scoff, eyes still glued to your neck. “Are you okay?”

You chuckled at that and offered Sirius a smile that was equal parts apologetic and equal parts teasing. “I’m pretty sure that’s his way of showing…affection? Or possibly marking his territory; he’s done it before when Diggory spent a, quote, ‘unreasonable amount of time complimenting my potion’.” 

Sirius relaxed a little at that. He supposed if you were comfortable with it, he wouldn’t push it. And though Sirius clearly had better impulse control than your other soulmate, he couldn’t deny how much he was tempted to do the same.

“Alright then.” Sirius relented, allowing you to return to your research.

“I hope you know you’ve just opened up the need to schedule meals now though.”

“For fuck’s sake.” You groaned, plopping your head down into your textbook.

#marauders era #marauders au #marauders fanfiction #reader insert #self insert #sirius black #barty crouch junior #soulmate au #deathstar #poly!deathstar #poly!deathstar x reader #poly!deathstar x you #sirius black x barty crouch jr #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #barty crouch jr x reader #barty crouch jr x you #barty crouch jr #barty crouch jr x sirius black #starkiller #bitchkiller #poly!starkiller #poly!bitchkiller #I don't like those ship names though #also #the sb x bcj tags both already existed #hahahahaha #ellecdc fics

[inkyquince]

Niki with gray streaks at his temples. Niki with crows feet lining his eyes. Niki, who got to expand his business beyond the photography, into being a man of the pictures. The prettiest pictures. Racks in more money than even his best photo shoots. 

characters. Niki. (Degrees of Lewdity)

cw. older niki being a pervert. legit wrote this while watching pearl and then x and had a flash of inspiration. nothing too bad, just niki being an older pervert, filming, its... hinted that its coerced but there's no words spoken. body worship. its HINTED niki is into musk lmao. anyway, this is for all yall very patient dol lads while i've been having a lil brain melt over miguel and then bg3 :3

Niki who still has his white stick balancing on the bow of his bottom lip, tongue stroking the end as he squints at one of his scuffed lenses. Sometimes he’s surrounded by people whose names he doesn’t care to know, shooting some boring scene that gets the old timer’s panties wet and peckers to stiffen. That’s for the crowd that likes the vanilla stuff. “Vanilla” he ruminates, watching the two women in animal masks ride that poor sod’s entire body. Yeah. This is the shit that gets sold at the checkout line in the grocery store. He prefers his other work. The type where he’s no longer surrounded by people fiddling with equipment and lousy actors rehearsing their lines. The type that brings him back to his younger years of filming in the quiet barn. 

His muses came and went. None of them lasted much longer than two months. Except his little assistant. Fuck, he never had one before, when all he needed was his camera and his own sharp eyes. Except he fucking pulled something in his back and had to lie on Harper’s examining table, listening to the doctor chastise him on not taking care of himself, his own blond hair flecked with grey too. 

So, he had you. Lift the heavier equipment, hand out shit so he didn’t have to. Then, when it was just the two of you? You stayed quiet when he needed it. Filled the silence when he needed it. Helped him… When he needed it. 

When the actors and actresses bored him, when the hopeful bright eyed thing getting paid to get fucked in the ass struggled to hold his attention, Niki goes looking for something real. The club, recording as people groped each other breathlessly. To the park, to catch the odd streaker. 

Then there’s something special. Stuff he doesn’t let himself indulge in too much. But when he had a block, where all of his shots look stilted and wrong, when nothing is coming together like it should do, he can’t help it. He needs something real, nothing like the acted out sex, or the lapdances, or anything. Nothing for an audience, but something just for him. 

Even he didn’t know how it started. 

Sharing a room for a good price, with you quietly cooking at the stove while Niki huffed and grumbled, looking at the extensive amount of filming he had to do the next day. He thinks you might have burned yourself. Maybe nicked yourself with a knife. Just a soft swear from under your breath had him looking up at you, his graying strands dipping into his eyes as he saw you in the way he was meant to. 

The lighting was perfect. You loose tank top showing just enough skin by your ribs. The pretty way you were wholly unaware of his gaze going from disinterested, soft, to sharp, intense. An artist who finally had a muse again. 

Without you noticing, Niki quietly resticks his white stick back into his mouth and gets up. Moving around behind you as you made sure the two of you ate that night. The radio whining out a tinny little song masked any sound made by his movements. 

You turned around to ask your boss if he wanted something to drink with his meal but stopped short, seeing his camera up and rolling. Pointed directly at you. Making the soft whirring noises as Nikki fiddled with the equipment a bit before looking straight at you. 

There were no words for you. Just his gaze, fixed on you, with the camera whirring. 

It was the first time you had ever been on the other hand of the lens. You always stayed by his side during the filming, fiddling with the audio equipment or going over the notes Niki had prepared. It felt like you were bare. Being captured exactly how Niki saw you in this moment. Immortalized. Seen. Even though you still had all your clothes on, you felt bare. Because of not how he currently saw you, but you knew in what way he wanted to see you. 

Niki’s expression didn’t change as you slowly raised your hands and slipped yourself free of your shirt. His eyes remained steely and glinting but behind his relaxed lips, just barely open, his teeth were biting through his lollipop stick, breaking it.

Soft, perfect nipples hardening in the cool air, perking right up under his gaze. It felt more real than anything else he filmed for a long while. All for him. His breathing kicked up as you watched him right back, quietly seeking his approving gaze as you slowly dragged a hand over your chest, pressing your fingers down into your skin. It looked so soft, so easy and malleable for his tongue to ruin it with bruises and bites. He noticed the blemishes on your skin, everything that made you imperfect, but real. Nothing fake, not like his other productions with the actors. He knew you wouldn’t force your moans for him. Niki knew he caught you unawares, so you hadn’t had time to spend the last hour shaving your pubes, or shower after a long day of hauling things for him.  Authentic. Saliva pooled on his tongue. 

With a little jerk of his head, he motioned at your shorts, necessary in the cloying heat. Your chest hitched with a shuddering breath and Niki’s dry lips curled into a smile at long last. Nervous. Unaware. Shy. Real. 

So, your shorts pooled around your ankles, which you kicked to the side. Underwear was still on, but he could see everything, outlined perfectly. You motioned to slip those off but Niki shook his head. He made a circular motion with his finger and you flushed. A bit clumsy, almost slipping on the discarded shorts, you slowly did a charming little pirouette, leg lifted. He chuckled and then made his particular motion for you to bend over for him. 

Underwear snug against your body, he made sure to zoom in to where your hole would be. Waiting. 

You heard the click of the camera turning off before you heard Niki’s voice. 

“That's enough. We’ll get up early tomorrow morning.” 

You stood there, stock still for a moment, face too hot before scrambling for your clothes, almost mortified by what just happened. It felt like a snub. It wasn’t, but it felt like one. You expected the next day to be full of filming the cute cow-girls with tits too big for them to know what to do with, but Niki didn’t head towards the farm, instead driving out to the farmlands and hiking to the coast. 

He filmed you swimming. Sunbathing. Just existing as if you weren’t being paid by the hour for this. 

It wasn’t always like that. Niki still filmed other things, with his hand slowly rubbing circles into inner thigh as the camera rolled. The longer time passed in between your private shoots, the more times you caught him watching you during the shoots, eyes seeking out skin. 

Your personal shoots became lewder. Niki wanting to capture every inch of skin, as you invited him in, both his attention and his camera. 

Older Niki, having his personal assistant double as his muse. He’s twice their age, with gray streaking his temples. He grits his teeth when younger men chat you up. He grinds them when you can’t come around in the evening, just to pose for him. Lie there for him, naked and sinful and good. Forced to watch some of your films instead. Niki and his favorite muse. 

#dol #nsft #quincewrites #niki the photographer #degrees of lewdity

[spankinganthologies]

Sivam53

Yvonne and Amanda had never thought volunteering for the National Trust could be such fun. Nevertheless Mandy couldn't wait for next weekend when she would play the housekeeper and Vonnie would clean the grates. She had promised herself that the cruel cow wouldn't be sitting comfortably until a week on Wednesday.

(sw: fair's fair - but that's a long time!)

***

@Sivam53 has removed all the posts from his/ her tumblr - so here are some I saved.

Annabelle: The next time that bitch asks us round for a coffee -

Giselle: We'll probably say 'yes' again?

(sw: yes, we probably will!)

Not the bloody wheelbarrow again, thought Lana, I'm sure the cow only does it to catch an eyeful before she starts the session with that sodding wooden spoon. Still, she consoled herself, it's not me serves my salad with it afterwards...

(sw: roommate Katie's favorite position, just because it embarrasses me so!)

I've looked at the world...

(sw: if my butt looks that big like that, my embarrassment's doubled!)

"In the Library with the Cane," somehow Claire always got to be Miss Scarlet when they played Spanking Cluedo.

(sw: Ma'am? Can we go back to the wheelbarrow position? I've changed my mind!)

Mandy's unspoken question about her new employer: "What kind of weirdo has a vaulting horse, blackboard and umbrella stand full of school canes?" was about to be answered in full.

The 'spot the odd one out' question in Friday's pub quiz was taking an unusual turn.

(sw: LOL!)

Gloria had an uncomfortable feeling that she was not going to be in tune with Mrs Arkwright, the new Head Librarian, or her revamp of the staff disciplinary code.

(sw: but Lauren thought it was a step in the right direction!)

"Now," began Miss Finch, the librarian, "you are aware that this book is two months overdue..."

(sw: sorry, ma'am, couldn't be helped...)

Clowning around was not encouraged in Miss Watkin's 'Hedgerow Bounty' classes as Gillian was discovering.

(sw: you mean you could end up with a spanking? Or...)

She may be trying out a few of those nettles shortly.

(sw: wait wait WAIT!!! please! not the nettles!)

Someone had to teach the new maid that whistling was not acceptable during working hours and Georgia decided, as under-manager, it might as well be her.

(sw: taking unassigned responsibility is the surest way to a promotion!)

When Alicia had finished with her Sandrine would never forget to cut the crust off a cucumber sandwich again.

(sw: a new maid is a lot of trouble but oh-so worth it!)

#Sivam53