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yeojaa · 4 years

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( GHOST IN MY BED. )

Sometimes, hating someone is the only thing you can do.

pairing. jjk x (named) f!reader.

genre + rating. rockstar!au. e2l (exes n enemies!). explicit flut aka fluff and smut.

tags / warnings. it’s filthy. like. dummy filthy. oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex (don’t be silly!), creampie, an inappropriate use of a mirror, idk. a stupid amount of petnames. there should be a warning for kook as a person, too.

beta reader(s). @jjiminah the lob of my life!!

wc. 2.6k

drabble: mirrors. four years ago.

It’s taking you far too long to find your keys, far too long to unlock the door, far too long to return his kiss. He’s greedy and demanding, bowed against your back with his lips attached to your neck. He sucks bruises into the skin the longer you take, biting incrementally harder with each second that passes. It doesn’t occur to him that he’s the reason you’re so slow.

“Kook, stop.” It’s hardly a word. Hardly a name. It skips off your tongue like rain and drips molasses behind his molars.

Don’t you know he’s a sugar addict?

He noses against the column of your throat, humming delightedly over the strawberries and cream that blend in pretty swirls, left there by his hand. He inhales the overwhelmingly jammy sweetness of your perfume - practically tastes it on his tongue - and guides the flat of his palms over silk. It bunches beneath his rings, around his knuckles. Jungkook loves when you wear it - loves the way it wears you, like a second skin.

“C’mon, Pumpkin. We gotta celebrate.”

You don’t notice it then - how his words come too slow, too slurred - even for an evening at the Ritz. Coherence has left him, lost to the bottom of an empty glass or furled edge of a hundred dollar bill. It leaves a shadow in its wake - one that rants and raves and believes in Neverland or something like it.

The key slots into place - finally! - and he moves as one with you, stepping when you step, laughing when you laugh. It’s not enough that he’s there in every motion. He wants more - wants to fill all the spaces between you and then some.

“Can you get the lights?” You’re extracting yourself from him as best as you can, not realising it’s futile. Every minute adjustment has him pressing closer. It doesn’t even matter that you’re trying to unlace your heels - towering things with intricate ropes across the top of your foot. He holds you like you’re a puzzle piece that completes him, refusing to allow you even an inch. The frustration barely brushes the edge of your adoration. Sharp as the words are, they’re coloured pretty pink - steeped in love and affection. “Can you please let me take off my shoes?”

An impish smile appears then, draws across his face in a cartoon grin with eyes too big and teeth too white.

The hands previously on your waist descend, snake themselves down the length of your hips - and then he drops to the ground, knees knocking against slick hardwood. You gasp - a quiet little thing, more in worry than surprise - and he places a chaste peck to the bare skin right above your knee.

Thank fucking god for wrap dresses being a thing. He’d fill your closet with them, if you’d let him. Any excuse to open you up like his favourite gift, bounce you on his lap like a good girl at Christmas.

“Kook.” It’s his name again. Same, same, but different. There’s a swirl of emotion in your eyes - a supermassive black hole that threatens to swallow him whole like the colour of your irises. He stares for too long, lost to the twinkling stars and silence.

So pretty, he thinks, pressing another kiss to the soft skin beneath his hands.

“Yeah, Pumpkin?” It’s sinful, seductive, laced in cigarette smoke and Scotch. He’s a sucker for a good single malt but he wants something else now - something to ease the burn.

“Shoes,” you repeat, so faint he has to strain to hear it.

Five fingers that had busied themselves beneath your dress fall, dropping to the neatly knotted tie at your ankle. One flick of his wrist and it’s undone. You step out, teetering dangerously for a moment; you catch yourself on the broad expanse of his back, digging fingers into leather and sinew.

Jungkook buries a laugh against your thigh, open-mouthed and full of teeth. “Hold on, angel.”

The other shoe unravels just as quickly and you’re back on solid ground, beaming down at him. “Thank you.” A gentle ruffle to his hair follows, the glide of your manicured nails across his scalp easing his cheek to rest upon your leg.

“Any time.” He should get up - his knees are beginning to ache - but he’s far too preoccupied with the lace beneath his still wandering hand, intricate patterns woven into a welcome sign. They trace high across your hips, framing your ass in a way that makes his cock twitch in his suddenly too-tight jeans.

“Baby?” It’s indistinct, somewhere above the clouds his head is suddenly lost in.

You’re radiating heat through every limb. He seeks it out, nosing against the material of your dress in search of more; he wants to bury himself where you’re warmest, fall headlong into sunshine. “Hm?” It comes in an exhale, followed by teeth and tongue.

The clouds part, just a little. His path is lit - a neon outline beneath your skin. He follows it without thought, sweeping his hands higher and higher.

You jolt when he licks a strip up your slit, lace disappearing between your folds. The material sticks to your cunt, sodden and ruined and nearly transparent, both from your slick and his saliva. He grins up at you as he repeats the motion over and over, dragging his tongue in measured trails.

He hears more than sees the way your back hits the door - his grip on your leg tightening to keep you balanced - but he hears and then feels your hands in his hair, tugging gently at the roots. “Kook.” It’s frenzied and breathless and he’s hardly even touched you. It drives him crazy, nails digging crescents into the meat of your ass.

“Yeah, Pumpkin?” Repeated verbatim with that same breakneck smile.

“Need you.”

“Need me?” He echoes, as if he hasn’t heard you, as if it isn’t glaringly obvious by the way you coat your own thighs, beading prettily over his fingers. “What do you need me for, baby?”

A part of you hates when he does this. He knows that. You like when he’s gentle, full of love. You like getting your way with him, knowing he needs you just as badly as you need him. It makes you feel like a queen.

The queen of his castle - the only woman Jungkook will ever love this way. How could he deny you?

So he relents, just a little, sliding his thumb beneath the material of your thong. It catches on your swollen clit and dips between your lips before he’s tugging terribly slowly, at a snail’s pace that has you tightening your grip. He muffles a laugh when it’s halfway down your legs, caught between your knees. You’re like Bambi on ice, impatient and shifting from foot to foot in your haste.

“Careful,” he coos, slipping your underwear into his back pocket for safekeeping before he peers up at you, his face framed by hazy streetlights and his crown of dark hair.

He feels the brush of your fingers against his temple, the subtle squeeze of your thighs beneath his touch. “I love you.”

It isn’t reciprocal in words, answered instead with a kiss that leaves you panting above him. His tongue works you open, dipping into your heat before rising to toy at your clit. He repeats the motion until you’re shaking, tremors passing through your legs to the hands that hold you in place trapped between him and the door.

There’s an angel’s chorus filtering into his ears - quiet little gasps that turn lewd, breathless recitals that leave him aching to bend you over and fuck you senseless.

A single digit brushes your entrance, sliding home in a smooth press of his wrist. You take him to the knuckle without an ounce of resistance and he grins, triumphant, against your core. There’s nothing more intoxicating than how much you want him - need him - and he gives greedily, slotting another in alongside the first. You mewl above him, the sound music to his ears, and he scissors them expertly, watching in rapt fascination as your pussy stretches to accommodate the width of two long fingers. “Fuck - I love you,” he hums, awestruck and adoring.

Something like a laugh bounces off your tongue and descends into a wanton moan before it can right itself. A tell-tale sign you’re almost there. Perfect.

He zeroes in on your clit, tongue dancing over it with each drag of his fingers. He’s curling them now, intimately familiar with the rough bundle of nerves that turns you stupid. You’re practically dripping down his hand and he’s careful not to let a single drop go to waste, licking his way over his knuckles and back to the source in languid strokes before he returns to toying with the pearl between your legs. “So sweet, baby. Like pumpkin pie.”

You’re trembling, hands like iron in his hair, pulling him closer closer closer.

“Please,” you beg. You’re rutting against him, chest heaving - a world away from the mild-mannered girl-next-door. It’s so hot he can’t help but take pause, wait just a moment so he can take in the sight.

Poor choice. He really can’t wait any longer.

He rises in a single fluid motion - even intoxicated, he’s a work of art. He laughs off the way you watch him, expression an intoxicating mixture of admiration and salaciousness. “Come here, angel.” Here, to his arms. Here, where you belong, cradled against all five feet ten inches of him.

You’re putty in Jungkook’s hands, far too close to the brink of release to even think of arguing when he rotates you, pressing the full, unyielding expanse of his chest to the small of your back.

“Look how beautiful you are, baby.” Debauched words that sound more like love, whispered adoringly into your ear. Sweet nothings that incinerate every ounce of rationale, leaving nothing but yearning in its wake. He presses a kiss to your cheek, broad palms heavy at your hips.

He’s right - you are beautiful, framed within the mirror’s reflection and barely lit by the moon.

“Pretty,” you agree, right as one hand shifts, drops and finds a home against your core. Two digits press, unrelenting, into your cunt and you keen, head dropping against his shoulder like he’s just cut your marionette strings with the scissor of his fingers. The flat of his palm grinds against your clit and he snickers, the sound deposited into your hair like a gift.

“That’s right, Pumpkin. So pretty.” The P’s pop off his tongue, enunciated with each curl of his knuckles, each blossom he blooms over your neck.

He fucks you slowly, languidly, unhurriedly - even as you writhe against him, pouting and demanding. He does it so you’re delirious with need but not so lucid he loses you; every time you’re about to slip, he recentres your focus and drags you back from the edge - either with a gentle tweak to your clit or a particularly hard thrust of his fingers. Anything to keep you there, eyes locked with his in the hallway mirror.

“Look at you. You’re so perfect.” Praise rains down and you’re smiling, a faraway, feral glint in your eye. “So fucking sexy for me. Do you want more?” His fingers still within your fluttering walls, massaging tight against your g-spot as his thumb adjusts to impose the same pressure upon your throbbing clit. “Want me to fill you up? Fuck you silly?”

You don’t have to speak for him to know your answer - he feels the way you clench around him, eager for something far better.

“Relax, baby,” he murmurs, that same messy hand making quick work of his leather belt and the button and zipper of his jeans. It’s honestly a feat given how insistent you are, grinding your ass over his aching cock like you might die without it. Your impatience is endearing and intoxicating; he almost topples you both over in his haste to step out of his clothes, pile kicked aside as you begin to whine, nails digging into the arm that still rests heavy around your waist. “Don’t worry, angel. I’ve got you.”

He does - and not a second too soon.

The head of his cock is glossy, leaking pre-cum over the purpled tip. It makes it almost easy for him to slip inside you except for the fact that it’s never that easy and the stretch is undeniable, bordering on painful despite how needy you are for him and how well he’s prepared you.

Every nerve ending is shot as he sinks into you. He fills you entirely as a groan tumbles off his lips, your ass flush to his hips. You’re so wet he can feel your slick over his own thighs, coating the base of his cock as you squeeze around him. A whine of his own pitches, forms in a bite to your shoulder that has you crying out. “Fuck. Fuck.”

He’s mouthing over silk, over skin, fingers firm around the column of your neck; tips press into softness, stealing your breath. The other hand anchors you against him, slung low over your side with his palm splayed across your ribs. It’s the only way he keeps you from jolting forward as he ruts against you, fucking into your heat at a relentless pace. He can read the strain in your limbs, how it grows and grows and nearly snaps in two when he tightens his grip at your throat.

“You wanna come, pretty?” It’s heavy, hungry, hoarse - gravel beneath velvet. You nod senselessly, swallowing thickly beneath the palm that sears heat and try to focus on the same feverish burn that claims your insides and melts your bones. Jungkook knows exactly which buttons to push, how to light you up like a night sky.

“Please.”

It’s an explosion of light and colour behind your eyelids and under your skin. You’re crying, sobbing, wailing - a wrecked mess caged against his chest as your orgasm crashes over you. Pleasure washes over you in waves, dripping down your cheeks; you’re spasming around his cock, gripping him so tightly he nearly chokes as he chases the same high.

The sounds you make are so pretty, helpless and somehow still desperate for more. They run on a loop inside his head, stuttering his rhythm as he fucks you through your sensitivity and into another high that has you clawing at his hands.

You’re out of body, eyes rolled so far back into your head that he can see only the whites. He squeezes harder at your neck - knuckles blown out, tense, a stark contrast to the mosaic of red that he’d painted earlier - and you’re a rag doll doing your best, trying to meet his stare as he grins wolfishly at you. “That’s right. One more. One more with me.”

It’s impossible to deny Jungkook or his near brutal pace. Where skin meets skin, there’ll be bruises, imprints left by the hard ridges of his hips, the shape of his fingers - a reminder of tonight for days to come. He’ll trace them with his tongue and never let you forget.

“Right there,” he barks with a sloppy, stuttering roll of his hips.

Your second orgasm is messy, wet, soaking the silk of your dress and his hand as he works your clit. A million volts of electricity buzz through your body, from the tip of your ears to the balls of your feet; he can feel it, passed between the two of you like a livewire. It launches him over his own peak - a lit match to gasoline.

He fills you with a low groan and a last, purposeful thrust. He holds you impossibly tight, dragging his hips in small circles as you milk him for all he’s worth, cum slipping past your swollen lips with each movement, despite how eager he is to keep it right where it is, staining your walls and reminding you you’re his.

Always have been, always will be.

author note. please note this is a flashback drabble (you might’ve caught the reference in chapter 3)! this is not present day, sadly. but did you catch any of the foreshadowing in this? hopefully! if not, i'm sorry. thank you for reading anyway. i appreciate you!

tag list. @jalexad @aa-ronpa @kookiesbreaky @celestialflamefairy @xjoonchildx @pars-ley @seokjinssi @youwannabelostandnotbefound @patpus @dazedjjk @koozui @jinhitwhore @always-wishing-for-rain

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multifandomfanfiction · 3 years

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Kingsman: The Bear and the Fairy Chapter 3

TITLE: Kingsman: The Bear and the Fairy Chapter 3 PAIRING: Jack “Agent Whiskey” Daniels/OC RATING: M CHAPTER: 3/? SUMMARY: When the Kingsman and the Statesman join together to stop Poppy Adams, the last thing Elizabeth expected was to fall in love with a tall, dark, and handsome cowboy named after a brand of whiskey.

“A bottle in a secret wall. You really expect me to take that seriously?” the cowboy asked them.

The three Kingsmen were tied to chairs.

“See I think your story’s horse shit.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. How many different ways could they explain why they were here?

“Y’all just trying to cover for a failed rescue mission. You here for the lepidopterist, ain’t cha?”

The three Kingsmen looked at each other and then at the cowboy.

“Okay, so your mystery bottle, huh?” He picked up a bottle of Statesman whiskey. “Look anything like that right there?”

“Yes. Same brand, much older,” Eggsy told him.

“All right.” The cowboy screwed the top off. “Let’s see here.” He walked over to the three Kingsmen. “You know why the measurement of alcohol content’s called “proof”?” He poured it over their heads.

“Oh, fuck off!” Eggsy yelled.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Merlin groaned.

The cowboy stared Elizabeth in the eye as he poured it onto her head. He was lucky her feet were tied to the chair, so she settled for spitting in his face.

“Pirates,” Elizabeth said.

“What?” Eggsy and Merlin asked.

“Pirates used to test the strength of their rum with gunpowder and fire.”

“Not just a pretty face, ain’t cha? Well, I ain’t got no gunpowder, but…” He pulled out a lighter and Elizabeth whimpered. “Or you could just tell me who the fuck y’all really are and how the hell y’all found us.”

“Statesman isn’t just a distillery is it? You’re an intelligence agency, just like Kingsman. Does that answer your question? Not just a pretty face, indeed” Elizabeth spat.

“Look, for the last time, we have to protect but our honor. So you can take your cheap horse piss that you call whiskey which, by the way, is spelled without an “e” and is nothing compared to a single malt scotch and you can go fuck yourself,” Merlin said.

Eggsy and Elizabeth laughed, even considering the circumstances.

“What about you?” the cowboy asked.

“Me?” Eggsy said, “No, I love a Jack and Coke, bruv. But I do agree with the part where you go fuck yourself.”

“What about you, pretty lady?”

“I don’t drink,” Elizabeth lied.

“All right. Y’all ain’t got nothing to protect other than honor. Let’s see what happens when we change things up.” The cowboy hit a switch on the wall and Harry appeared on the other side of the glass.

“Harry!” Elizabeth yelled.

“Fuck me,” Eggsy breathed.

“Y’all got three seconds to tell me the truth,” the cowboy said, cocking his pistol and pointing it at Harry.

“Wait. No,” Merlin said.

“Harry!” Elizabeth screamed, “Harry!”

“He can’t hear you. But I can, so talk.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you!” Elizabeth yelled, “We’ve told you the truth! Where’s your boss!”

All three of them started yelling for Harry to get down, but he couldn’t hear them.

“That’s two. Three.”

“Stop!” a woman’s voice yelled. A well-dressed woman with brown and blonde hair tossed an umbrella to the cowboy. “Their story checked out.” She rushed forward and handed them towels. “I opened our doomsday scenario locker and that umbrella was in it.”

Elizabeth recognized it as one they sold at the tailor shop.

“Kingsman. It’s got our logo on it. I’m really sorry.”

The cowboy started laughing. “My apologies, boys. Ma’am. I hope there ain’t no hard feelings. I was just doin’ my job.”

Elizabeth’s face turned red and both men knew the small strawberry blonde was about to explode. “Your job! We tried telling you the truth and you wouldn’t fucking listen! You’re a disgrace of an agent!”

“I really do apologize, sweet thing.”

“Do not call me that! I have a name!”

“Welcome to Statesman, independent intelligence agency.”

“I knew it.”

“Yeah, yeah. Not just a pretty face. Our founders went into the booze business. Thank the sweet Lord above.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “How fucking American.”

The cowboy gestured to the woman. “This is Ginger Ale. She’s our strategy executive.”

“Hello,” Ginger said.

“I’m Agent Tequila.”

Elizabeth snorted. “You’re all named after drinks?”

“And what’s your name?”

“Elizabeth Tate, but Agent le Fay to you.”

“This is the part where you untie us,” Eggsy said.

Tequila untied the two men and let Eggsy untie Elizabeth.

He put an arm around Elizabeth’s waist to keep her from attacking Tequila.

“Thank you,” Merlin said.

They went next door to see Harry.

“Harry,” Eggsy said.

“Hello.”

“Hello, mate.”

Eggsy went to go hug him, but Harry pulled away from him.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Merlin held his hand out to him. “Harry.”

Harry shook his hand. “How do you do?”

Elizabeth could only watch on in horror. Harry had no idea who they were. The man who had become a surrogate father to both her and Eggsy no longer existed.

“Have we met before?” Harry asked.

“Harry, it’s okay. It’s fine. They know that we know you,” Eggsy told him.

“I think there must be some mistake.”

“It’s been such a long time, Harry,” Merlin said, “I need to get my brogues resoled.”

“Yeah, and my oxfords are done in as well,” Eggsy added.

“Why are you telling me about your shoes?” Harry asked, not even recognizing his own code, “I’m a lepidopterist.”

“You’re a what?” Eggsy asked.

“He studies butterflies,” Elizabeth said softly.

“Yes, my dear. And who are you?”

“Elizabeth.”

“Ah, like the Queen.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Yes. Like the Queen.”

“You wanted to be before you joined the army, but… Harry look at me.” Merlin held a finger up in front of his face.

Harry followed the finger with his eye.

“It’s good to see you. We’ll be back soon.”

Merlin and Harry left the room and Elizabeth looked around at the pictures of the butterflies on the walls.

“Maybe you can tell me about these later,” she said.

Harry smiled. “I think I’d like that, Miss Elizabeth.”

#agent whiskey #agent whiskey/oc #agent whiskey imagine #agent merlin #jack daniels #jack daniels/oc #jack daniels imagine #eggsy unwin #eggsy unwin imagine #harry hart #harry hart imagines #kingsman #kingsman imagine #statesman #statesman imagine #pedro pascal #pedro pascal imagine #kingsman: the bear and the fairy

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divagonzo · 3 years

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Knackered

A/N: Praying this the start of the writer’s block crumbling away...

While I didn’t know about any Secret Santa exchanges (and being low on spoons) I did get some mild inspiration to write tonight. This goes out to everyone flying solo tonight at home, missing friends and family in the middle of all this madness and mayhem.

May your new year be better than the last one.

Note: This was partially inspired by my getting completely pissed Christmas night and posting an AMA and getting nothing. So tonight I’m sober and listening to Rand purring while asleep in my arms, while I wrote this up.

Rated PG-15/15/M for alcohol consumption to excess, consequences of drinking way too much, and some citrus notes at the end. 98% ace safe.

Demarcation line for 2021 damnit!

Hermione was sitting at home, in her favorite chair by the fire, completely pissed.

Harry was at work and so was Ron. Ginny was off at Holyhead for the New Year's Day match against Puddlemere. Luna was off... somewhere doing Merlin knows what and her parents were in Ibiza on Holiday and patently didn't invite her along. Their relationship was hardly there anymore. She felt that painfully with every day she didn’t hear from them.

Hermione gave Kreacher the night off and bade him a good night. She went to her beaded bag, which was beyond time for replacing yet she found she couldn't do an hour without it within reach, and pulled out a large brown paper sack containing two bottles she had picked up from Gerry's Wines and Spirits after work. She's popped in, taking in the selection of items and knowing exactly what she wanted tonight for her pity party of one she wanted to have. What kind of world was it that she was celebrating the turn of the new year, a new Millenia, the way some were saying, and all of her friend and family weren't present in her life, whether for work or for holiday. So instead, she'd have a pity party, indulge in more than some wee libations, and fall asleep by the fire tonight since she wouldn't see Ron until Sunday morning.

She wouldn’t see Harry or Ginny until late tomorrow night, if not Sunday morning either. She'd stood in the store, trying to decide on the spirit of her father's tastes - Balvenie, single malt, the older the better, or the tastes of her Mum - Rum, lightly aged, the darker the better. Then again it wasn't like she was going to pop back up to see Aberforth and get a bottle of his Firewhiskey, not after the incident earlier in term and Ginny spouting off on things that shouldn't have been said in front of first years. She had enough for both and settled on that, knowing that she could take the other as a gift to the parents if she didn't indulge in them herself. Once Kreacher was off for the night, she plated some cheese and pickles and other finger foods and stood at the counter in the kitchen trying to decide on which. She settled on the Scotch her father loved drinking - Balvenie - and she opened the top of the bottle she'd chosen and took a sniff. Compared to her father's tastes, this one smelled a delight, with the color of Ron's hair with the evening sun drifting through it, reminding her of a particularly lovely evening at the Burrow out beyond the pond where he'd made love to her before they fell asleep under the stars. "Accio glass," she thought and a small heavy glass hit her hand easily. four ice cubes tinkled on the sides of the glass before she poured a full measure - two fingers, if she recalled, and took her plate and drink with her back to her chair by the fireplace.

"I better lock up before I start in on this," she muttered to no one, not even Crookshanks, and pointed her wand at the fire, locking the fireplace for the night. Even then locked was subjective, since Ron and Ginny and Harry could easily bypass the fireplace with the wards in place. Bill saw to that, strengthening the enchantments on Grimmauld Place when Harry moved in permanently the previous Summer. It was Harry’s residence but he also allowed Ron and Ginny in since he was also the Secret Keeper. Sure she had a book, and her small and less than filling meal, and would miss her best friends on this cold night in London. But she had to let them live their lives on their terms, not on hers. She'd promised herself that once Ron and Harry made the Aurors and Ginny signed off on her contract - that she would keep quiet on the nights she would be home alone, by herself, no friends to speak of to have any sort of company. She lifted the glass to her lips and took a sip, savoring how smooth the beverage was on her lips. Then she reached for the little bit of prosciutto and brie and took a bite, then another drink before setting it down to read by the fire. It wasn't like Ron didn't know how she felt about his work, or how he stretched himself too thin sometimes, working full time with the Aurors and then so many extra hours with George. While the Aurors have him the notoriety and professional satisfaction he needed and craved, George was where he made his money, with his ideas and creativity. He had a real knack for coming up with an idea, one that George could run with, and make something of it, then refining it to sell it for profit. Just the few ideas of his that made it to production were enough to pay for their upcoming vacation to Athens, even if it was in the off-season but their first real vacation as a couple, for the two of them, and no finding parents or enormous stress behind finding them.

She picked up the glass and found it empty. "Accio Balvenie," she said aloud and waited, seeing it eventually settle down on the table in front of her. She poured another measure of the caramel brown distilled liquor, enjoying the taste enough to not mind the other effects, of which she wanted to enjoy, like quieting the anxiety in her head of Ron coming back to her.

Harry wasn't so much of a worry, given that Ron was there too. They had a sibling kind of love, one involving the occasional row and some days of not talking to one another, but deep down there was the respect and love forged in fire between them. One short conversation with Ginny was all it took to make things right for them, especially after burying the past actions that affected and harmed so much.

She'd been given a third chance and by God! She was going to not throw it away.

The plate forgotten, Hermione poured another measure. She hadn't been this inebriated since that night in Australia, where she had a meltdown to rival anything she'd had in her youth, and gotten pissed on brandy from a local store, hiding in the bathroom drinking heavily until she passed out. Ron eventually returned to find her, sobbing into a stinking toilet. Ron pulled her from the toilet seat, crying her eyes out and smelling of used brandy. He tidied her up, gave her a few glasses of water, tucked her into bed in his arms and let her sleep for almost twenty four hours.

It was the first time she'd truly felt alive after all the shite they'd gone through the previous year, including magically altering her parents memories to erase her from their existence. It was only earlier that night, before she ran out of their rented house on the Gold coast, apparating to the location nearest to the wizarding hotel they were staying in, and then spent half the night walking the streets, drinking brandy until the wee hours of the morning until she stumbled into their shared room, waking Ron from his fitful slumber, and promptly retching up everything she'd eaten in the past year.

Through all of the tears, the rage, the anguish, Ron was there, cleaning up her mess, tending her tenderly, and listening to everything and letting her vent her spleen of everything in her soul.

"Why couldn't he be home tonight when I need him?"

She picked up the bottle and poured one more, knowing that she would have a repeat of that night on the Gold Coast if she had more than that. She was a lightweight compared to Ron and Ginny, for sure, as long as it wasn't a particular kind of elf-made wine. Firewhiskey they could drink like a grouper and suffer no ill effects but a glass of elf made wine and they were having her reaction after too much brandy.

"Damn it, who schedules a raid on New Year's Evening? What bloody criminal is so mental to be out committing crimes worth catching tonight? I need Ron home, in bed with me."

She had a sniff and finished the liquor in her glass, looking forlornly at the fireplace. "I need him home to quiet the noise in my head. It's too loud in there."

Crookshanks came strolling in, purring loudly, having chased something earlier upstairs. He wasn’t Ron but he would certainly do for now.

"Ready for a quiet nap in my lap?"

Sure enough, the territorial bundle of furr jumped in her lap and started kneading her legs, turning circles before purring as he fell asleep.

"At least I can comfort someone," She said to herself before falling asleep, the book in her hands forgotten in her inebriated slumber.

*******************

Hermione stirred, hearing a noise from the kitchen. She checked her watch, seeing it was past one am, and heard it again. "Kreacher must be back," she said to herself before hearing what sounded like a glass breaking and a "oh shite," erupting.

Crookshanks jumped down when she wobbled up onto her shaky legs, pulling the black walnut wand from her hidden holster on her arm. While she was far from sober, the magic she felt growing inside along with the bone deep terror of someone in the house with her was enough to focus her mind on the coming task - seeing who was breaking things in their kitchen.

She stumbled slightly along the wall, using it to support herself up while holding the wand in her right, keeping a nasty curse at the front of her mind. Auror Jones taught her a few things she hadn't sussed out that would be just a hair under the line of being illegal curses.

A light at the bottom of the stairs lit up someone in the kitchen, bent over the cooling cabinet. She took two steps and heard the step creak. "Shite," she said aloud, bringing her wand up.

And felt it soaring from her hands, landing in the outstretch hand of the person at the bottom of the stairs.

"Hermione?"

Ron stepped into the lights and she felt some relief wash over her followed by a moment of abject terror.

"It's me. Christmas night I read a chapter of Hogwarts, a History, to you when you had trouble falling asleep."

Hermione took a step and felt her legs giving out, falling firmly on her bum on a step. "Whoa, easy there." Ron was up the stairs in a flash, picking her up and bringing her downstairs to sit at the enormous dining table in the kitchen. "Why are you home? Was I asleep that long? Is it Sunday morning?" Ron sniffed. "You had alcohol, didn't you?"

She felt defensive a moment before that thought evaporated in her brain haze. "Yes I did. It's New Year's Eve and you were at work. I was all alone so I said I'd have a pity party." She looked him up and down. "Why are you home? And where is Harry?" "He's still at work, writing up some reports. I'm home because our mission ended early. We caught him almost immediately and I'm caught up on my work so Robards sent me home early, said that there were enough bailiffs and aurors on duty that he didn't need me tonight." He turned around and when he turned back he had a glass of water for her. “Drink up," he said softly. She did as he asked and felt a little better. "Do you want me to get a sobering potion from the cabinet? You know we keep them now for these occasions." "Yes, please," her voice was tiny compared to his. He laughed but did as she asked, handing her a vial of what looked like had been drug from the bottom of the Thames. "I hate this potion," she said aloud and chugged down the 45ml of potion, fighting the gagging reflex on the consistency of it. Slowly the fog lifted from her mind, negating all of the alcohol in her system. Ron knelt down in front of her, looking worried. "Drinking while home alone isn't a good idea, Hermione." "I know but I missed you terribly. I am being selfish, expecting you to be home when I want you here and not when you are here. It's foolish of me." "No it's not, but we can talk about it tomorrow after we've had some sleep. I'm knackered and I know you are too, just by looking at you." She stood hugging him tightly. "Quiet the storm in my mind before we fall asleep, please?" She looked up and saw him smile softly. "Promise me that you'll sleep 'til noon tomorrow if I do? I need the sleep too, ya know? And if you wake early, let me sleep in?"

The look of love on his face melted her. She’d do anything to see that smile she loved. He gave it to her willingly, without reservations, never holding back. That was part of why she loved him so much.

”I will. Promise.” Ron held her tight before she felt the magic surround them for the short apparition trip upstairs to their bedroom, for a fast and dirty session before she would sleep for hours - or at least let him sleep in. It was the absolutely least thing she could do for him coming home to her early.

#Dragon's Fic #HP fic #Romione #Ron Weasley #Hermione Granger #inspired by RL events #aka Dragon got pissed on firewhiskey last Friday night #and it's too far from @knightandbooks prompt in my inbox for cheerful drunk hermione #so have some maudlin Hermione and Crookshanks #98% Ace Safe #tw:#tw: alcohol consumption

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thoughtslikeaminefield · 5 years

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Scotch On Ice

Summary: @cracksinthewalls asked: As warned, a new prompt. Something different. You’ve so thoughtfully already completed step 1, and you didn’t even know it. 1. Watch Always Be My Maybe ✔️ 2. Keanu Reeves 3. Suit and tie (on him, not the floor, please) 4. Single malt scotch on ice 5. Biting

Characters: Keanu Reeves x you

Rating: explicit, biting, the c-word, D/s undertones

Words: 851

He’s there – in the tufted leather armchair, watching, carelessly swirling his crystal rocks glass, prompting the single, perfectly shaped ice cube to swim like a water ballerina in the golden liquid.

You long ago dimmed the lights, but you can see his dark gaze, holding you, pinning you in place. You can feel it, hard and pressing.

He’s still in his suit and tie. He always looks like he just walked off a page from GQ, even in a ratty t-shirt and out-of-style jeans. He’s always so cool.

“Come here,” he says, clear as a bell, and you’re his dog.

You’re in front of him, then, nothing but a hair’s breadth between your knees and his. Will he tell you to strip? To kneel? To swallow his cock? You’re breathless as you wait.

“Take your top off,” he says. “Slowly.”

Everything is slow with him, savoring, unhurried. He takes his time and yours, stretching and stringing expectations, desires, linking together your thoughts and feelings, sensations, all into one long chain of nirvana.

You drop your top to the floor and the commands steadily roll from his Scotch-laden tongue. Each article of clothing, one piece at a time, is to be stripped away until you’re bare, vibrating, cool, and wanting before him.

He sips the last of his drink, holds it in his mouth as he holds your gaze. You watch his mouth work, his tongue soaking in the malt before he finally, deliberately swallows it down. He sets the glass aside then beckons you.

“Knees on either side of my hips,” he says, and you move. “But don’t sit. I want you kneeling over me.”

You obey, even as your legs shake. Your knees and shins quietly squeak the soft leather. You still and draw a breath.

And then his hands are on you. He squeezes your hips, slides his hands up your waist, over your ribcage and cups your breasts. Then he’s pulling your nipples between thumbs and fingers, twisting.

You hiss and arch into him.

“Do you want me to hurt you?” he asks.

You gasp and nod.

“Look at me,” he says.

You didn’t realize you’d closed your eyes, already lost in the moment.

You open your eyes and he’s dragging his palms down your torso over the curve of your belly. He grips one thigh in his hand, holding you in place – more of a reminder that he’s in charge than an act – and uses the other to push one, long middle finger inside you.

“How?” he asks, his ring finger joining his middle, stretching you, twisting in your mess of a cunt. “How do you want me to hurt you?”

You breathe, feel, let him stretch you open. You want so much to grind down on his hand, but that could earn you the kind of pain you won’t like. So you stay still and answer.

“Your teeth,” you say.

“My teeth,” he echoes. “What about them?”

Your breath stutters as he thrusts his fingers harder. Each intro is more measured and punishing than the last. His knuckles slam and grind into the slick, puffy flesh outside your cunt and his thumb digs into your clit.

You exhale, take it, balance your fingers on the arms of the chair so as not to lose stability. “In my skin, my throat,” you answer.

Your breathing is labored, lungs burning. Your cunt is a squelching, swollen mess. It’s always a marathon with him.

“Brace your hands on the back of the chair,” he says, and you lean forward.

He uses one smooth hand to wrap your hair around his wrist and fist, pulls and twists until you feel his hot, sweet breath against your skin.

“Do you like my hand in your sloppy cunt?” he asks, voice clear and calm in your ear.

You nod, panting, the apex of your thighs being pounded to bruising and tenderness. “I love it, sir,” you answer, knowing he wants your words – especially when it’s made difficult for you to speak from lack of breath and clear though.

He nuzzles into your neck, such a stark juxtaposition to the brutality his hands, his fists have wrought. Then his teeth scrape, light but persistent over your pulse. His tongue darts out to soothe the path left behind as his teeth increase in pressure, graduating to the point of most certainly leaving marks.

He hums and curls his fingers inside you, starts to rotate his thumb over your clit. After such intense pressure, it’s like the skies are parting for the sun. And then his teeth sink into the juncture where your shoulder meets your neck, and you scream.

You come, clamping around his fingers, spraying his crisp, black suit, sweating and undulating, sobbing.

Your arms ache, your body vibrates, as he stands, wraps your legs around his waist and walks to the bed, where he drops you on the edge.

“You got my suit all wet,” he says, yanking at his tie. “What’re we going to do about that?”

You can only imagine as your body tenses once more toward another long-game finish.

If you like what you’ve read, please let me know and/or buy me a coffee!

#keanu reeves fic #keanu reeves x you

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exoticwinespirits · 3 months

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EWS: The Top Whiskey Shop Near You

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exoticwineliquor1 · 2 years

Link

If you enjoy single malt scotch whisky, there is no shortage of new and vintage bottles to choose from. Here's a quick primer for those who are just starting out in the world of scotch: The term "single malt" refers to whisky that comes from a single distillery, but it is usually a blend of many different barrels.

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violetsmoak · 5 years

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Appetence [1/?]

AO3 Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251420/chapters/47997634

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: Red Robin is investigating the disappearance of a friend and stumbles into a spot of supernatural trouble. He doesn't expect to be saved by Jason Todd, miraculously alive five years after his death and now with the inexplicable ability to commune with the dead. Meanwhile, when Jason returned to Gotham he meant to maintain a low profile and not get involved with Bat business. That was before he found out how hot his Replacement is.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #cemetery #haunting #relics

Canon-Compliance: Alternate Universe; Jason still died but was not found by Talia when he was resurrected. All other events mostly follow the same chronology as New Earth continuity, with mentions made to events in New 52

Author’s Note(s): My attention span was really terrible today and I couldn't focus on either of my two other fics even though the next chapters of both are completely planned out. So I'm posting the start of the third (and final) story that I'm doing for the JayTimWeek/Month challenge. Also, I'm really excited about this one. I spent more time planning this than either of the other two and I can't wait to hear what you guys think!I've got work stuff to do tomorrow so there may not be anything updated until Friday.

Beta Reader: I’ll get back to you on that.

________________________________________________________________

The Bat-Signal cuts through the dark and hazy clouds lingering above Gotham City, and for a split-second, Jason Todd has the urge to drop everything and race for the roof of the GCPD Headquarters. It’s hard to ignore the nervous jump of excitement in his stomach, the phantom sensation of a domino mask on his face and the heavy drag of a cape at his shoulders.

Which makes no sense, since it’s been at least five years since I even wore that shit.

Taking a drag of his cigarette, the smoke mixing with the familiar summer smog, Jason turns his back on Gotham’s literal beacon of hope and steels himself against nocturnal threats of his own. The city is for the caped crew—because apparently, the Bat has a posse now, he thinks with only a hint of a bitter sneer—and Jason has been fighting in a different arena for quite some time now.

He takes a final drag of the cigarette, and then grinds it beneath his boots, and shoves his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. It’s a weathered and worn thing that reminds him of one Willis Todd wore in one of the few memories Jason has of him that doesn’t involve alcohol or fists. He thinks it’s less pretentious looking than a trench coat and probably gives off fewer ‘creepy motherfucker’ vibes like the sartorial choices of certain other people. It’s also less likely to snag on things when he needs to make a quick exit while digging up graves.

Yeah, it’s a thing in his line of work.

Gotham Cemetery is a sprawling necropolis, as dark and forbidding now as it was the night he dug himself out of his own grave. Half a decade of Gotham-style tender, loving negligence has left the somber green hills overgrown and the majority of the old tombstones fallen or rotting.

You’d think in a city with the highest homicide rate in the country, the mayor would spring for better maintenance. Then again, it’s Gotham. The dead don’t pay taxes, so fuck ‘em.

Which…enough said.

Gotham and the world think Jason Todd-Wayne is dead and has been for five years now; in a way, it’s the truth. He’s no longer anything like the boy that was beaten to death by a psychotic clown, no longer the shrimp who fastidiously dyed his hair black and jumped into someone else’s cape and pixie boots just so he didn’t have to be his own screwup self anymore. He outgrew wanting to be Dick a long time ago, outgrew wanting to be Bruce, too, and embraced a whole new other set of skills to put him apart from them.

Most occultists and even homo magi need to put conscious effort and intent into calling up or even seeing a spirit. Ever since Jason died and then mysteriously got better, the dead appear to him as blatantly and a solid as the living.

John told him he was a fool to come back here.

“Someone with your gifts, they’ll drive you bloody mad,” his mentor warned him when he left London. “And I ain’t talking about the dead ones, neither.”

“You’re just saying that because Batman wouldn’t hold your hand that one time,” Jason retorted, shrugging off the concern. He is Gotham born and bred, his blood is in those streets, and he has always wanted to come home, even if it wasn’t necessarily to a stately manor or its inhabitants.

He clenches his fists.

Inhabitants that wasted no time in replacing him after he died. Jason was rotting away in fucking Arkham, and Bruce was shoving another kid into the tights.

If it didn’t involve seeing him, I would hunt him down and break his jaw.

He surveys the graveyard proper. The everyday observer considers cemeteries to be places of peace and eternal rest; quiet, if a little bit spooky. To Jason, they’re as gruesome as any major battlefield.

Spirits pack the way before him; some of them look relatively normal if dated by their clothes; many others are disfigured and bloody from whatever killed them, whether natural or unnatural. They clamor and crowd, eternally shouting to be heard, or screaming as they relive their deaths in their own personal purgatories.

In the beginning, that din almost drove Jason insane. Bruce’s teachings kept him rational as long as it could in the months after he woke up, and then John’s training helped him temper his own awareness further. By now, he can function almost normally, automatically filtering the voices out as he goes about his daily business; it’s only in places like this, where the dead outnumber the living, where it’s harder.

Jason reaches up, adjusting the noise filters in his ears—mechanical devices that need regular winding but are still more reliable than anything running on electricity of batteries. They’re like steampunk hearing aids, only instead of magnifying sound, they drown out the constant moan of the ghosts when he can’t do it himself. Just one of many methods of protection he’s learned over the years. Some are physical, like the prayer beads wrapped around his wrist or the bottle of holy water in his pocket; others—spells and symbols and mantras—are carved all over his body in tattoos and blood writing. Anything to keep the otherworld away.

“Personal space is a key to a medium’s sanity,” John told him once. “That and a good bottle of single malt scotch.”

Jason ignores the moss-covered path that winds through the larger and more prominent mausoleums. He deliberately doesn’t search out the one in the distance bearing the Wayne crest—

(Still remembers the feel of his fingernails splitting against the wood of the coffin, choking on clumps of soil and insects.)

—and instead seeks a small structure much farther away. It’s in the furthest part of the cemetery, the shabby section almost hidden by overgrown willows. Half of the name above the doorway is obscured by vines, but it’s easy for him to make out the name etched into the stone with bold letters.

HAYWOOD.

According to the public record, Sheila Haywood’s body was returned to Gotham at the same time as Jason Todd’s. Bruce paid for her funeral and internment, which was just as well since she had no other family, and then she was promptly forgotten about.

By everyone except Jason, it seems.

It took some doing and a few weeks tracking down everyone that had worked at the same refugee camp as his mother, but he’d finally managed to collect what possessions she left behind. A colleague of hers had put them aside when there appeared to be nothing of actual monetary value in them.

A gold coin, small bone carvings of stylized animals, dainty trinkets of garnets, amber and lapis lazuli, a compact mirror, some seashells, a decorative fan, quartz paperweight, and a brightly colored feather. There was a picture of Willis in there, too, young and almost Jason’s double. No picture of Jason, though, but he hadn’t expected it.

He kept the picture but left the rest in the small wooden box, which he now removes from his messenger bag and sets down in front of the stone bearing his mother’s name. He follows that with various tools and ingredients. Black candles arranged in a star shape around the box, a chalice, a jar of detritus—teff seeds, driftwood and soil, all from the place where she died—that he sprinkles around in a circle, a handful of smooth obsidian stones to mark a pentagram joining the candles, the dagger John gave him for his last birthday, vials of oil and holy water.

Murmuring a few protection oaths, he shrugs off his jacket, leaving his arms bare, and then digs out a pack of matches to light the candles; flickering shadows dance across the mausoleum walls. He takes up the chalice to combine the water and oil, and then reaches for the dagger.

Hate this part.

Training to ignore pain doesn’t mean it goes away, and he grits his teeth a little as he draws his blade across his forearm, not deep enough to nick anything vital, but enough that the blood runs easily into the chalice. Without bothering to bandage the wound, Jason holds up the chalice in front of him and centers himself.

“Phantasma inrequietum, te voco,” he intones. “Eloguiorum mei audi: Sheila Haywood, te nominas!“ The stagnant air in the mausoleum starts to pick up. “In nominee creatricis, te impero, hic locum decede.” Hand over the top of the chalice, he swirls the liquid within, and then tips it into the open keepsake box. “Per sanguinem hominis et per sanguinem filii tui, non remane et apage! ”He strikes a match and lobs it into the box, not even flinching as the whole thing flares into flame; he intends to watch it until it burns to nothing.

“That’s not going to work, you know.”

“Jesus fuck!” Jason explodes, whirling to the right and glaring at the interrupter. “What did I say about sneaking up on me? Or just—showing up around me in general?”

The apparition in front of him doesn’t look impressed.

Sheila is still beautiful—or, at least, the side of her body that isn’t covered with third-degree burns and sections of pulverized bone—and still sharp. Cold, untouchable and self-interested.

But unlike the way she was before, she’s all-too present in Jason’s life now.

“Goddamn it,” he snarls, and against every lesson John has ever given him, lashes out and knocks the candles and detritus hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. “What the hell. I’ve done everything. You had last rites, your body was cremated, I just torched the things that had any value to you, why the hell won’t you just move on?”

“You’re asking the wrong questions,” Sheila replies, as always.

Jason scowls. “And of course, you can’t just tell me.”

She gazes at him balefully, and he runs a frustrated hand through his hair.

“Sheila, we’ve been over this. You can’t stay here. One, you know spirits that stick around past their time go Dark Side, and I really don’t want to have to exorcise your spectral ass. Two, it’s fucking creepy for a twenty-year-old guy to be followed around by his mother wherever he goes. What the hell is keeping you here? What more do you want from me?”

“Your forgiveness,” she tells him patiently.

“I already forgave you. Years ago.”

“You still call me Sheila.”

“That’s your name.”

“I’m your mother.”

“Who sold me out and got me murdered.”

“See? You haven’t forgiven me.”

“I have. I’m just stating a fact, Jesus…”

“Apparently the cosmic balance doesn’t agree enough to let me move on,” the ghost says dryly. “And to think, I used to be an atheist.”

“This is total bullshit,” Jason snaps, grabbing his jacket and stalking out of the mausoleum in frustration.

Three years of this mediumship crap, and neither he nor John have ever been able to figure out why the ghost of Jason’s dead mother won’t stop haunting him. Wards and sutras that keep even the nastiest spirits away from Jason don’t even phase her, and she’s inexplicably coherent.

And persistent.

As Jason stalks back through the cemetery, he can sense her in his periphery, gliding along beside him, unconcerned with his irritation.

“Can you just…stay away from me? Like you did in the beginning?” he grumbles.

“You were just learning how to communicate without going insane. I wasn’t about to disrupt that.”

“How considerate of you.”

“I try.”

“Look, I’ve had enough of the ghost-stalker thing for today. I went out of my way for this, you know. I didn’t even want to come back here. And now I’m back to the fucking drawing board.”

“It may not have been a waste of a trip,” she replies and vanishes.

“Oh, you can fuck off when it’s convenient for you,” he grumbles, though he already senses what she was speaking of.

Several yards away, a small boy, maybe eight, is clinging forlornly to an angel headstone. Translucent tears stream down his cheeks, but every now and again his face shifts, like a television caught between two channels, and his mouth widens into an unnatural smile.

Jason could have gone the rest of his life without seeing that smile again.

Still, he sighs and heads toward the kid.

“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice low and maintaining a safe distance from the boy, whose head whips up to stare at Jason in sudden fear.

“Who are you?” he asks, voice thick with tears.

“I’m Jason. You okay, kid?”

“I can’t find my mom,” the boy murmurs, wiping at his face. “I keep going looking, but I forget the way home. And then…I always end up back here.”

He sounds on the verge of tears again; it’s something Jason can understand.

With the puzzling exception of Sheila, who appears to come and go as she pleases, most ghosts are stuck in certain patterns and paths when they die, frozen in an infinite loop until they break themselves out of it or until some arbitrary higher power decides they’ve suffered enough. And for some reason, Jason can break them out of it.

“You could always try again,” he suggests. “I think you’ll manage it this time.”

The boy shudders. “There’s scary people here.”

No arguing with that.

“I know. I see them, too.” Jason glances at the headstone, scanning the name and dates. “Your name’s Cole?”

“Yeah.”

“If you’re missing, there are probably people looking for you. They might have posted something online about it. I’ll check it out, but it could take a bit.” He holds up his phone, glad to see it’s at full charge and bars; that’s hit or miss around so many ghosts. “Can you hang around here until I’m done?”

The boy nods, silent, face flicking back and forth between sadness and the unnatural smile.

Fucking Joker…

Jason does a quick search of the kid’s name, pulling up obituaries in the Gotham Gazette in the past year. It doesn’t take long for an article to pop up concerning the Joker’s latest escape and a list of the dead.

He narrows his eyes, startling the kid.

“It’s fine,” he lies. “The internet is just really slow.”

“Or our phone is really bad,” Cole tells him with the blunt honesty of a kid that grew up constantly surrounded by functional technology.

“Everyone’s a critic…”

Another quick search for the parents, phone lists and social media, and he’s got an address. Crime Alley, of course. He brings it up on his map and enables a view of the street, holding the phone out to the boy. “Is this your house?”

Relief settles and settles over his face. “Yeah.”

“What if I helped you find your way home?”

Cole makes a suspicious face. “I’m not supposed to go anywhere with strangers.”

“Which is really smart. But you see, I’m not really a stranger.”

“Oh yeah? Why not?”

“Well, I’ll let you in on a secret.” Jason bends down, conspiratorial, and Cole’s eyes gleam the way any kid gets when hearing a secret. “When I was a little older than you…I was Robin.”

The boy gapes. “Like…Batman and Robin?”

“Exactly.”

“No way!”

“Way,” Jason smirks, crossing his arms. “And I’ll tell you all about it on the way to your house. Including the time that I stole the wheels off the Batmobile.”

“No way!”

Despite his scandalized disbelief, the kid is obviously hooked.

Jason’s heart clenches a bit at the open curiosity on Cole’s face, the reality hitting him that this boy will never have a chance to do anything mischievous or fun ever again.

From one dead boy to another, this sucks…

As he leads him out of the cemetery, Jason starts to tell the little ghost about his life. He edits out the less pleasant bits, like dying and returning to life half brain dead with the ability to see and hear ghosts.

He figures a good story is the least he can do for the boy.

⁂⁂⁂

Next Chapter

#jaytimweek2019 #jaytimweek #jaytim #jaytimbingo2019 #fanfic #jaytim fic #jason todd #tim drake #prompt: supernatural #romance #drama #mystery #angst #cemetery #haunting #relics

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ballantinesscotch · 3 years

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Ballantine Whisky Rate

Ballantine's is a range of blended whiskies made by Pernod Ricard in Dumbarton, Scotland. This brand has won many accolades and awards and it is among the top-selling Scotch whiskies in the world. The Ballantine's flavour is dependent on fingerprint malts from Miltonduff and Glenburgie, blended with 50 single malts and four single grains. Ballantine's Whisky’s rate is very convenient in India.

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kisamehoshikage · 3 years

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Global Scotch Whisky Market Competitive Landscape

The report provided a quick summary of the top industry players and contributors in order to respond to various questions from customers and readers. Customers are also provided crucial indications in this study that have a large influence on the global Scotch Whisky market's growth in terms of the supplier environment and their current competitive strength. With a comprehensive examination of suppliers, manufacturers, distributors, and traders, the research aims to help key players in numerous business choices and primary investment targets. Secondary and validated primary sources are used to research prominent companies and their product information, percentage splits, market shares, product industry breakdowns, and growth rates.

Key Objectives of this Report:

To research and analyze the global Scotch Whisky market size (in terms of both value and volume) by key regions/countries, products and applications, company, and historical data for the forecast period.

To disseminate detailed information on the primary elements impacting market growth (growth potential, drivers, industry-specific challenges, opportunities, and risks).

To Identify, describes, and study the sales volume, value, market competitive landscape, market share, SWOT analysis, and growth strategies for the top Scotch Whisky manufacturers in the next years.

It emphasizes the most recent product releases and market advancements, as well as their influence on market growth.

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villainousshakespeare · 4 years

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Just one bed fluff with a character of your choosing, if it isn't taken yet?! I'm partial to Loki and Tom, but whoever floats your boat in the moment! Congratulations on 200 followers! You deserve them and more, sweetheart!

Sorry this took so long my dear! Hope it was worth the wait. I decided to do Tom for this. :-)

Kicked Out

Rated T - alcohol use, kissing, implied smut

Lots of fluff!

Tom Hiddleston/Reader

The music pulsed around you too loud for the small space. Mechanically you sipped your watered down margarita, trying to push down the depression that threatened to overcome you. If your friends back home could see you now they would be laughing at how excited you had been. Here you were, sitting alone at a hotel bar. This was not how you had envisioned things at all.

It had not all been bad of course. You loved the play you were acting in. Well, of course you did! It was Shakespeare! Even though you had only a bit role you were understudying Desdemona. And the cast was all first rate. You had already learned so much in just a few weeks! The upgrade in quality from your scrappy theater company where it was a struggle to get male performers who came anywhere near the talent level of the women such as yourself to an internationally renowned ensemble boasting genuine stars more than made up for going from playing the lead to a glorified extra.

If only you didn't find yourself feeling so cursedly shy. You had always had a bit of social anxiety, but until this tour it had never been an issue with castmates before. The theater was the one place you had always felt in your element, confident in yourself and able to mingle with everyone. You wished that were the case now.

Being assigned to room with Tisha had seemed like a wonderful stroke of luck at first. Like you she was on her first international tour, and was therefore playing several smaller parts in the ensemble. She was bubbly, outgoing, and talented, immediately drawing the attention of everyone around her. Unfortunately for you, that everyone included Michael, the actor playing Othello. He had become visibly smitten with her during the first read through, ignoring everyone else to shamelessly flirt with her whenever the opportunity presented itself. You would have been happy for her if he wasn't married with a child. The situation didn't seem to bother Tisha, who carelessly told you that she saw the whole thing more as a career move than a real relationship. What happened on the road, she breezily said, didn't effect real life, except for possibly leading to bigger roles down the line when he recommended her for future shows.

It was none of your concern, you had told yourself. They were grown adults and for all you knew he had an understanding with his wife. The problem had begun tonight, when they decided to take their relationship to the next, inevitable level. You had assumed that when this occurred, as you had guessed from the start it would, they would avail themselves of his room. After all, as one of the stars of the production he had a large room all to himself. Unfortunately for you, this did not turn out to be the case. As a married celebrity, Tisha had explained to you in hushed tones, Michael's meant had to be careful in situations such as this. He could never be seen having a woman enter his room, much less stay over night! Of course you wouldn't mind vacating your room for a while, would you? She had pleaded with big puppy eyes in a tone that clearly said she did not expect you to say no, and had somehow ushered you out the door, blithely commenting that you should be able to come back in a few hours, just knock before entering to be sure. The door shutting in your face had been cruel and final.

So here you were, sitting by yourself at the hotel bar with a bartender who looked like he would dearly love to cash you out and head home. You could have found one of the other actors to let you crash wish them, but you didn't really know anyone that well yet. The insecurity that flooded you when you thought of knocking on a virtual stranger's door and asking to sleep on their floor was too overwhelming.

"Trouble sleeping?" a voice like melted caramel asked from just over your shoulder.

You choked on your drink, splashing a bit of it onto your lap and the bar in front of you. You would have recognized that voice anywhere. You heard it often enough in your fantasies. But though it had been three weeks since you had begun working with him you still could not believe that you were now hearing it in person as well. Never in your wildest dreams had you believed that you would actually book a show with Tom Hiddleston.

Turning on your stool you saw the man himself standing behind you. He was so attractive it made you want to cry sometimes. You had come into contact with other celebrities over the years, and in almost every case seeing them up close and personal had somehow ruined the fantasy of them. In real life they had each just seemed... ordinary. With Tom, it was the exact opposite. He was handsome on screen or in pictures, in real life he was literally breathtaking. From the top of his burnished gold curls to the soles of his well worn grey boots and everywhere in between he was perfect.

"You could say that," you laughed uneasily, face turning crimson. You had never spoken to him alone before, and never anything other than vague platitudes at the end of rehearsals or addressed to a group at large.

"Me too," he said, giving you a half grin. "Would you mind if I joined you?"

What could you do but shake your head and gesture to the seat next to you. Pulling out the bar stool he folded his long, lean frame onto it, stretching his legs out. Your feet dangled like a child's from the stool, but his reached the floor with ease you noticed. Damn, but his legs were long!

"I'm always nervous before opening in a new city," he admitted, signaling for the bartender to come over. He ordered a single malt scotch and another daiquiri for you, requesting that the waiter make it with top shelf tequila.

"Still?" you asked, surprised that he would get nervous given his lengthy resume.

"Of course," he shrugged. "Never trust an actor that tells you he's not nervous. He's either lying or not pushing himself hard enough. The day my nerves go is the day I pack it in. The challenge is everything."

"Well, it's good to know it's not just me," you said quietly with a soft smile. You were nervous of course, even if that wasn't why you were there now.

"This is your first professional show, isn't it?" he asked.

You nodded, surprised that he knew. Was your acting that clunky that your lack of experience showed in just your few scenes?

"I watched your audition tape," he told you, grabbing a handful of bar nuts and arranging them on a napkin. "I wanted to come to the auditions, but Ken thought it might make people nervous. I made sure to watch all the tapes though. You were very good. The passion you put into Lady Anne was remarkable."

You blinked at him, all words deserting you. He had seen that? You were quite proud of your Lady Anne, but he was right. It was hard enough to have Kenneth Branagh watching you audition. If Tom had been in the room, you doubt you would have been able to do it.

"Thank you," you said at last after a long pause while he snacked on peanuts. "I had no idea."

"I like having a say in things like that," he shrugged. "When you're doing a show that's this intense, who you're on stage with is a big deal. Also, both Ken and I are firm believers in giving new talent an oppertunity. After all, him taking a chance on me is how I ended up with my career. What kind of person would I be if I didn't pass on the favor. I was the one who pushed for you to be Desdemona's understudy, by the way."

"Really?" you wished the word didn't come out like a squeak.

"Mhm. In fact, I thought you could have played the part. Producers wanted a name though, and I guess you can't blame them. Have to make their money back. Still, you were quite impressive."

You were saved the trouble of responding by the arrival of your drinks. Tom thanked the bartender and asked to have the drinks, including the one you had had before, charged to his room before leaving a large tip on the bar.

"Thank you again," you said, sipping on your new and much stronger drink.

"No need," he waved it off. "Othello was my big break, you know. I played Cassio in a production with Chewitel Eijifor and Ewan McGregor. It was fantastic, but I always wanted to do Iago. I try not to make dream part lists, I'm a bit superstitious that way, but now that I'm actually doing it I can admit it."

"I would think it would be on any actor's list!" you said, trying to hide the fact that of course you knew about his previous Othello, along with every other part on his lengthy cv. "I would like to tackle it myself some day."

"I would love to see that," he smiled, looking sincere. "You have a great facility with the language. And there is no reason why Iago should have to be male. I must say that I greatly appreciate that we live in a time where the gender barriers for such superb parts are beginning to break down. What other roles do you dream of tackling? I promise I won't tell a soul!"

You weren't sure whether it was the alcohol warming you or the way he smiled and listened to you like you were the only person in the world, but you soon found yourself engaged in a long discussion of Shakespeare that ranged from contentious - you would never agree on who the ultimate Richard III was, with you preferring Ian McKellan and Tom being loyal to his good friend Benedict - to the ridiculous. He had you in stitches when he recounted the story of an actor (he refused to name them) who had so completely missed an entrance on press night for Much Ado that Tom and his scene partner had to improve in verse for three minutes. When the poor man had made it onto stage, he had not had time to put his shoes back on. The review in Time Out the next day had gone on for two paragraphs about the social commentary of having a barefooted Don Pedro. By that point you were on your third drink and laughing like old friends, hunched over and shaking with mirth.

"Oh! Yes!" Tom said suddenly, pulling himself up to standing and holding out his hand to you. "Come on!"

"What?" you asked, totally confused.

"This song!" he replied, enthusiasm shining from his face.

"It's a good song," you agreed, listening to Michael Jackson's Beat It blaring out from the speakers.

"Well then?"

"What?"

"Dance with me!"

"Tom..."

"I refuse to take no for an answer," he insisted, dragging you to your feet and onto the dance floor.

Tom's energy was infectious, there was no avoiding it. Abandoning the last shreds of your dignity you surrendered to the music and the exuberance of the man spinning you around the floor. He was good of course, you had seen it on videos often enough, but he made you actually feel like you could dance as well. Michael Jackson turned into Prince and then Tina Turner as the two of you made idiots of yourselves in the empty bar.

"Last call," the beleaguered bar tender called, ruining the vibe.

Looking around you realized that he had put up all of the chairs and wiped down the bar. As tempting as it was to order another drink and prolong the fun, you knew that it was not fair to the poor server. Still, you didn't know what to do with yourself now. Would Tisha and Michael be finished with whatever they were doing? Had it been long enough to go up?

As Tom helped put up the remaining bar stools and finished off his scotch you collected your purse. You stared at your phone, trying to decide whether or not to text Trisha.

"Okay, out with it," Tom said, looking at you with an unwavering stare.

"With what?" you evaded.

"The truth. Why were you down in the bar by yourself? And don't say nerves. I've talked to you enough now to know that you are not the sort to drown your anxiety in alcohol."

"You did," you said, not believing your audacity.

"I came down for tea," he said.

"Tea?" you parroted.

"There was no earl grey in my room. I like to have a cup in the morning while I get ready."

"But you had a scotch! Two of them!"

"Well, I would hardly be a gentleman if I let a lovely lady drink alone," he shrugged. "So. Spill it. What brought you down here all by yourself?"

"Um... it was just... a little crowded in my room," you tried to sound as noncommittal as possible.

"Ah, I see," his quick brain filled in the pieces. "You're rooming with Tisha, aren't you?"

"Yes," you answered slowly.

"So Michael has made his move has he?"

"You know?" you asked, somewhere between mortified and relieved.

"Well, they haven't exactly been subtle," he said with a wry laugh. "Also, he has a bit of a reputation. I had hoped it was just rumor, God knows there are enough of those about me, but it appears in this case there was some truth behind it. Don't tell me they kicked you out?"

"They told me I could come back later," you said quickly, trying for some reason to make them look not quite as selfish and failing miserably.

"Why couldn't they just have gone to his room? No, never mind. Foolish question. You poor thing. I am so sorry you have to deal with this. Would you like me to check with the front desk and get you another room?"

"Oh, no, that's really not necessary!" you said. You could only imagine the talk if that were to happen, trying to explain to the tour manager why there was an additional expense on the invoice. True, it was Tisha and Michael who should be made uncomfortable by it, but you just knew you would be the one to squirm from the scrutiny.

"Well, there is only one thing for it," he said, placing his large hand on the small of your back and ushering you out of the bar. "You shall stay with me."

"What?" for the second time your voice, pride of your acting arsenal, was rendered little more than a dog whistle.

"It's no problem," he shrugged, walking towards the elevator and taking you with him. "I have a large single room all to myself. I'm sure it will be much more comfortable than breaking up whatever your roommate and Michael have going on."

You looked away and bit your lip, trying to decide what to do. It was such a tempting offer. Not that you would ever get any sleep in the same room with this man, but at least you wouldn't have to face the love birds.

"Darling," Tom said, gently turning your face to look you in the eye, "you have no reason to worry. I am not Michael. I would never take advantage of a costar. I just want you to have a comfortable place to get a good night's rest before your performance."

"I never thought... Of course you wouldn't take advantage!" you said with a laugh. As if someone like Tom would try to take advantage of you, you thought. It would be hilarious if he wasn't standing there looking like an overly attentive angel.

"Good, then it's settled," Tom's smile beamed at you. "Come on."

And just like that you found yourself in the unbelievable position of movie star Tom Hiddleston showing you into a large corner hotel room on the top floor. The comparison to your small shared double was insane. You were fairly sure your whole room would fit into his en suite.

"Oh," you gasped, not intending it to be audible.

"What's wrong?" he asked, turning to you all solicitous.

"Nothing," you said miserably, trying not to stare at the giant king size bed. You didn't know why you had expected there to be two beds. He had told you it was a single room. As it was there was not even a couch for you to sleep on. Two large over stuffed chairs took up space on the other side of the room, and hard backed ones surrounded the table near floor to ceiling the windows.

"Ah," he said, perceptively following your thoughts. "Yes. One bed. If you like I can sleep in the chair."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous!" you blurted out.

"I assure you, I have suffered much worse," he smiled. "If you feel uncomfortable sharing, I will gladly curl up in the armchair."

"No, that's just silly," you said, swallowing around the lump in your throat. "After all, the bed is so big you could fit five people in it. As long as you don't mind, that is."

"Not a bit," he said rubbing the back of his neck. "Now, let me find you something to sleep in."

To no surprise you soon found yourself in a pair of long running shorts and a Legend t-shirt. You surreptitiously pinched yourself to make sure this was real. To be dressed in one of the patented Hiddleston outfits was surreal to say the least.

You walked out of the bathroom to find Tom sitting on the edge of the bed in his own pair of jogging shorts, glorious broad chest bare. Trying desperately not to stare, you shyly walked around to the other side of the bed.

"Left side alright for you?" he asked, always the gentleman.

You nodded and quickly got yourself under the covers, pulling the blankets up to your chin. Tom turned off the light and got himself situated, leaving the bedding down at his waist. In the dim light you could just make out the whirl of hair on his chest as he curled onto his side facing you. Your fingers itched to reach out and feel it, but you managed to keep them to yourself. You could feel the heat radiating from him, like a live fire warming your body. He reached out gently and touched your face with the backs of his fingers, still staying to his side of the wide mattress.

"It was lovely getting to know you, darling," he said quietly. "Rest well."

You smothered the whimper threatening to erupt and rolled onto your side, facing the window as far away from him as you could get without hanging off the edge. Attempting to ignore the pooling desire in your center you settled in for what was sure to be a long, sleepless night.

When the alarm went off you almost jumped out of your skin. Blearily you tried to sit up, but a strong arm around you kept you anchored to the bed. A murmured curse sounded behind you and the beeping stopped. A face buried itself in your hair as you were pulled closer to the wall of chest at your back.

Oh sweet lord! you thought, as awareness of your location flooded into your brain. Gingerly you opened one eye just enough to confirm that you were half way across the bed in the center of the mattress. You must have rolled over in your sleep, you realized. Which of course meant that Tom had also drifted to the middle of the bed to meet you in what could only be described as he the most comfortable and simultaneously uncomfortable embrace of your life.

He felt divine. He body was all pliant skin over hard muscle, Warm and soft and deliciously scented. His obscenely large hand splayed across your waist, just below your breasts, to rest against the stripe of bare flesh where your borrowed t-shirt had ridden up in your sleep. His legs, those impossibly long limbs you had admired in the bar last night, were pressed against you, one rising up to hook over your own. It was heaven. If only it was intentional. Silently as you lay in his embrace your mind cringed awaiting the moment he woke the rest of the way and realized that the woman in his arms was only you, a pathetic cast mate he had taken pity on when she was cast out of her own room.

When you could bear it no longer, you tried to gently pull away from him. Once again his arm tightened around you, holding you close to him. You closed your eyes and tried to think of a way to delicately extricate yourself. That was when you heard your name, mumbled in his honey warm voice made rough by sleep into your hair.

"Stay," he said, snuggling further into you. "Please."

Well, when he asked so nicely! Really, you decided, when would you ever have such a chance again. Surrendering to the bliss, you allowed yourself to sink back against him. You would soak up these moments, you decided. Save them for when you were feeling lonely, or needed a happy memory to see you through a hard time. After all, what could be better than being held in Tom Hiddleston's strong arms?

It was too short a time before the alarm went off again. Tom swore, lifting his arm from around your body to turn it off. You felt him, more fully awake this time, realize the situation you found yourselves in. His body stiffened and his leg quickly slid off of yours.

"I am so sorry," he said, pulling his head from where it had lain in the top of your hair. "Please, darling, forgive me. I didn't mean to take advantage."

"No need to apologize," you assured him, trying to sound as though this sort of thing happened to you every day. "After all, we were both asleep."

"It's just been so long since I've had a beautiful woman in my bed," he sighed, arm rising to cover his eyes. "My body just reacted instinctually."

"Beautiful?" you heard yourself say, a note of disbelief in your voice.

"Can you doubt it?" he asked, sounding surprised himself.

"Generally speaking," you laughed, thinking that this man calling anyone beautiful was like the sun calling a lightning bug bright.

"My darling, you are stunning," he said, rising up on his elbow to look at you. "You are also intelligent, funny, and delightful. I thought I had a crush on you before I got to know you last night, but now..."

"You have - a crush?"

"Damn," he said quietly. "Forgive me. I should not have said that."

Slowly, not daring to believe what you had just heard, you rolled over so that you were facing him. Hair mussed and eyes slightly unfocused Tom looked even more devastating than usual. A light growth of stubble shadowed his jaw, and in the dawn light his freckles stood out against his pale skin.

"Did you mean it?" you asked, stunned.

"There are few things as attractive... as sexy as talent," he said quietly, not meeting your eye. "When I saw you act, well, I could scarce keep my eyes off of you."

"You do realize that you are the most talented person I have ever seen," you told him, shock bringing out your candid side.

"You are very kind," he blushed.

"I am very honest," you answered. "You really think of me like that?"

"I think of you all the time," he replied, looking at you at last. "Often like that. I have spent the last three weeks trying to work up the courage to speak with you. When I saw you sitting alone in the bar last night, I thought someone must have heard my prayers."

"I am in a dream," you said. "I am in a dream and any moment now I will wake up and be back in the small black box theater performing for ten people."

"If you are in a dream than I am too," he smiled. "Darling, I understand if you want to leave. Things with me are never simple. It is an unfortunate side effect of the career I have chosen. But if you are willing to try, I would love to court you."

"Court me?" you grinned at his archaic turn of phrase. "Like with flowers and poems and such?"

"If you would like," he said, surprising you once more. "I have written a poem or two in my day, though I am more adept at songs. They are more forgiving. For now, we could perhaps start with breakfast?"

"Breakfast sound wonderful," you said, realizing suddenly that you were in fact hungry.

"I will order room service then," he nodded. "But first, sweetheart, would it be too forward of me... may I kiss you?"

Unable to speak you nodded your head once. Tom smiled, and reached down to grasp your chin gently between his thumb and finger. With an aching tenderness he brought his lips to yours. The kiss was soft and sweet and full of promise. You felt it all the way down to your toes in ways that far more invasive kisses had never moved you. Your back arched and you molded yourself to him, his free arm encircling you to hold you close. Emboldened by the embrace, you let your own hands find their way around him and to his back where they slid down the naked skin in a caress. With a quiet moan he pulled away, and you briefly felt his arousal brush against your let as he let you go.

"The things you do to me," he sighed, fingers lightly tracing your face.

"I know what you mean," you breathed, feeling light headed from the kiss.

"I started this leg of the tour irritated at Michael," he confided. "Now I am tempted to send him a thank you gift. What do you thing? Champagne? Chocolates?"

"If we give them all that, won't it just encourage them the next night?" you giggled.

"Ah, now you see my clever plan," he teased. "How else can I hope to get you back in my bed?"

"Tom," you spoke seriously, "clever plans are not needed. All you need do is ask."

"Hmm," he grinned, pulling you close once again. "I am suddenly more happy than I can say that they forgot my tea."

"So am I," you smiled, nestling in against him. "You have no idea."

"Well then," he said. "You will just have to show me. Fortunately, we have months to go, and I for one have never been so happy to start a tour."

As you burrowed back together under the covers you could not help but agree.

@yespolkadotkitty @hopelessromanticspoonie @nonsensicalobsessions @hiddlesholic

#fic #fanfic #milestone challenge #tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston x reader

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vaani07 · 3 years

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Top 10 Most Expensive Alcohols in the World

Do you want to know the Most Expensive Alcohols in the World? And the reason for their high price? If yes! Then this Blog is for you. Everyone likes a drink every now and again, but if you found yourself paying for some of these, you might be inclined to drink something nonalcoholic, instead! The price of alcohol matters a lot. Sometimes the cost of alcohol depends on the high quality of alcohol, but it also depends on the brand name and its ingredients. We are counting down our list for the 10 Most Expensive Alcohols in the world.

10 Most Expensive Alcohols in the World

10. Dalmore 62 – $215,000

We will start with the world’s most expensive whiskey. Before bottling, it spent 62years in the barrel and was first introduced in 2012. Dalmore produced only 12 bottles of this Scotch whiskey, increasing its price and uniqueness. It can be an excellent investment: as people open these bottles, the unopened bottle’s price will continue to rise. No one knows how its price increased so much, but for sure, some wealthy unknown had bought it for such a good deal.