#WHOOOWEEE

[mail-me-a-snail]

engie teaches pyro a thang or two about cars

(original audio from a tiktok by taylormx5)

[cyberhai]

Ain't none of those mfs at the telegraph seen Stephen Lang

[redpiperfox]

red my dear may i please request a little jisung-ryujin sibling drabble? fluff, humor, as long as you don’t shoot me through the heart with left-field angst ^^”””

Absolutely, anytime, and always! (And I will honor angst-less requests, ofc~) have two siblings who'll always have each others backs--

Most people who know Jisung and Ryujin feel an immense amount of pity for their parents.

Jisung and Ryujin are complete opposites, and together they make their parents' perfect child. Jisung is really good at schoolwork, but an absolute menace to society-- not a single teacher has liked him, and they've only begrudgingly passed him. Ryujin is a complete angel child who lives for praise, but absolutely does not have the mind for schoolwork-- she has passed her classes out of pity mainly. Because they're so different, most teachers don't easily connect that they're related until their parents come for conference meetings, embarressed usually, mom with her sunglasses and dad with his cap pulled over his eyes.

Their opposite personalities made their bickering awful. Sibling behavior, easily excused as such, turned up to the max.

But there is one thing about their kids that they'll always be able to hold their heads up proudly about. A private detail, that no one else can really know.

When the two enter high school, they're separated into private girls and boys schools, the buildings several blocks away from each other. Ironically, the girls school is further, and closer to the university, and the students there are discouraged from staying late or coming too early for their safety. Jisung, being older, hears about this first through the twins, when Hyunjin declines staying late to scrimmage in the field with a football because he has to walk his sister home. At first, he finds it so stupid. Until it's his own sister entering high school.

Their parents ask Jisung to walk her, and since she lives to please, she doesn't make a fuss, but Jisung can see in the way she walks just a little faster than him that she doesnt love it. Jisung voices his complaints first-- he has to wake up earlier, he has to walk more and risk being late, he has to miss tutoring after school (not that he ever needs it). Almost out of indignation, Ryujin quietly retaliates-- she gets up early enough to be fully dressed by the door by the time Jisung wakes up. She finds a shortcut through the park to school so Jisung doesn't have to walk as far. And worst of all, she comes to the boys school after her classes finish, and sits in the field with her homework until Jisung admits he doesnt actually need tutoring.

Ryujin doesn't care.

The next week, she's sitting and blocking the goalposts with three other friends, all of them studying for their msth exams.

Somehow, it appears as an act of defiance in the girls. The adults praise them for their work ethic.

They all gather in the boys field after theyre kicked from their own school grounds, their textbooks open, the older girls tutoring the younger, and the boys shamefully trying to appear like theyre not having fun the moment the last bell of the day rings.

Some of the boys even join the girls.

Jisung doesnt.

He knows what sort of grades his sister pulls despite her books being open for hours. He cant speak for all of them, but she was the first one taking up space on their field, so he blames it all on her. He starts voicing his complaints to anyone who will listen-- Hyunjin just rolls his eyes.

For good measure to make his intentions known, Jisung makes sure to kick the ball into the fence as close to her as possible without taking her head out-- but it isnt his fault that her head is so big it lobs itself in her path sometimes.

And well, Ryujin takes that as an invitation to sit on top of the fence while she studies. The lights better that way Anyways.

It isnt until the last weeks of school, where final exam tensions are high, that they both stop pretending to fight.

Ryujin doesnt have the energy to make Jisungs life hard, she falls asleep on her books trying to photographically memorize them. Jisung doesnt have the bandwidth to be annoyed by her, hes trying to make up with all his teachers and prove he isnt a half miserable kid who deserves to pass.

So their act falls apart in front of everybody that last week-- Jisung is the first to leave his friends to sit by the girls and study with his sister. Ryujin ends up being the first to finish her study packets because of him, and the one to play some football with the guys before it gets dark.

Before Ryujin even passes her classes, she makes sure to loudly and frequently boast about her brother, who takes care of her so well. Never in Jisungs presence, but loudly enough that it ripples through his school and among the girls, so they regard him just a little more positively. If Jisung notices he doesnt say, but he knows where to sneak chocolates when he feels the effects of it.

It confuses everyone. No one ever figures the two of them out. But thats alright-- because they take care of each other and thats enough for them :)

[pumpkingut5]

Could u maybe pls write a duff x reader?

Here's the plot:

Y/N is Axl's sister, and one day, he invites his bandmates over and casually introduces his sister to them. The moment Y/N meets Duff, she’s instantly drawn to him—but he barely pays her any attention. Disappointed, she flirts with Slash instead, trying to shake off the feeling.

Yet, no matter how hard she tries, Duff stays on her mind. She starts bombarding Axl with questions about him. Axl shares everything he knows, then casually mentions that Duff is dating someone. The news hits Y/N hard, and she falls into a lovesick mood. Axl, at first, doesn’t understand why his sister suddenly seems so down.

One evening, he finds her crying on the couch and asks what’s wrong. Through tears, she confesses that she thinks Duff is amazing. Axl laughs, telling her she should’ve said something sooner. Without hesitation, he picks up the phone and calls Duff, asking him to come over. Y/N is outraged and shocked, demanding to know what Axl is up to. He just grins.

Fifteen minutes later, Duff shows up, and Axl tells him to say something to Y/N. She tries to play it down, but Axl ends up spilling the truth. Duff looks surprised—but happy. As Axl leaves them alone, Duff tells Y/N he actually liked her too, but Slash had told him she was into him instead.

The misunderstanding finally clears, and the two start kissing and making out. 💕

Whipped

Summary- After meeting your brother’s band mates, you find yourself being particularly drawn to a certain blonde of the group. Unfortunately for you, he seems to not care less about your ogling, so you decide to flirt with the curlyhead instead. After an emotional and also embarrassing conversation with your brother, and a mortifying phone call later, it seems there may be hope overall.

Content warnings- kissing, reader down bad, crying, swearing, embarrassment

A/n- whoooweee! Gosh this was so fun to write, I’m so sorry it took so long!! I loved this idea and the fact that you described it in great detail, that was very helpful. I hope this is what you wanted my lovely 🫶🏼🫶🏼

——————————————————————————

You couldn’t find it, where had you put it? You were searching for a certain shirt that you wanted to wear tonight, for going out with your best friend who insisted on dragging you to the local pub.

A big sigh left your mouth as you realised it must be downstairs, with the freshly cleaned washing. You were lazy, unwillingly dragging yourself down the steep stairs until you reached the bottom. What a workout, you thought as you shuffled your way into the living room. Now out of all the things you could’ve been prepared to see, this wasn’t one of them. Your mouth parted, as if trying to speak, opening and closing like a fish.

Two men sat on the sofa, one being Izzy, who you already knew, and two more were spread out on the floor, they were all very handsome men… except your brother of course. All of a sudden it clicked, Axl’s bandmates, who you had yet to meet. Well, not anymore, you suppose. On the very far left corner of the couch, sat a smiley man with blonde poofy hair, and next to him was Izzy, your brother’s childhood friend who you had met on multiple occasions. You gave him a little wave. Now on the floor sat a curly, black mop of a head, his curls framing his half-covered face. And last but not least, the man you had to take a second look for, another blonde. He was obviously taller by the way he towered over his friend effortlessly, and his pretty-looking face made you stare.

You never believed in love at first sight, in fact, you thought it was silly. That is until now. Christ he is hot; was just about the only thought flowing through your head at the moment, along with other miscellaneous things which you would never dare to say out loud.

“have you seen my shirt?” You ask your brother, the little shake in your voice not gone unnoticed by him. “The black one with the design” was what you added on, trying to make this situation a little less awkward.

“No, i haven’t. But why dont cha sit down here with us for a bit, y’know, get to know these guys,” Axl spoke. Now if it was under any other circumstance, you would’ve said no, but there was a gorgeous blonde who you just needed to meet.

“Alright.” You sigh. Hoping that the reason you cooperated so quickly wasn’t too obvious. Mumbled hellos float across the room, and everyone gave somewhat of a smile, except him. Of course, the one person you seem to be drawn to has no interest whatsoever. Gosh life is so unfair.

You try not to make the disappointment show, you really do try, but it’s hard when he’s just so damn pretty. You take in all your options, and decide the easiest way not to get your heart broken, is to distract yourself with the cute guitarist. So thats exactly what you do. The rest of the evening is spent with beers in hand, and flirty remarks passed between you and slash.

Eventually, they all went home, and that left you and Axl to clean up the mess. Not that you minded, as it gave you chance to start your plan. “Hey ax?” You call out. “Yeah?” Was the lighthearted response you received. “What’s the blondes’ name?” You found yourself asking. “You talkin’ about Duff?” He asked with a hint of confusion in his voice. No words came out your mouth in return, only a small hum of agreement.

This conversation had to have carried on for at least 15 minutes, and by the end of it, you knew his favourite colour, how old he was, if he has any pets, the instrument he plays, his favourite movie, and a brief summary of his personality overall. You hadn’t meant to ask all those questions, it just slipped ou- “oh yeah, and he has this girlfriend that—” The rest of Axl’s sentence became redundant, the only thing you’re focussing on, is the word ‘girlfriend’. Fuck fuck, way to ruin a girls mood.

You reply to his story with a half hearted laugh and a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. But of course, your brother being your brother, doesn’t notice a thing, just patting your shoulder and walking himself to his bedroom.

After standing in the living room for quite some time, you come to the decision to go to your own room, the steps on the way there feeling heavy, as if you’re carrying a weight. Then you continue your evening as usual, getting changed and brushing your teeth, then shimmying into the warm sheets. They glide against your freshly-shaven legs, and you take comfort in grasping the duvet in both hands, and pulling it all to under your chin.

——————————————————————————

A couple days go by, and you’re still nore upset than you would like to admit you are. And apparently, your not as subtle as you think you are. You find this out when you step into the kitchen to pour yourself some cereal, you hear the sound of a throat clearing and you feel a finger poke you in your back.

You turn around, clearly annoyed. “What, Axl?” You snapped. “Nothing, just wondering whats got you all—” he paused for a minute before adding, “grumpy” is what he decided on. “Im not grumpy, and even if i was i don’t see how thats your business?” And without even giving him a chance to reply, you walk away. Cereal forgotten.

——————————————————————————

It was the next day, and you still weren’t feeling any better. You don’t even know why you feel this way, you barely even spoke to the guy! But whatever you were feeling, it wasn’t nice. Your saline tears drip down from your eyes and trail their way down towards your mouth, the salty taste not gone unnoticed by yourself.

What time was it? You had sat down on the couch at around, what was it? 1pm? And what was it now? Glassy eyes gazed towards the clock, 7pm. Wait— 7pm? You could’ve sworn you had only been sat for half an hour, an hour at most.

Your mind started to spiral. Thought after thought making its way into your head. The inner monologue mocking you, discriminating you, telling you that you could be better than this, should be better than this. But it all comes to a screeching stop as a voice penetrates your hearing.

“Alright” he says, sliding into the spot next to you and turning towards you with an expectant look on his face. In that protective older brother fashion, he refuses to leave until you tell him whats wrong, which is when it all came out. It was like you had no control of your mouth, it was speaking freely for you, and there was no stopping it. Word after word just tumbles out, and you see his eyes slowly start to widen.

By the time you’re finished, you only just come to realise what you’ve just done. Shit. You didn’t mean to do that. You just confessed your feelings for your brother’s friend, to your brother. You were expecting him to shout, to ask whats wrong with you. Maybe even throw a couple of things. What you definitely were not expecting was the small smile that crept its way onto his face, the smile that appeared any time he had a mischievous idea.

“What?” You asked in a sharp tone, annoyed by his reaction and the pure calmness of it all. Axl didn’t do calm, in fact, this was damn near never heard of. “Oh nothing.. you should’ve just said something sooner” he replied, that smirk growing to a concerning degree. Before you even had a chance to register what he was doing, his hand reached on to the coffee table in front of you both, and picked up the phone. When you tried to ask him what he was doing, you were met with his index finger on your lips, and an exaggerated pout which meant ‘shush’.

There was a sudden click of the telephone, and then a groggy “hello?”. “Duff I’m gonna need you to come over right now,” your eyes widened, and then you lurched forward in a sad attempt at grabbing the phone. He lifted it above his head, brung it down for a quick second to shout an unnecessarily loud ‘thank you’ into the phone, and then slammed in back down onto the table.

“What did you do!” Was all you had to say, panic seeping in. He didn’t respond, he just kept that cheshire grin on his face. The next 15 minutes were the longest of your life, you were pacing, walking back and forth between the couch and the front door.

Your advances were abruptly stopped when a knock sounded through the house. You froze in place, and then shuffled back to the couch, dreading whats next to come. You don’t look over as the door opens, nor do you look when you hear your brother say something under the lines of ‘just talk to her, please?’

The couch dips next to you, and you turn your head to be met by those dazzling eyes. “I uh—i don—i don’t know why my brother called you, i—it’s not a big deal” you stuttered out, hoping to kill the silence. “Bullshit!” Your brother exclaimed, before starting again; “my sister likes you, but she’s too much of a pussy to vocalise it so i took it into my own hands to do it for her.” He exhaled deeply, like a weight was physically off his shoulders. Little noises of unfinished sentences started to leave your mouth, trying to find somewhat of an excuse for.. whatever that was.

Duff’s eyes widened, and his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. You looked around the room, hoping an excuse would just.. come out of nowhere? But instead you caught the last glimpse of your brother as he walked out of the room. Prick. You were zoned out of the situation until a voice snapped you back to reality. “You—you like me?”

At this point it felt as if you had lost all ability to speak, so you just nodded your head up and down in hopes he would take that for an answer. Fortunately, luck was in your favour and a big smile spread its way across his face. “Seriously?—i mean, Slash told me you were in to him,” he said with a melancholy tone. “I just flirted with slash to avoid thinking of you” was your reply, short but sweet.

His head tilted to the side slightly, and he leaned in just enough for you to interpret it however you would like. Of course, you met him halfway. Your lips connected, and moved together as if they had done this hundreds of times before. When you began to lose air, you pulled apart and rested your forehead on his, breathing heavily in each others presence.

After you had both regained your breath, you started again. Small pecks turned into the melding of lips that lasted for what felt like minutes.

You two could’ve gone on for hours, just kissing each other like it hurts to be apart. But of course, all good things must come to an end, and sometimes that end is in the shape of your older brother yelling “ew! Get a room.”

[high-on-sonder]

Tommy not landing the plane was disappointing, but Jem landing it made up for it.

Bobby and Athena calling each other 'Baby'. Ugh, those are my parents y'all.

Chimney is such a little shit, I love him. (And that five-o-clock shadow? WHOOOWEEE)

Buck on a Bike. Guess Tommy's not the only thing he likes to ride.

Gerrard taking Buck 'under his wing'. We just got the BuckTommy conflict.

[all-things-snek-loves]

TW: High and horny! Sorry if I borrowed your art lol I just found it on google 😄

Whoooweee. I’m very high, and like everyone’s high is probably different, but like I go through the phases hungry, tired, but I get horny, like extremely sensitive to it after an edible. And I just have the hots so hard for Nero right now. Like usually the DMC guys are all my fire. But like tonight.. it’s Nero. My mind wanders to what it would be like to be high and flirting with Nero, until he gives you a cocky smirk, tightens his breaker across your hip and pulls you in to straddle his thighs, and you don’t even have to advance anything, you can stay still on his thigh and share a few kisses, or you can take it all the way. Nero just enjoyed your bubbly high self, even though you were eating everything in reach, and your eyes were heavy from the high, he kept you in arms reach, and even occasionally brought you snacks. He realized how sensitive small touches made you squirm, or giggle, or give a moan, and he would sometimes switch devil breakers just to give you another sensation of touch. Nero never pushed you when you were high, if you wanted to fuck he was down, holding your hips as you ride with those red, heavy eyes, or if he felt you were too stoned he would just feed you whatever snacks you wanted and stroke your hair as you fall asleep on the couch during a movie. Your high self always had Nero’s thumb between your lips when you needed to ground yourself because you were a little too high. Nero always just smiled at you, giving you a soft playful scolding. Nero lazily wrapped his arms over your hips, letting you play with his hair or bury his head between your chest, to give you faint little love marks, whether you were in a nightgown or some skimpy pjs, he always held you. He let you move, dance, sing, or sleep as he just held your hips, and watched, giving you the silliest smile. You were dead to the world anyways with a high, so you might as well just vibe. Nero enjoyed your silly giggles, the way you moved with little stumbles, the way you just flopped into bed after a snack fest and snoozed. He loved every single moment of you.

[thebestdangcopever]

“Dave had to leave in a hurry this mornin’ and he asked me to come over and help the kids get ready for school.”

“WHOOOWEEE! MY FIRST OFFICIAL PARENTING DUTY! Time to show off my skills!”

“I know it’s just packing lunches and stuff, but it feels HUGE, ya know?”

[major-mads]

Friend I have FINALLY caught up with A Pair Of Silver Wings and WHOOOWEEE! It’s doing a number on my emotions but I love it so much!!! I’m anxious and excited for what comes next for the four of them (and Hugh) but jeeeez if the girls in the Stalag doesn’t make me nervous. As always I can’t wait for the next update!!

AHHHH!!! Thank youuu!! The girls being in the Stalag even makes me nervous, and I know what we have planned for them!! I'm going on a trip abroad, so there will be a gap in our posting until I get back, but we're trying to get ahead as much as we can!! You're the best for always supporting us and commenting!!🥹

mads💕

[mail-me-a-snail]

TRUE BLU iv.

They would've known me. Wouldn't that have been enough? You tell me.

in which we find sniper crossing enemy lines ‧₊˚ ⋅ if you saw this this morning, no you didn't. in other words, the tumblr scheduling system has harmed me once more. anyway happy reading and as always, comments are much appreciated!!

[empiressmp]

hello hi hi hi how are you

Yearnin

[sallowsswan]

Whoooweee I don't want to confess how many times I've read this in the first hour..... All I'm gonna say is after reading that, Tom has me all

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S RIDDLEMAS

dec 20th. tom riddle — wet dreams, house rivals.

RIDDLEMAS MASTERLIST. I 2024

summary: uh… no one @ me after this. no one even LOOK at me. READ IT AT YOUR OWN RISK😭

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNIIII, coercion!!!!, dark!tom, mind manipulation, religious undertones, gryffindor!reader, enemies if you squint, fingering, squirting, begging, dream sex, tom riddle is his own warning, so much praise, dirty talk, verbal sparring.

You've never been a heavy sleeper. Even as a child, the smallest sound—a creak in the floorboards, a shift in the walls—would jolt you awake. For years, you chalked it up to some ingrained survival instinct, some form of trauma response to whatever part of your childhood still haunts you. You got used to it.

But lately, it isn't sound that been waking you. It isn't movement or foundation shifts, either. It's the dreams.

Dreams—strange, lucid, intense dreams of him. Always him. Dreams that make you feel like you're drowning, like you're flying, like you've found a new level of intoxication that you'd never imagined possible—and each time the dreams wake you up, the sheets (and whatever bottoms you may have been wearing) are always soaked, and your thighs are always shaking.

It's maddening.

They feel too real to be anything but a violation, his presence bleeding into your subconscious regardless of how much you try to fight it. You know it means something is wrong. You'd tried to rationalize yourself into going back to sleep, telling yourself it's just hormones or some form of stress, but you're too smart to believe your own excuses.

You know it's more than that.

He's haunting you in your sleep—in the most unexpected way. The dreams are always lucid enough that you can feel it—you can feel him—his mouth on yours, his hands on your hips, his dick bullying your fucking cervix and his magic on your clit—leaving behind nothing but hunger. Hunger that's so intense it makes you want him in a way it almost scares you.

You tell yourself you hate him, you've always hated him—but denial only lasts for so many days, as you realize you can't look at him or talk to him without the dreams forcing their way to the forefront of your mind, making you remember the feelings and the sensations and how much, despite hating him, you want them to be real.

You wanted to believe it would pass. That this was nothing but a phase, a trick of your overactive mind. But deep down, you knew the truth. Tom Riddle has wormed his way into your head, into your dreams—out of spite—and he's not letting go.

So after a hell of a week of this—with damn near zero hours of sleep—you decide to seek him out. To put an end to this madness. Once and for all.

It takes every ounce of courage and Gryffindor-like reckless bravery you can scrape together just to go through with it, but somehow you do. Somehow, you make it across the castle, make it to his door. You're in your pyjamas, for Merlin's sake. It's 1 a.m., and the slick still coating your thighs from what had to have been your tenth lucid orgasm in a matter of a week is a humiliating reminder of why you're even here at all.

And when the door opens, you have the strange feeling that he's been expecting you, even as he makes a great show of acting surprised to see you, looking you up and down with a lazy, smug glance that makes your pulse quicken so viscerally you lose the last shred of sanity you were pathetically clinging to—

"What the fuck—" you prowl forward without hesitation, forcing him a step back into the room. "—are you doing to me?"

Even if you're not imagining some form of surprise in that smug little smirk, he does his best not to let it show.

"Me?" He says, all pretend innocence, flicking his hand out to shut the door behind you with some spell you don't care to name. "You'll have to be more specific."

You glare at him, refusing to acknowledge how unfairly attractive he looks in just sweatpants and an oversized shirt—because of course, even casual looks like this are a weapon in his arsenal.

"Cut the bullshit, Riddle," you snap, and you're not sure if it's your lack of sleep or some form of desperation-fuelled bravery, but you're suddenly invading his personal space, poking an accusing finger into his shoulder. "You're fucking haunting me—"

He blinks. "I’m haunting you. And how am I doing that?”

There's a part of you that knows it's a trap—that this is probably exactly what the smug bastard in front of you has been wanting, but your brain is so deprived of sleep and your body is so starved of respite that you decide 'fuck it'—you want answers, and you're going to get them.

"You're in my dreams," you say, bluntly, forcing an exhale alongside it. "You've been in them every night for a week straight. I haven't slept a bloody minute."

That's when it happens—the tiniest flash of amusement in his eyes, so brief you might've missed it if you weren't ready to tear his fucking throat out.

"You're accusing me of giving you dreams?" He asks, in a tone that makes you want to grab him by the front of his shirt and make him cut the bullshit, and you can't tell how much of your own expression is irritation and how much is lust. "You think I've somehow managed to invade your mind?"

"Don't be condescending," you spit, trying to focus on the spot between his eyebrows that makes the heat in your core roar the least, "and don't act like you're incapable. As much as I can't bloody stand you, we both know damn well your mind magic is strong enough to do this to me—"

"Mind magic," he echoes with an amused snort, "you think I'm doing some kind of mind magic to invade your dreams, is that it?"

He's so damn good at this, you think—infuriatingly good. The way he's playing it off like the idea is absurd, completely laughable—

"Fucking precisely.” You can't hide the heat from your voice. You don't care to try. "These aren't just dreams. They're—they're strong. I feel you. Your hands, your tongue, your—"

Dick. You can't even bring yourself to say it.

And the bastard just smirks, like he's reading your mind anyway. Like he knows. That glimmer in his eyes—arrogant, insufferable—only confirms it.

"Hm," he says with something bored, running a hand through his hair. "Your subconscious—"

"It's not a bloody subconscious thing," you cut him off, uninterested in whatever bullshit he was about to feed you. "It's you. You're invading my dreams—I feel you—my body fucking feels you—"

He laughs at that. Like some sick, sadistic freak. He actually laughs—

"Listen to yourself." He says, with a mocking tone that makes you want to shove him. "Are you that desperate to hate me that you're pinning your dreams on me?"

"Hate doesn't even begin to cover it," you spit, stepping closer, your frustration boiling over. He shifts slightly, his back brushing the wall. "You've got a hell of an ego, but even you have to know this isn't something I'd want. I wouldn't put you in my dreams willingly if you paid me to do it—"

He hums, smirk never faltering, if anything it fucking grows at the tirade.

"You've been dreaming of me for a week," he points out, coolly, as if this is the most casual conversation in the world. "And now, here you are—standing in my dorm in the middle of the night, dressed like this." He takes a step toward you, now. "Do you know what that's called, sweetheart?"

Your lungs hitch at the pet name. Your mind is at war with your cunt and it's losing—

"Delirium?" You choke out, noticing another flash of something in his eyes as the gap between you closes. "Insomnia? Sleep deprivation?"

He gives you a mocking arch of the eyebrow.

"No," he says, in a tone that makes you seethe. "It's called obsession."

"Oh. The irony," you can't help but hiss at him, heart pounding because he's in your space and you're in his and this shouldn't be getting to you the way it is. "It's rich, coming from you, that you'd put that on me when—when you've been mindfucking me every goddamn night—"

"Mindfucking you?" He repeats, almost lazily, as his gaze drops, sweeping over you—your pyjamas, the clear lack of bra, the flush creeping up your neck. "Is that what you think I've been doing? You think—"

The way he doesn't even deny it—doesn't argue the accusation—makes your blood boil in a way you can't control.

"It's the only explanation. You've been—you've been—" you cut him off but your sentence falters because his gaze is moving so deliberately, dragging over you like he's cataloging your weaknesses, and the anger curdles into something raw and desperate. "God, Tom, I just need it to stop. I'm so fucking tense and tired. I'm so wound I can't even focus—I'm wet all the time—"

His eyes snap up to meet yours at that, and he gives you a look you can't even begin to interpret. You bite your tongue, realizing the words that left your mouth just a moment too late to pull them back, and you know you've lost the upper hand in this, somehow. You feel the ground slipping from under you and you hate the way your body shivers as he takes another slow, deliberate, step forward.

"Is that what you are?” He wets his lips. "You've come all the way here, in the dead of night, in your pyjamas, half out of your mind with exhaustion because you're wet. Isn't that right?"

You know better than to answer, though you feel yourself walking straight into the trap he's set.

"Piss off," you snap, but the bravado in your voice is paper-thin as he takes another step forward. He's so close now that his scent overwhelms you—leather and spice, something sharp and smoky that makes your head spin. You recognize it, of course you do; it's the same as in your dreams, and the familiarity makes your knees feel unsteady. "You're—"

"Don't act so offended," he leans closer, his voice a low murmur, quiet, almost silky as it wraps around you, and suddenly you barely remember what you were so pissed off about. "You can't even deny it. I made you cum tonight, didn't I? In your dreams."

Your teeth grit. "You know you did—"

He takes one more step and now you're backed right up against his desk—and gods, Tom's tall, so much taller than you—and it feels like he's looming over you, caging you in.

"Mhm." There's a flash of triumph in his eyes as you lose your words. He leans down, breath grazing your ear just as he brings two fingers to your temple, pressing the pads against it. "Let's watch, shall we?"

Watc—oh no.

A cold sense of dread washes over you as you catch on to what he's insinuating, merely a second too late—

"Tom—"

He whispers something, something that pulls you under, and the next thing you know—in a flash of consciousness you didn't even consider possible—you're staring at yourself inside a dream you remember all too well. A dream sequence where you're moaning and trembling beneath him, your head thrown back, eyes rolling in unabashed pleasure as he drives into you, hips snapping with thrust after thrust after thrust—

And it's one thing to have felt it in the safety of your dreams, in the dead of night when you woke slick and desperate, clenching around nothing. But this—this is visceral. You can't look away because it's projecting inside your mind: the flush blooming across your chest, the arch of your back, the way your lips part with every desperate breath. You hear the obscene sounds spilling from your mouth, mingling with his low, guttural grunts—and worst of all, you can feel it.

You can feel every ounce of pleasure he's giving you, as if he's giving it to you now.

"Mm," you hear him hum from infront of you—it's too much—you're lost in the memory, the dream, and it's a strange, voyeuristic, intimate experience to watch yourself and him like that. "You're worse off than I thought."

You’re gripping the wood of his desk so hard your fingertips are numb, heart flying out of the room as his hand slowly slides from your temple down to your jaw, holding you in place—

"Stop it." You manage to hiss at him, trying to force some semblance of control back into yourself—the last thing you need is to start melting against this bastard. "Tom—"

"You feel that?" He murmurs, breath brushing your neck, and you can't even focus on anything but the sensations he's forcing through your memory—seeing him above you, feeling him inside you. "You do, don't you? This is exactly what you've been feeling all week, isn't it?"

You want to snap at him, cuss him out, but oh god—

"Damn you," you hiss, even as his hands slide down to your hips—and it almost feels as if he's touching you twice, as if there are two sets of hands on your body. "Fuck, Tom—"

"Mm, you look good from this angle," he murmurs, and you fucking keen as you watch, in your mind, his hands slide over your stomach, pushing up your shirt and exposing your tits, groping as he fucks you. You keen as you feel it. "You love this, don't you? You want this."

"I—" you gasp, trying to convince him, or yourself, or goddamn anyone. Still fighting some invisible battle between resistance and submission because you hate that he's right. "I—god, what are you doing to me—"

"What am I doing to you?" He whispers, and you're not sure if the question is rhetorical, or if he's giving you permission to ask it. "I'm not doing anything that you aren't letting me do."

Your knees feel like they're about to buckle, and it's taking all your strength just to stay standing because the pleasure playing out in your mind is pouring into your veins and you can't even fathom how it's possible but you can't do anything to fight it—

"Oh, god—" you moan, unbridled, your physical body slumping back onto the desk as you feel the slick between your thighs, growing with every goddamn thrust. "Oh my god—"

He takes the opportunity of you slumped back against the desk and instantly leans down, bringing his lips to your ear—

"Not even god could keep your legs underneath you." His hand creeps up your thigh. "You're helpless."

"Helpless," you repeat, with a shaky gasp, and you hate how much the word turns you on. This is the first time you've ever been called helpless, and you're not even sure that you care. He's got you in his clutches, he's winning, and it's so infuriating and so goddamn perfect. “Tom—please, please touch me. I need to—fuck—"

You feel his lips brush the skin of your neck in a way that has you trembling with want, but—fucking hell, that's not what you need—you need his hands on you, you need him to just—

"What do you need?" He cooes, and there's a sly tone to his voice that makes you want to throw yourself at him all over again. "You need to cum?"

You moan, low and needy, writhing against the desk because this fucker—he knows exactly what he's doing. He’s got the upper hand here and you want it back. You want—

"Yes," you manage to gasp out. "I need you to—I fucking need you—inside me—"

As soon as that leaves your mouth, the dream fades from your vision and he's urging you to lay back. There's a soft thud as he places a hand on the desk next to your head, and he leans down, bringing his lips back to your ear, and you can't remember a time when you've ever wanted anyone else this bad.

"I'm touched," he murmurs, fingers slipping to the waist band of your pyjama pants, "that you want me that bad."

"I hate you," you manage to gasp out, but that's a lie, and you think he knows it. His fingers on your skin as he pulls your pants down make you ache for him, and you're struggling to not make another sound that will give him ammunition. "Why do you have to—"

"Why do I have to what?" He asks, and you know he's just trying to get a reaction out of you. "Tease you? Make you helpless?"

Your pants get hardly half way down your thighs before he decides it's enough and slides a finger through your soaked slit, and you can't hold back the moan that tears itself from your throat.

"Fuck, you're soaked.” He hisses through his teeth. “You've been sitting in your dorm for days, hm? Dreaming of me touching you, wishing you could touch yourself without thinking of me—do you want to cum, sweetheart?"

"Yes," you gasp out, and you're not above begging at this point. "Yes, god, please—I want to fucking cum—"

"There we go," he cooes, and he's enjoying this more than you'd like to acknowledge. "You know how long I've been waiting to hear you say that?"

"I'd say at least a week," you throw back, in a vain attempt to keep a shred of your dignity, but that's hard when he's circling his fingers around your clit and your body is jerking against the desk beneath you. God you really are helpless. "Because that's how long you've been plaguing my head, giving me wet dreams like some goddamn incubus—"

He chuckles at that, and you hate him a little less when he slips two fingers inside you, "You think I'm a demon?"

"You certainly act like one," you choke out, because he's crooking his fingers and your mind is going fuzzy and he's not going to let you get the upper hand back, even for a second. "Fuck—oh, yes, yes, yes."

"You've got me all wrong," he says, with a smile that would be boyish if it wasn't so sinister. "Demons come to punish you. I'm here helping you get that relief you've been needing so badly."

"Just want t-to help me," you moan as his long fingers work you open, thumb brushing your clit, "out of the kindness of your heart—"

"Out of the kindness of my heart,” he repeats, with a mocking tone, and it's the way he murmurs those words that's making your thighs clench around him until he grabs the fabric of your pjs bunched around them and pushes your legs up to your chest, working his fingers impossibly deeper. "Out of the goodness of my soul—it's what I do, darling, I'm known for my benevolence—"

"You're a good man," you know he can tell you're being sarcastic, but his fingers are filling you so fucking full you're nowhere near ready to start a fight again when you're this close to losing your goddamn mind on his desk. "You're such a good man, Tom—“

"Mhm," his breath tickles your ear. "What else am I?"

"So good with your fingers," you're moaning, and he's going to get a bigger ego than he already has. You're too far gone to care. "God, you're so good, I'm going to—"

"Yes, you are," he answers, and it takes you a second to realize that he's not correcting your words anymore. He's simply telling you that you are, in fact, about to fall apart for him. "Give it to me. You've earned it."

You almost want to snap back at him, you almost try to, but you're so far gone the words don't form on your tongue and you're not sure you'd be able to fight the fire pooling in your stomach.

"Oh, fuck—“

He doesn't even let you finish that, he just dips his hips down, bringing his hand that's not buried in your slick up to cover your mouth, muffling those strangled screams before they spill out and echo down the hall—

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice a low hum against your skin. "Be a good girl. Let it all out for me."

And it's that; that stupid combination of cooing warmth and the phrase 'be a good girl' that sends you over the edge, and you're muffling your gasps and moans and screams against his palm because gods, what would happen if someone heard you? What would happen if people realized what Tom Riddle was doing to you—your house rival, your sworn enemy—

"There we go," you're falling apart and he's watching you as if he owns you, as if this is where you belong—writhing beneath him, release squirting out around his fingers. "Ride it out for me. Such a good girl, you needed this so bad, I can tell you were aching for this."

You're struggling to say anything back, the only thing that comes out is a strangled moan of his name, and you've always known how bad he was, heard from other girls how good he could be with his hands, but this—you've never had this, never been this before.

"Such a fucking mess," he's murmuring, his voice low and rough and so goddamn beautiful. “How'd that feel? Hm?"

"So—so good," it feels like the words are being forced out of your throat, and you're struggling to think with enough clarity to form anything that's not an embarrassing moan of how much you needed this. "Needed it, need more, I—"

"More?" He murmurs as he slips his fingers free, and he's bringing his other hand up to your jaw, forcing you to look at him as he brings his soaked fingers to your lips. "Greedy girl."

You're not thinking about the implication of him calling you that, you're not thinking about how you should fight back, you're not thinking about how much you hate him—you’re just thinking about the sinful taste of you on his fingers, when they press against your tongue. Without a second of hesitation you suck them clean, tasting yourself, and it's obscene. You're obscene. But you don't care, it just makes that ache in you grow worse—you need more, you need him.

Dear god, what happened to you.

“So good," he murmurs, the praise dripping like honey from his tongue. You hum and he exhales. "I'll find you tomorrow."

"You'll find me tomorrow?" You repeat, as he withdraws his fingers from your mouth, and you're struggling for air, your chest heaving beneath your rumpled shirt. "What are you going to do, come into my room?"

"I'll come into much more than your room," he says, with a laugh that dances with promises of sin. "Now go. Before someone finds you here."

You push yourself up on trembling arms, pulling your pants up your thighs, your heart hammering in your chest because—god, that was incredible, you want more of it, and you can hardly even believe it happened. With a breath, you force yourself to move.

You look back at him as you get to the door. Your legs are shaking and you're not going to hold it against yourself for needing the wall to support you as his eyes rake over you, the corners of those lips curled up his signature smirk, and you want to hit him so goddamn bad—but then he speaks, like he read your mind, and it snaps you out of it—

"No dreams tonight." He says. "Scouts honour."

"You're no boy scout," you throw back, and your voice is a little breathier than you'd like. "And this changes nothing."

He smiles, slow and languid and knowing. "Of course."

You want to roll your eyes at the condescension dripping off his tongue, but you're worried that if you stay here any longer the only words on your tongue will be 'do it again'.

"You just owe me." You say as you crack the door open.

"I owe you," he agrees, and you think that his smile is just a little too genuine—like he would give you anything you wanted, just for another taste of that. “I'm keeping score, darling. Sleep well."

You hate him for calling you that, you hate his stupid smile, you hate the way he knows he's got you.

What he doesn’t know, is that you’re going to make him pay.

"Good night," you mutter, and then you open the door and slip out into the hallway.

[thatssoninja]

That shit HURTED!

[radiomayak]

GIVE US THE MATH HEADCANON

So...

Ivan never went to school, mmkay? All he’s learned from is experience and shared information/informal learning from merchants, farmers, and craftsman. So, if you ask him what 55% of 70 or 43*.16 is, he won’t be able to tell you. He’ll pretend, or estimate (doesn’t know 5%, but 50% is half, so half of 70 is 35 and 55 > 50, so... 37?) He doesn’t think about multiplication in the same way kids get taught in school.

But, he can handle situations (”word problems”) really easily, like this linear algebra thing:

At the store, the bulk price for honey is $2.50 per pound, with a minimum purchase of 20 pounds. If Bobby paid $80 for some honey, by how many pounds did Bobby's purchase exceed the minimum?

He can think it over (although he’d need a minute to chew it over and make sure it was right) in terms of real-world application, but if you asked him to find X for [ 2.5X + 20 = 80 ], he wouldn’t know where to start. 

TLDR: Ivan isn’t dumb, not at all, but he hasn’t quite been caught up to speed with math that isn’t contextualized. He hasn’t needed to. If someone hadn’t noticed that he was illiterate in 1920 (because he was an adult by the time education and literacy became more normative), he STILL wouldn’t know how to read. If you don’t learn it as a kid (or couldn’t, or it wasn’t taught accessibly to you,) and it’s an essential skill like reading or math, you adapt to get by without it. Luckily, Ivan has had eight hundred years to learn how to operate without any kind of formal education.

[mafiamen]

god pls let me glow up in 2019 the way jungkook did in 2018.

[ficnoire2]

Whoooweee! And when folks try to rename shit we been on from the giddy up! I’m looking at you boxer braids, brownie batter lips, sticky bangs, etc, etc, etc…

Won’t even get on when we do certain things it’s “ghetto” but for others it’s edgy and quirky. 🤡 shit!

[hyacjnthus]

Leo: Whoooweee! I can’t believe we’re at Hogwarts!

Jason: No. That’s Buckingham Palace. Hogwarts is fictional. Do you know that? It’s important to me that you know that